her mind of the thought, ‘destruction was coming’, just as it had once before to her mother. She clearly remembered her mother saying that she must wear her best dress and prettiest smile if ever the Viken came to call again and that it might save her. What had her mother thought when she had first met the Viken king? Had she been attracted to him straight away or had that come later?
Ivar watched the dark-haired woman stalk away, her hips slightly swaying as her skirts revealed shapely ankles and the hint of a well-shaped calf. Deep blue-violet eyes and black as midnight hair contrasted with the light blue-eyed blondeness of the rest of the farmstead. Her heart-shaped face with the dimple in the middle of her chin tugged intriguingly at his memory. There was something about the way she held her head. It reminded him of a woman, a woman who had once held the entire Viken court in the palm of her hand before vanishing into the mists.
The spilling of the ale had been no accident. It had happened on her initiative. He had seen the look pass between the woman and the farmer after he had announced his identity. This woman controlled the farm.
Who exactly was she? The farmer’s wife? Concubine?
He nodded towards the retreating figure. ‘Your daughter?’
‘My daughter, the prettiest woman in Ranrike,’ the farmer said, sweeping an overly obvious blonde forwards, the one to whom his name and reputation apparently had no meaning. The woman winced slightly as her eyes met his scar, but she rapidly recovered as she gave a bobbing curtsy.
‘And the other woman, is she your daughter as well?’ Ivar pointedly looked towards the farmhouse. The woman’s skirt was just visible as she entered the darkened door way. Brisk. Efficient. Had she been the one to decide on ale, to offer the insult? Or had she been the one to realise the danger? Or both?
‘My stepdaughter. My late wife’s child. I took her in after her mother’s death. There was nowhere else for her to go.’ The farmer ran a finger around the neck of his tunic and his eyes flicked everywhere except on Ivar’s face.
Ivar tilted his head to one side, assessing the farmer. There was more to this tale. That woman wielded too much power to be there out of pity or duty. She held herself as if she was at court, rather than standing on a windswept beach. He normally preferred women who lowered their lashes demurely to women who tried to control one. Women like Thorkell’s queen. But there was something in the way her eyes challenged him that made him think again.
‘Indeed?’ Ivar waited for the farmer to continue.
‘The woman has very little to her name, but I hold true to my promise to her late mother.’
‘It is well that you honour your debts. Her mother was a lucky woman to have such a husband. Not everyone would have been as generous.’
‘Thyre’s mother was truly an exceptional woman. It was a sad day for us all when she died. My world has never been the same.’ The farmer shrugged and his eyes became shadowed as he toyed with his leather tunic. ‘I do what I can for her daughter. But my farmstead is poor and we barely manage to eke a living from the soil.’
Ivar glanced up at the gabled longhouse with its weatherbeaten ravens. It was not as fine as Thorkell’s palace, or even Vikar’s estate in the north, but it exuded an air of shabby prosperity at the head of a good bay. Either this farmer was inept or someone was trying to mislead him. But who? Not the farmer. This was the mysterious dark-haired woman’s doing. The farmer had emphasised certain words as if he were reciting a saga, glancing at her from time to time to seek confirmation that he had said the correct words.
Ivar lifted an eyebrow. He despised the game playing and manipulation that women so often resorted to, that his late wife had excelled at. Give him the straightforward struggle with the sea against the intrigue of court any day. He would discover the truth and act accordingly. But the farmer, and more importantly the stepdaughter, would be left in no doubt that the Viken possessed brains as well as strong sword arms.
‘There is a tale that Bose the Dark tells. Perhaps it will 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
