the street, but more than enough
time to let her body know it liked it. Long enough, too, for her mind to recognise that, whatever her protestations to her nosy family, she wanted to be so much more than a treasure-keeper to this
Varangian prince.
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. I must speak with you, Elizaveta. I have fresh keys for your chain, if you will accept them?’
‘Of course.’
‘But I must wait, I fear, for first there is much ceremony to endure . . . enjoy.’
He was already turning to help her sisters down but not so fast that she missed the quick wink he sent her way. It tugged at his scar, sending his face slightly askew, and somehow drawing his
other, unmarked eye closer so that she felt pulled right into the swirls of gold in their grey depths. Then he was gone and she was being whisked up onto the dais and someone was pushing little
Agatha’s hot, sticky hand into her own and the moment was lost. But it would come again. Surely, she prayed, casting her eyes down the tumbling Ros to the rolling plains and God’s
shimmering horizon far beyond, it would come again?
Elizaveta had to wait for what felt like an eternity, through speeches and a tour of the houses – built on firm foundations with neatly fenced plots that the displaced
prisoners seemed content to own – and a service in the little stone church. Then there was a simple but, to Elizaveta, ridiculously long feast in the village square before, at last, the
tables were pushed back and a bonfire lit. Musicians struck up a jig that pulled all the villagers out to dance and finally Harald was stepping her way.
‘You are free, Princess?’
‘To dance?’
Elizaveta looked warily at the rough-and-tumble peasants’ reel. Agatha had dragged the long-suffering Edward into the steps and it did look fun but she feared her precious
‘dignity’ might suffer if she attempted to join in.
‘If you wish,’ Harald said, ‘though in truth I have not learned many dances.’
‘You have not, I imagine, had time to do so.’
‘No,’ he agreed, drawing her aside into the shadows just beyond the firelight. ‘I’m afraid all my dancing has been with swords, but this is no time for such talk,
Elizaveta. I have a new key for you – two new keys.’
‘Two? Your wars in Poland, then, went well?’
‘They did. I won safe borders for your father and much gold for myself – for Norway. You will keep it safe?’
‘You may trust me with that.’
‘Oh, I do. Here . . .’
He produced a parcel wrapped not this time in silk but in hemp. He grimaced as he handed it into her pale hands.
‘It is not as pretty as the last, is it? I apologise. Ulf found me the silk – he is a smoother courtier than I.’
‘It matters not,’ Elizaveta assured him. ‘The keys are the important thing.’
She hastily opened the parcel to reveal, as promised, two golden keys and between them a new charcoal-black charm.
‘Your fee.’ She flinched at the mercenary word and Harald must have seen it, even in the edges of the flickering firelight, for he leaned in and said, ‘And to show my
appreciation, Elizaveta. I chose it especially for you. See.’ He lifted it up. ‘The stone is jet, all the way from Whitby in England. I bought it from a Saxon trader for it is as dark
and shining as your hair.’ Elizaveta frowned and Harald’s brow furrowed in reflection. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
She looked down at the scuffed ground.
‘I hate my hair.’
‘You hate it? Elizaveta, why? I think it quite the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’ Elizaveta laughed bitterly but he persisted. ‘I jest not. It shines like a river of
night.’
‘Like a witch then?’
‘A witch? Ah, Elizaveta, there is more to the night than witchcraft, I promise you.’ His voice had grown husky and she felt it like a touch across her skin, a kiss even.
‘Truly,’ he said, stepping closer yet, ‘I think your hair is beautiful. Look . . .’
He gently reached
time to let her body know it liked it. Long enough, too, for her mind to recognise that, whatever her protestations to her nosy family, she wanted to be so much more than a treasure-keeper to this
Varangian prince.
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. I must speak with you, Elizaveta. I have fresh keys for your chain, if you will accept them?’
‘Of course.’
‘But I must wait, I fear, for first there is much ceremony to endure . . . enjoy.’
He was already turning to help her sisters down but not so fast that she missed the quick wink he sent her way. It tugged at his scar, sending his face slightly askew, and somehow drawing his
other, unmarked eye closer so that she felt pulled right into the swirls of gold in their grey depths. Then he was gone and she was being whisked up onto the dais and someone was pushing little
Agatha’s hot, sticky hand into her own and the moment was lost. But it would come again. Surely, she prayed, casting her eyes down the tumbling Ros to the rolling plains and God’s
shimmering horizon far beyond, it would come again?
Elizaveta had to wait for what felt like an eternity, through speeches and a tour of the houses – built on firm foundations with neatly fenced plots that the displaced
prisoners seemed content to own – and a service in the little stone church. Then there was a simple but, to Elizaveta, ridiculously long feast in the village square before, at last, the
tables were pushed back and a bonfire lit. Musicians struck up a jig that pulled all the villagers out to dance and finally Harald was stepping her way.
‘You are free, Princess?’
‘To dance?’
Elizaveta looked warily at the rough-and-tumble peasants’ reel. Agatha had dragged the long-suffering Edward into the steps and it did look fun but she feared her precious
‘dignity’ might suffer if she attempted to join in.
‘If you wish,’ Harald said, ‘though in truth I have not learned many dances.’
‘You have not, I imagine, had time to do so.’
‘No,’ he agreed, drawing her aside into the shadows just beyond the firelight. ‘I’m afraid all my dancing has been with swords, but this is no time for such talk,
Elizaveta. I have a new key for you – two new keys.’
‘Two? Your wars in Poland, then, went well?’
‘They did. I won safe borders for your father and much gold for myself – for Norway. You will keep it safe?’
‘You may trust me with that.’
‘Oh, I do. Here . . .’
He produced a parcel wrapped not this time in silk but in hemp. He grimaced as he handed it into her pale hands.
‘It is not as pretty as the last, is it? I apologise. Ulf found me the silk – he is a smoother courtier than I.’
‘It matters not,’ Elizaveta assured him. ‘The keys are the important thing.’
She hastily opened the parcel to reveal, as promised, two golden keys and between them a new charcoal-black charm.
‘Your fee.’ She flinched at the mercenary word and Harald must have seen it, even in the edges of the flickering firelight, for he leaned in and said, ‘And to show my
appreciation, Elizaveta. I chose it especially for you. See.’ He lifted it up. ‘The stone is jet, all the way from Whitby in England. I bought it from a Saxon trader for it is as dark
and shining as your hair.’ Elizaveta frowned and Harald’s brow furrowed in reflection. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
She looked down at the scuffed ground.
‘I hate my hair.’
‘You hate it? Elizaveta, why? I think it quite the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’ Elizaveta laughed bitterly but he persisted. ‘I jest not. It shines like a river of
night.’
‘Like a witch then?’
‘A witch? Ah, Elizaveta, there is more to the night than witchcraft, I promise you.’ His voice had grown husky and she felt it like a touch across her skin, a kiss even.
‘Truly,’ he said, stepping closer yet, ‘I think your hair is beautiful. Look . . .’
He gently reached
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