her eyes. Exactly what had Dagmar sworn to Sven? Dagmar should know that she had no right to swear anything without her father’s consent. It could only lead to heartache. Silently Thyre cursed Sven for being so selfish, and for Dagmar’s fear in telling her father.
Once the Viken had departed, she would discover more about this oath. Unless it was made with Rag-nfast’s consent, it was empty words.
‘The dragon boat has landed! The Viken have arrived!’ The cry echoed up and down the beach.
Thyre pressed her lips together. Dagmar appeared normal enough, smoothing her skirt and biting her lips to make them appear ripe cherry red—all the actions she normally took. Thyre hoped her concerns about Dagmar were just wisps of doubt. Perhaps another warrior would capture her fancy, and her oath to Sven would become a distant and unwelcome memory.
Up close, the Viken dragon boat showed signs of battering from the storm—a broken oar, a battered prow and loose ropes—but nothing major. Not like the poor Ranriken ship whose remains were still scattered over the shore. Had it been hunting this Viken one? And if so, what had this Viken ship done? Which other farms had they attacked? Thyre shifted uneasily, weighing the possibilities, but knowing they had no choice but to offer hospitality.
The Viken warriors splashed ashore. The leader disembarked first, without a helmet or a shield. A gesture of peace, but also of arrogance, Thyre thought. He could have no idea of Ragnfast’s strength, or the defences of the farm.
The Viken’s golden-brown hair shone in the sunlight and, despite the jagged scar running down his right cheek, his face held a certain grace combined with raw power. He looked like a man unafraid to face the future.
His vivid blue gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat, tracing her form. She looked directly back at his face, rather than blushing and looking away as custom demanded. He gave a nod, and turned towards where Ragnfast stood, as if that brief instant had never been.
‘We are grateful for the warm welcome after the rough seas of last night.’ The warrior made an elaborate bow. Ragnfast’s face reddened slightly and his chest puffed out at the courtesy. ‘We are returning to Kaupang after a successful voyage to the markets of Birka. Last night’s storm caused some damage to my trading vessel. It must be repaired before I continue on.’ His steady gaze met Ragnfast’s, and his words sounded more like a thinly disguised command than a polite request. He held out a stick covered in thick runes. ‘We come in peace.’
‘We have no quarrel with the Viken, nor do I seek reassurance from your king.’ Ragnfast barely glanced at the stick before he handed it back. Thyre bit her lip and wished she dared grab it. She highly doubted the truth of the warrior’s words. If they were peaceful, why had the Ranriken ship been wrecked? Sigmund had promised that Ranriken ships only defended. They never attacked the more skilful Viken ships.
‘What is your name, Viken?’ Thyre asked, making sure her voice was firm and clear.
‘Ivar Gunnarson, jaarl of Viken, my lady.’
Thyre froze as the murmur rose behind her. Ivar Gunnarson. Ivar the scarred. Even here in the back waters of Ranrike, they had heard of him and his fellow Viken jaarls who had braved sea serpents to cross the Atlantic and had returned with a vast treasure from Lindisfarne. They were said to be some of the luckiest men alive, basking in Odin and Thor’s favour, Ivar particularly. It was his prowess with the sail and ships that enabled the Viken to cross the sea. And he had fought the Ranrike before, killing Sigmund’s brother. Now he was here, formidable and capable of wrecking the same destruction on her home as he and his companions had on Lindisfarne.
She stifled a gasp as Dagmar began to trip forwards, holding out her horn of ale. Her earlier plan to serve ale to show they were not a prosperous farm had been shoddy and wrong. She should have thought about the pitfalls and how easily a jaarl could take offence.
Sour ale was unlikely to bring about anything but war. It would give them the pretext for burning the farm to the ground. She had to act before the jaarl tasted it, realised the intended insult and destroyed them all.
Thyre raised her hand, signalling the danger to Dagmar, but Dagmar was oblivious to the potential disaster. Her smile became more flirtatious as she held out the horn to the Viken jaarl. Thyre forgot to breathe. Dagmar hadn’t seen her warning.
Ivar Gunnarson took the horn from Dagmar’s grasp and slowly lifted it to his lips.
Chapter Two
Thyre covered her mouth with her hand, unable to do anything but watch in horror.
Everything froze and time slowed.
Thyre wanted to run forwards, but her feet appeared rooted to the spot. A thousand images of burning and destruction rushed through her brain. And the worst was that she knew this mess was her fault. Would he draw his sword? She had to do something. There had to be a way of preventing bloodshed. But her mind refused to work, refused to find the necessary answer.
Just as the horn touched the Viken jaarl’s lips, Rag-nfast reached out and joggled the Viken’s elbow, sending the contents spilling over the ground and the jaarl’s leather boots.
‘Clumsy woman,’ Ragnfast swore, breaking the spell. ‘She should take greater care.’
Thyre’s lungs worked again. Ragnfast had realised the danger and had averted it. They might still be saved if everyone kept their head. She darted forwards and whispered in Dagmar’s ear as Ragnfast began to call upon the gods to forgive this clumsy woman and her unintended insult. At Thyre’s words, Dagmar stopped her furious exclamation and her mouth formed an O.
Thyre gave Dagmar’s shoulder a pat. Her heart stopped racing. The jaarl appeared to accept the incident was an accident, but she would have to speak to Ragnfast about the enthusiasm of his denunciation.
‘My daughter will be suitably punished,’ Ragnfast said after he had finished calling on the entire legion of gods and goddesses to witness his shame.
‘Woe is me, what shall I do?’ Dagmar intoned, getting into the spirit of the thing.
‘Her beauty more than makes up for any clumsiness.’ The jaarl inclined his head, but his hand remained poised over his sword’s hilt.
Thyre fought against the urge to roll her eyes. Dagmar’s golden loveliness captivated every man she encountered. The gods had truly blessed Dagmar at her birth.
She glanced up and the jaarl’s vivid blue gaze caught hers again. His lips curved upwards in an intimate smile as if he knew who was responsible for the mishap. Thyre blinked and the look vanished.
‘Quickly now, daughter, go get some more mead,’ Ragnfast said. ‘Don’t keep the jaarl waiting.’
‘Mead?’ Dagmar squeaked. ‘But I thought—’
‘I will get it, Ragnfast. I know where it has been put,’ Thyre said firmly. ‘The barrels were moved when I supervised the spring cleaning. I would not want to inadvertently give offence to the jaarl.’
Dagmar demurely lowered her lashes. ‘Thyre knows where everything is and I get muddled so easily.’
‘Very well, Thyre, but go quickly. The Viken need their proper refreshment.’ Ragnfast waved his hand.
Thyre walked away from the Viken group, her stomach
