inebriated and then the next warrior was someone Gunnar personally disliked. And so it continued until he was proclaimed champion.
When he looked over his shoulder as all around him shouted his name, Eylir was there, gesturing with the sack of gold he’d won. ‘Look for your northern bride before next Jul.’
Gunnar allowed the shouts to wash over him. The last thing he needed to worry about was a drunken friend’s idle promise—he had a hall to construct.
November AD 877—Jura, Viking-controlled Alba, modern-day Jura, Scotland
The newly built longhouse shone like a beacon of hope in the thin grey light and behind rose the great purple mountains or paps which dominated the island. The ship had come the long way around, avoiding the great whirlpool. According to the captain, on a day like today, the whirlpool would writhe like a great cauldron and suck the life out of any ship which ventured close.
Ragnhild Thorendottar gripped the side of the boat with her hands and willed it onward towards the shore. Nearly there. Nearly safe. A new life for her and her younger sister, a safe life away from her brother-in-law and his murderous greed beckoned. Some day she would get her revenge and regain her lands, but for now she required safety.
Hard work on a desolate island failed to frighten her. She feared other things such as berserkers in the night, burning houses and, most importantly, her brother-in-law’s fury if he knew that she and Svana had escaped. If he ever discovered they had not perished in the fire, he would send his berserkers after them again. For who would go against one of the King’s closest advisors? Who would take the risk? Who would believe her? Even now, with her burns nearly healed, Ragn scarce credited how completely her safe world had been destroyed.
She tucked Svana’s hand into hers and squeezed. Her sister gave a tremulous smile. Her right eye turned in more than ever, but there was no rolling back of the eyes or the fearful twitching which had begun the night of the attack, after Svana took the blow to her head, a blow meant for Ragn when her back had been turned and which would have certainly ended her life.
Ragn heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe Svana’s affliction would vanish. Maybe her actions had not damaged her sister for ever. Maybe this island would truly be a fresh start, one where the shadows of the past failed to flicker. She pushed the thought to one side and concentrated on the tangible. Dreams had tumbled her into this mess and she refused to indulge in that luxury ever again.
‘Our new home,’ she said, pointing to the gabled hall which shone in the gathering gloom. ‘Soon you will be running in the pastures, helping me to brew the Jul ale and a thousand other things. We will make it a Jul to remember, something to make this year good.’
Unlike last Jul, which had been one to forget, she silently added.
Her sister’s face lit up. ‘Jul is my favourite time of year. I love everything about it—the flaming wheel, the Jul log burning bright during the days of darkness when the Sun Maiden is in the belly of the wolf and most of all the feasting and celebrating when she returns.’ A pucker appeared between Svana’s brows. ‘Will this Gunnar Olafson understand everything which needs to be done? And in the proper fashion?’
‘Jul will happen, sweetling. I promise.’ Ragn tightened her grip and willed Svana to keep her thoughts silent—Ragn had ruined so many things recently, could she be trusted not to ruin this as well?
‘Are you certain he will welcome me as well as you?’
‘Smile,’ she said, putting an arm about Svana. ‘See the great purple mountains? Gunnar Olafson’s farm is at the base of the middle one. It has a good bay and there are good forests with straight trees for building ships. It is as his friend told me. A true home, Svana. Think about that.’
Svana gave her a brave but uncertain nod. Ragn’s heart contracted. ‘A true home. I’d like that. We haven’t had one since...’
‘It is going to happen, love,’ Ragn said before Svana attempted again to blame herself for the tragedy. Svana had been the innocent one. Ragn had been the one to arrange the witch woman’s visit attempting to end the quarrel between her husband and his brother over the inheritance. She’d never anticipated the old crone would prophesy that Svana would bring about her brother-in-law’s death or that her husband would take Svana’s part, refusing his brother’s demand for her immediate death and instead bodily removed him from the hall.
‘Do you think I will be able to meet the farm’s nisser? To make sure he knows that I intend to look after him properly with porridge and everything. That way he will know to favour this farm,’ Svana said, interrupting Ragn’s thoughts.
Ragn stared at the rapidly approaching spit of land, trying to decide if her sister asking about the mischievous elf who was supposed to guard homes but often played tricks on the inhabitants was a good thing. Such creatures in Ragn’s experience did not exist or, if they did, they were not inclined to assist her.
‘Tending to your chores will do more to ensure the farm prospers than putting out porridge. Believe me. This farm will prosper with me in charge.’
‘And this will be my home for ever? You won’t make me marry unless I want to?’ Svana gestured towards her inward-turning eye. ‘No true man will want me like this. I have heard the whispers. What the men on board this ship said about me, what they wanted to do.’
‘Stop doubting my schemes. I might start to think you have lost faith,’ Ragn said lightly.
Svana squeezed her hand. ‘I trust you, Ragn. I just can’t help overhearing what other people are saying.’
Ragn clucked her under the chin. ‘Would you believe them if they said the sky was green? So why believe them about that? We will be fine.’
We have to be, I have no other plan to save her life, she added under her breath.
The boat made a scraping noise as it hit the shore. Ragn was jolted forward and her stomach hit the railing. The ill-favoured crew leaped out and dragged the boat further up the shingle.
Ragn’s legs wobbled slightly when she first set foot on the rough shingle. She forced them to stagger a few steps. ‘Svana, firm ground. Good ground. Safe ground.’
‘It wobbles.’
‘Only because we have been on the sea. It will pass quickly.’ Ragn prayed to any god that her words were correct.
She glanced about the barren windswept beach. Their approach had to have been noted. They had come in peacefully with the shields down. And it was obvious from the smoke lazily curling in the sky that someone was at home.
To hide her discomfort, she directed the long-nosed captain to put her trunks on the shore above the tideline. The man shrugged his shoulders, muttering about the tide turning and having to leave quickly.
When she was about to give in to despair, a large man came out of the hall. A shaft of winter sunshine illuminated him, turning his skin and hair golden. His shoulders were broad and powerful, a man used to fighting and hard work, rather than a courtier like her late husband, a man a woman could count on to fight for her and her family and win. Her next thought was why in the name of Freya did a man who looked like that need to send to the north for a wife? Women would be buzzing about him like bees around a honeycomb.
‘He isn’t very friendly and wants us gone. He should have tankards of ale to offer strangers, but his hands are empty.’ A worried frown puckered Svana’s forehead. ‘Something is very wrong, Ragn, isn’t it?’
Ragn forced a laugh. ‘They do things differently here, I suspect. We will soon have their manners.’
Svana glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘On the ship, they said I brought that storm. I didn’t. I promise. I am not bad luck and shouldn’t be