The Warrior's Viking Bride. Michelle Styles

with her father’s best friend. ‘It could be your present to me—telling my parents how accomplished I’ve suddenly become at swordplay. A good idea, yes?’

      Dagmar gave a hopeful smile and batted her lashes. Not that she was very good at swords or warfare yet. Not that she’d ever be any good. She preferred playing with her dolls and weaving to practising in the dusty yard with a wooden sword. How her father, who was one of Viken’s most-feared warriors, and her mother, who was a legendary shield maiden, had produced someone like her who kept making simple errors was one of life’s mysteries, as her nurse would say. And she wanted to show her father how much she’d improved since he’d been away. She wanted to show him that she deserved the grown-up blue gown, the one he’d promised to buy her for her tenth birthday if she worked hard at her lessons.

      ‘Your mother would use my guts for bowstrings if I said such things.’ Old Alf rubbed his belly. ‘To tell the truth, lass, I am quite fond of my innards. They are the only ones I’ve got.’

      Dagmar screwed up her nose. ‘My mother likes you too much to do that. She depends on you, now that my father is away so often. You’re valuable to her. A precious jewel among men.’

      Old Alf merely laughed and sent Dagmar’s wooden sword flying from her hand for the fourth time that morning. ‘You would be better if you actually practised, instead of finding excuses and using idle flattery. The gods seldom help a quitter.’

      ‘I keep getting distracted.’ Dagmar pursed her lips. ‘I heard my mother crying again last night.’

      Old Alf’s face hardened. ‘Kolbeinn should be here to dry Helga’s tears.’

      ‘Yes, everything will be much better when my father arrives.’ Dagmar tilted her chin upwards. ‘You will see. He will get here in time for my name day. He promised me a proper gown with an apron and brooches...provided I pay attention to my mother and do my lessons. He won’t break his promise, will he?’

      ‘I can’t rightly say where his head is at, lass.’

      ‘Attached to his body, I trust.’ Dagmar gave a hiccupping laugh. Her father was alive. They knew that. Some of his men had returned, but for the first time in for ever, her father had not been the first one to step foot on the pier. He had not even been in the longboat. He was staying in Kaupang, dealing with important business, was what her mother had uncharacteristically snapped when Dagmar asked.

      ‘Your mother has many troubles, but no one is born clutching a sword, lass, not even your mother. You will get there, Dagmar, if you focus when you practise instead of gathering dreams. Try once more for your old friend?’

      Dagmar nodded and picked up the sword. Old Alf had faith in her. If she could conquer this skill before her father came home, then maybe everything would be right once again.

      ‘Jaarl Kolbeinn’s ship is coming,’ the cry went up before her sword connected with Old Alf’s. Dagmar instantly dropped her weapon.

      ‘My father does keep his promises.’ Dagmar lifted her chin upwards. ‘He will bring me my gown. My mother will smile again. My father will see to it.’

      The wind whipped Old Alf’s greying hair from his face. ‘Aye, lass, we can but hope that he has seen sense.’

      Her mother stalked past them, not even acknowledging Dagmar in her hurry to reach the waterfront. Dagmar considered her mother had never looked as lovely. The dark-red gown with its gold embroidery and the sleek fur cape she wore about her shoulders set off her colouring precisely. Her eyes appeared brighter than normal and her mouth held a determined cast, as though her mother was about to go into battle instead of greeting Dagmar’s father.

      Dagmar hurried to match her mother’s stride. ‘Old Alf says that I will be as good as you soon.’

      A stretching of the truth, but she wanted her mother’s intent expression to relax.

      Her mother put a hand on Dagmar’s shoulder. ‘It is good that you want to be.’

      ‘I want to please you. I want to be like you,’ Dagmar whispered.

      ‘Ah, Dagmar, you are such a good child. You are truly the light in my life.’

      Dagmar basked in the sunshine of her mother’s unaccustomed praise. ‘It is my name day today.’

      ‘We will do something special for it, but first your father must be welcomed.’

      When her father came ashore, he greeted her mother very formally without his usual warmth. Her mother failed to throw her arms about his neck. Dagmar frowned. She’d never understand grown-ups. Everyone knew about their love story—the skalds sang about it and how her father had tamed the frost giants to win his bride. Dagmar never tired of hearing the tale. It was the principal reason why she wanted to linger at the feasts.

      ‘You returned.’ Her mother’s voice resembled a frost giant’s.

      ‘I gave Dagmar a promise that I would be back for her birthday, Helga.’ Her father’s voice, if anything, was far colder than her mother’s.

      ‘Did you bring my blue gown?’ Dagmar asked, giving into her impatience. ‘I’ve worked ever so hard. Ask Old Alf. He’ll tell you. Some day I will be as good a warrior as my mother.’

      Her father bent down and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Something even better. I brought a woman who will teach you to be a true lady. You want that, don’t you, Dagmar? To be someone to make your father proud?’

      Beside her, her mother stiffened and drew in a sharp hiss of breath. Dagmar glanced up and saw a dark-haired woman with cat-like eyes and a large pregnant belly.

      ‘You must be Dagmar. Your father has told me a lot about you. I am sure we will be great friends.’

      ‘You brought her here? On such a day?’ Her mother’s screech hurt Dagmar’s ears.

      ‘Now, Helga, easy. She wanted to come.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It is like this—I need children.’

      ‘You have a child, our daughter.’

      ‘A daughter is not the same as sons.’ The woman looped her arm through her father’s and leant into him with an easy intimacy.

      Dagmar wanted to scratch the woman’s eyes out for being rude. The man she lolled over belonged to another woman—her mother. However, her father did not seem to mind; instead, he seemed to welcome her touch, placing a large hand on the woman’s belly.

      ‘You understand,’ her father said, bestowing one of his special smiles on the woman.

      ‘I see,’ her mother proclaimed. ‘You have made your choice. And I have made mine.’

      Her mother stripped the gown from her back. Underneath she wore her trousers and tunic, her shield maiden clothes, the ones which were kept in a trunk and were supposed to be for Dagmar when she turned fourteen.

      An ice-cold hand went around Dagmar’s heart. Her mother had clearly known about her father and his new woman before they’d even arrived.

      ‘Mother?’ Dagmar whispered. ‘What is happening?’

      ‘We are leaving, Daughter.’ Her mother placed a firm hand on Dagmar’s shoulder. ‘I refuse to stay where I am unwanted. I divorce you, Kolbeinn, here in front of everyone. I will take my warriors and my daughter and I will carve a new life.’

      Her father’s face became carved from ice as he stepped in front of her mother. ‘Dagmar remains here. My daughter belongs to me.’

      Her mother shoved her father and he stumbled backwards, nearly falling. ‘Get out of my way, you miserable worm. Dagmar goes where I go.’

      ‘You may take any man who will pledge allegiance to you, a second–rate warrior long past her prime, but you leave our daughter here.’

      ‘Why?’ Her mother put her hand on her hip. ‘So she can become the fetch-and-carry handmaiden of your