The Viking's Captive Princess. Michelle Styles

help pass the time,’ Asger said, stepping forwards from the line. Ivar frowned, but decided to allow the boy his chance. One day, he would have to meet and trade with men such as this farmer. ‘About how the Swan Princess enchanted the Viken king and he captured her, only for her to fly away one dark night when there was no moon.’

      ‘Why do you wish to speak of recent history?’ The farmer’s eyes shifted. ‘You will remember the current Ranriken king is her brother. I understand that the Viken allowed her to return home when her brother came to the throne.’

      ‘I thought the tale was an ancient one,’ Asger replied, hanging his head.

      ‘Forgive my nephew.’ Ivar stepped between Asger and the farmer, reasserting his control of the situation. ‘He is young and speaks with the curiosity of youth. He has no wish to insult your king or his sister. I, too, remember the last Ranriken Swan Princess and her great beauty.’

      ‘You know that the Swan Princess died,’ the farmer said. ‘She returned home and sadly died, mourned by those who loved her.’

      ‘The Viken King Thorkell wept when he heard.’ Ivar forced his shoulders to relax. He had no time to think of shadows and mysteries; he had a ship and a crew to get home. ‘Later, he made a better choice. Asa is truly the jewel of the court.’

      The farmer’s eyes shifted and there was growing unease in his stance. ‘It is right and fitting to weep for such a lady. I, too, shed many tears at her funeral pyre.’

      Ivar frowned. Had Asger inadvertently discovered a clue to this mystery? ‘A simple farmer like you? Were you at Ranhiem when she died?’

      ‘I once served with the Ranriken king, her brother,’ the farmer said finally. ‘Those were the days when I did not spend nearly as much time on my farm. But my mind turned against bloodshed and towards the love of my wife. It was she who chose to live here.’

      ‘Forgive me, I thought you a farmer, but you are a jaarl?’

      ‘A minor one. Ragnfast the Steadfast they called me. Through my sword arm I gained these lands, but my exploits are long forgotten except by a few.’ Ragnfast made a sweeping bow. ‘You are lucky. A day or two more and I would have been making my annual journey to the Storting and would have been unable to offer hospitality.’

      ‘As you say…’ Ivar murmured. A tiny nag tugged at his memory. He should know the name, but could not think of the reason. It would come to him. He deftly turned the conversation towards the Sea Witch and its repairs. The damage was minor, but he wanted to make sure the ship would survive if they encountered Sig-mund’s ships again.

      Before he could get the reassurance, the dark-haired woman returned, bearing a horn overflowing with mead. Ivar stepped forwards before she could hand the horn to the jaarl’s daughter. The woman’s curves filled out the apron dress and her eyes were nearly level with his, shining with intelligence. There was little to indicate her parentage, but he assumed at least one of her parents was not from Ranrike. She might have the height, but she did not have the ash-blonde looks. Her face was far more exotic with its tilted-up eyes, dimple and cherry-red mouth. The old Ranriken queen had been called the Black Swan on account of her long neck and black hair. Perhaps this woman’s parents had come from her entourage.

      ‘Mine,’ he said, reaching for the horn before she had a chance to protest and to continue with her game. She would learn not to underestimate his intelligence again.

      His fingers touched the woman’s own slender ones and a current like a full-moon tide coursed down his arm. It was raw and elemental. It jolted through him, insistent.

      He drained the horn and pushed away the thoughts, concentrating on the drink. Mead. From the rich honey taste he could tell it was fine mead, the sort reserved for the most honoured guests. She had known about the ale and caused the accident. He looked forward to teaching her a lesson about warriors.

      ‘Very fine.’

      ‘The barrels had become mixed. I only realised the problem when the ale spilt on the ground,’ she said in her low musical lilt.

      Ivar allowed the polite lie, this time. She had realised before that. ‘I trust it will not happen again.’

      ‘I have solved the problem. Once solved, problems do not recur.’

      He made an elaborate bow and started on the next part of the ritual, eager to see what her response would be this time. ‘Thank you for the warm welcome, daughter of the house.’

      ‘You should have waited and given honour to the true daughter of the house. I am merely a stepdaughter.’

      ‘I doubt you are merely anything.’

      ‘You seek to flatter.’

      ‘A little,’ Ivar admitted. ‘There is nothing wrong with flattery.’

      ‘I have little use for it,’ she said, the throatiness of the Ranrike evident in her voice. ‘I dislike game playing and banter.’

      ‘Do you, indeed?’ Ivar lifted his eyebrow. He looked forward to seeing her face when he revealed that he knew of the attempted insult. This woman appeared ready to give the trickster god Loki lessons in manipulation.

      ‘Do you have no apology for my sister, Ivar Gun-narson? Or perhaps Viken are ignorant of the age-old custom of hospitality that the first drink should be offered by the senior woman of the house?’

      ‘My thirst overcame me. No disrespect was intended towards your younger half-sister. It was most remiss of me, but then I have spent a great deal of my life at sea.’

      Thyre lifted one delicate eyebrow. She tilted her head to one side and assessed the Viken with his strong shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. He was arrogant and overly proud of his masculine appeal, but dangerous. He sought to bend the rules for his own ends. ‘Pretty words did not change the deed. Or the presumption.’

      ‘What can I do to make amends?’ Ivar bowed low again, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on her mouth. His voice slid like the finest fur over her skin. ‘What is my lady’s dearest desire?’

      ‘My desires have nothing to do with you.’ Thyre raised her chin and kept her gaze steady. He was a typical warrior, more intent on proving his prowess with his sword arm than observing the customs of civilisation.

      ‘A man dying of thirst must drink or perish. Sometimes, he takes without asking. There again, is it wrong to wish to live?’ He leant forwards and his hand skimmed her head kerchief. ‘Forgive me, but I saw this trapped in your hair. Perhaps it is a sign from the gods that you are favoured.’

      He held out a small crystal pendant. The sun caught it, sending its rainbow rays arching out over the sand.

      Ragnfast gave a start and his eyes took on a speculative gleam.

      ‘It is a pleasant bauble,’ she said, making no move to take it. ‘I am sure Dagmar will appreciate it.’

      ‘If it will make amends, then she must have it. All the women shall have one.’ He handed it to Dagmar, who blushed and curtsied, before signalling to one of his men who brought forwards more of the crystals, and distributed them to the other women. Thyre resolutely gave hers to Ragnfast. ‘What else can I do to regain your favour?’

      ‘Stay here as little time as possible. The storms can be bad this time of year.’ Thyre forced her spine to stay as straight as a newly forged sword. A few well-chosen words and trinkets and the entire household were ready to bend over backwards in their welcome. ‘Take advantage of the calm seas and go straight home.’

      ‘The sea and I are old friends, as our countries once were.’

      ‘Old friends can quarrel and become enemies.’ Her hand plucked at a fold in her skirt. She needed to end this conversation now while she still had control of the situation. ‘You can see the wreckage of another ship scattered on the shore. The sea can be unforgiving, particularly at this time of year.’

      ‘The sea seeks