Njord was in a really bad mood. It had nothing to do with the choppy sea lanes and everything to do with a certain fair-haired nymph. His impulse to follow her was making him a laughingstock yet he cared nothing for that. Until he was absolutely certain this was the right thing for her he was going nowhere. It had nothing to do with her father, the Jarl, a man he respected. Feelings as strong as this could not be set aside lightly.If she told him to his face she wanted this that would be a different thing. All his instincts said she was a pawn to be tossed like a bone to a hound. Unfortunately, the man pulling the strings had all the power. Uncle Ketil didn’t care for their ruler, he knew that much. Telling himself he was on a family mission did nothing to alleviate his concern.Har was trying to catch his eye. More ribbing awaited. Usually, he could take it and give as good as he got. Not today. It wasn’t as if he could pretend to be seasick as everyone knew how good a sailor he was

Beyla was astonished to find she was seething rather than frightened when hands were laid on her high-born, soon to be royal, personage. The horse she had rather liked was sent on its way with a whack to the rump, though she was relieved to find no caves were in sight. “You are making a grave mistake,” she declared, refusing to play the victim from the outset. While she had never had any desire to be a warrior woman, Beyla felt she owed it to her family to return to them unscathed. If that meant presenting a bold front then she would do her best to promote and sustain that impression. “This one should fetch a king’s ransom. What d’you reckon, Sammy?” her captor said, forcing open her mouth and inspecting her teeth for some reason known only to himself. He was old – at least fifty – and his bald pate was covered in several bumps which complemented the pockmarks on his ruddy cheeks. “I think we should keep her as a skivvy, Tom,” his companion remarked with a leer. Though younger, b

Beyla was unsure why his father had kept her away from her betrothed, only that he had. Was there a problem regarding their impending matrimony? She really hoped not. Philip was someone she found easy to talk to and, like her, he was only a pawn in the politics of others.Wedding him would be no hardship. She began to wonder if King Hubert believed she was no longer pure. Submitting to a physical examination would be humiliating, especially since there was really no need.An unexpected ally came in the form of her mother. Miriam could be fierce when something was important to her.“Can Beyla not swear on the Holy Bible, Your Majesty?”“Is she a baptised Christian?”“No, but the opportunity never arose.”In the end, Mistress Ford was agreed upon. The years had been kind to the older woman she remembered only vaguely from her time at the palace. Beyla forbore to protest, and Miriam realised she had come round to the idea of this marriage.King Hubert cleared his throat while they waited

Beyla looked up at Kaan, wondering what his motive was in all this. She had grown up with the notion that men from the east were not to be trusted.“You say that my father may be alive, but how can this be? I saw him fall with my own eyes.”“I have sources at the palace, pretty one,” he told her.“Why did you go along with it and bring me here?”“For your own safety.”She smiled, causing him to look at her quizzically. “Seldom have I known a man to answer a direct question without fudging the answer. So, thank you for that.”He gave her a small bow. “We are not all demons,” he said.“I trusted him,” she raged.“Philip was a strange one. That is why I told my men to hang fire and suggested they wait for my signal to sail. In some ways, I wish I had been wrong, Princess.”“Don’t call me that. I’m just Beyla, the Jarl’s daughter, from Eggsor.”“I’m afraid not, Princess. The marriage ceremony was completed, remember?”“You won’t take me back, will you?”“Never,” he vowed. “I’m not even in

Beyla had nothing to wear other than the clothes provided for her by the woman she viewed as her jailer. Day after day she was locked in her room with nothing to read and a lack of anything to occupy her hands. There wasn’t even a view other than miles of empty sand stretching to the far horizon.The city was the gateway to Araby. Known as Damask it had its fair share of roses, cultivated with care by a figure down below. Because of the all-covering hooded garment it was difficult to tell if the person were male or female. She sniffed the aroma of the latest vased flowers. They were replenished each day, but failed to lift her spirits if that had been the intention of the provider.She suspected it was Kaan, though she hadn’t seen him since the day before yesterday.That had been an enlightening encounter. King Harald was dead, she had learned, while she herself was now a widow. It scarcely seemed real.“Have you changed your mind about the importance of a treaty?” she dared to ask.H