The Viking's Captive Princess

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Ivar took a gulp of mead. Erik might believe that, but Ivar knew differently. He no longer needed to prove his manhood by bedding every woman who crossed his path. He wanted something more from a bed partner. Something that Thyre seemed to promise.

‘About my daughter…’ Ragnfast began. He leant forwards and his mead-soaked breath washed over Ivar in an unwelcomed wave. ‘I think you will find her to your liking…She remains free from any betrothal. She would make any jaarl an admirable wife.’

Ivar frowned. The implication was clear. He knew what was expected. He refused to risk insulting his host, but he had no intention of bedding the man’s daughter, let alone wedding the woman. She did not appeal. Tonight belonged to Thyre or no one. ‘I look forward to being served.’

Thyre sat with her knees curled up to her chest, her eyes lost in the dancing flames of the cooking fire. The noise from the feast had died down a little to a dull murmur. Deep within her a great emptiness welled up. Ragnfast had betrothed her to Otto, after all she had done for this estate. In her dreams, she had wanted a love match like her mother had had with Ragnfast, one where the warrior was prepared to sail into the heart of enemy territory to retrieve her. Or failing that, she had thought perhaps she might never marry and would simply run the estate as she had done since she was a child of eight. Her own little kingdom.

There had to be a way around the betrothal, a way to escape the destiny Ragnfast had laid out for her. How much had Otto offered? Or was it that, having given his oath to King Mysing that his wife’s offspring would never trouble him, Ragnfast had at last found a man whom he knew would never lift a sword in her name? Her stepfather should know that she was her uncle’s loyal subject. She had no designs on a throne.

Thyre knew she should be doing other things, such as cleaning up and putting away the utensils, but she seemed to lack the energy for anything except staring at the fire and watching the flames dance.

She should have known something was brewing from the way Ragnfast had acted the last time he had encountered Otto. Ragnfast had always hinted that she could not expect to stay here for ever, but he had only ever said it when he was in drink and then he’d sober up and beg her to stay for ever. And she had assumed that when the time came, he would at least have given her a choice, that he’d let her find her own life’s partner, not simply sell her off as if she were one of his sheep or a length of cloth. The whispers about how his wives had died swirled around him. How he had showed them no respect when they were alive and even less when they were dead. Thyre drew a shaky breath. She refused to give up on her dreams and accept a life of servitude.

She would find a way to outrun her fate. Her life would be something more. She simply had to discover it.

Dagmar stumbled in, wild eyed with her hair about her shoulders. She appeared to be gripped in some sort of trance, muttering and wringing her hands.

‘Is there something wrong, Dagmar?’ Thyre pushed all of her own problems to one side. ‘Has one of the Viken attacked you? Broken the rules of hospitality? Are we going to be burnt in our beds? Should we be hiding the arm rings? Running to the woods and hiding?’

Dagmar muttered something, before Thyre saw her hand close around a knife. She held it out in front of her, the point turned towards her breast.

Thyre blinked twice. Her mouth went dry. She swiped her hand over her eyes and willed the apparition to be gone. But Dagmar still stood there gazing at the knife, muttering, seemingly oblivious to her. ‘Dagmar! Answer me! We can do something!’

Dagmar raised her chin slightly, but ignored Thyre’s outstretched hand. Thyre allowed it to drop to her side.

‘There comes a time in woman’s life when she knows that she has found the one man who will make her happy.’ Dagmar looped her hair behind an ear. ‘I always thought Father would let me make my own choice, but he is determined to make the Viken pay and in gold. He wants me to share the Viken’s bed!’