Storm Maiden (16 page)

Fiona chewed her lip in consternation. If
only she could communicate with someone, someone besides Sigurd,
that is. If naught else, she must learn the Norse language so she
would have a means to speak with the other slaves. If they knew her
plight, they might aid her in her plan to return to Eire. She took
another sip of her ale, considering who might consent to teach her
Norse.

She glanced quickly at Dag, then chastised
herself for her foolishness. It did not seem likely he would agree
to spend the time necessary to teach her his language. More likely,
she could learn from one of the women. Dag was talking to one now,
a tall, buxom creature with shiny yellow braids that came nearly to
her knees. A stab of jealousy struck Fiona. Was this the sort of
women the Viking fancied? No wonder he had not insisted on bedding
her.

For the first time in her life, Fiona felt
self-conscious of her dark coloring and small stature. She looked
nothing like the Viking women. She must seem as foreign and strange
to the Northmen as they did to her.

Fiona watched as the yellow-haired woman
left Dag and came over to the hearth and filled a wooden platter
with some of the flat, brown cakes warming there. The woman wore a
plain wool garment with a simple neckline. Over that was a more
elaborate green gown with a bright border of embroidered red and
yellow flowers around the skirt and straps that fastened above her
breasts with large polished oval brooches.

Gaudy, but not terribly flattering, Fiona
decided. She was fortunate to possess Duvessa’s blue kirtle.
Although slightly snug across her breasts and hips, it was
comfortable. From what she could see of it, Viking women’s attire
was anything but. It would be horrible to endure those heavy
brooches hanging down all the time. Did Viking women really do
their work dressed so foolishly?

Fiona’s curiosity about Viking women was
piqued further when the one who appeared to be Sigurd’s wife came
over and spoke to Dag. The two of them stood only a few feet away
from Fiona, and she was able to study the woman’s garments closely.
Sigurd’s wife’s gown and overgown were similar to the yellow-haired
women’s, although looser and dyed in much more subtle hues. Her
fastening brooches were smaller and of gold rather than silver.
Between her breasts dangled a strange necklace strung with metal
objects. Fiona leaned forward, trying to ascertain what they were.
When the woman turned sideways, Fiona recognized that the looseness
of her gown was intended to make room for the child growing inside
her.

Fiona had barely absorbed this information
when the woman walked off. Returning her gaze to Dag, Fiona was
startled to see a stricken expression on his face. She stared at
him, wondering what was wrong. An older Viking came up and began a
conversation with Dag, and his expression quickly returned to
normal. Fiona watched him in puzzlement. For a moment she had seen
a look of deep grief on Dag’s face. Had she imagined it?

Fiona took a drink of ale. When she looked
up, the old Viking speaking with Dag was staring at her. The man
turned back to Dag, and Fiona sprang to alertness. Was the man
bargaining with Dag to buy her? She noted the Viking’s sagging,
weathered skin, the way the muscles in his bare arms hung stringy
and wasted. The gorge rose in her throat. Even marrying Sivney
Longbeard would have been better than sharing that old man’s
bed!

Fiona took another sip of her ale, feeling
sick. The fatigue and despair caught up with her, and she leaned
forward, suddenly faint. A strong arm wrapped around her shoulders,
supporting her back. She stiffened immediately and prepared to
struggle. Dag’s voice spoke low and harsh in her ear. Unable to
understand his words, instinct made Fiona acquiesce to the Viking’s
implicit demand. She let herself go limp and did not resist as the
Viking picked her up and slung her over his shoulder once more.

She must make a pretty sight, she thought
bitterly as Dag walked quickly across the crowded room. With her
bottom and legs hanging over the Viking’s shoulder and her long
hair trailing down his back, she retained about as much dignity as
a bleating sheep being carried to slaughter. Fiona’s defiance
returned, and she resentfully kicked the Viking in the chest. Quick
as lightning, his hand came up to give her bottom an answering
smack. Fiona gritted her teeth. Someday she would fight him and
win! Someday she would finally get the best of the arrogant
bastard!

The Viking ducked as he passed through a low
doorway, then bent over to drop her on a raised, box-like bed.
Fiona sat up and tried to catch her breath. The tiny room was cold
and dark; she could barely make out the Viking’s shadowy shape at
the end of the bed. She watched him warily, trying to guess what he
meant to do next. If only they could argue, rail at each other.
Anything would be better than this mute, frustrating battle between
them.

Dag stood panting, trying to regain control.
Must the Irishwoman continually fight him? She was the most
frustrating creature he’d ever encountered. Couldn’t she see he
tried to protect her?

He turned from the bed, reluctant to stay in
his bedcloset any longer. There were too many memories. He
remembered Ulvi waking him with her wet, sloppy tongue on his face.
Her warm, solid shape nestled beside the box bed, guarding him,
patiently waiting for him for rise.
Ulvi was dead. Never would
he see her again.

His grief over his dog’s death felt like a
knife in his belly. Bless Mina for taking him aside to tell him. If
she had blurted it out when he’d first arrived on the dock—with the
Irishwoman, his nephews, and Sigurd watching—how would he have hid
his anguish? Sigurd cared little for dogs, except for hunting
purposes, and his nephews had long spent their grief by now.

Only Mina understood. He had seen the sheen
of tears in her eyes when she told him that Ulvi had died from
eating bad meat. An accident, she said, something no one could have
prevented. Guilt roiled in Dag’s guts. Ulvi had not died
immediately. She had suffered, and he had not been there to soothe
her, to look into her dark eyes and reassure her.

He sighed heavily, preparing himself to go
out into the crowded hall. Behind him, the woman made a small
sound.

What would she think of him if she knew he
was sick with grief over a dog?

Dag squared his shoulders. She would never
know. No one would. A warrior couldn’t afford to be soft and
vulnerable. He would hide his grief as he had hid all his deeper
feelings since he was a boy.

He turned, his eyes adjusting to the dim
light. He could barely make out the Irishwoman, sprawled on his
bed. The image evoked a throb of longing in his loins. He
remembered the wonder of her silken flesh, the warmth of her skin,
the taste of her lips.

He repressed the intense desire such
thoughts aroused. The Irishwoman hated him, and he had no strength
to endure another bout of grappling with her. She was clearly
exhausted as well. He would leave her to sleep. She would be safe
here. Later, after he had shared in the celebration, he would find
a warm place to make his own bed.

He turned and left the bedcloset. As he
stepped into the main longhouse chamber, the light and noise hit
him like a blow. He paused a moment to orient himself, then sought
out his brother at the raised table at the end of the room. Sigurd
was deep in conversation with Knorri, their uncle and the Jarl of
Engvak- kirsted. At Dag’s approach, both men raised their drinking
horns in salute. Dag signaled one of the kitchen thralls to bring
him a horn of ale and sat next to his uncle.

Sigurd began a detailed account of the
events in Ireland. Dag tensed when his brother reached the part
about his imprisonment; but to his relief, Sigurd made no mention
of the woman. Dag silently thanked his brother for his foresight.
If Knorri knew the woman was a traitor to her people, Dag suspected
he would order her sold outside the steading.

As Sigurd continued his report, Dag found
his mind wandering. He couldn’t help worrying over the Irishwoman.
How was he to explain why he had brought her back to his homeland?
If he made her his bed thrall, no man would question his desire to
keep a comely wench for his pleasure. But he had no intention of
bedding the Irishwoman. She’d made it clear she was unwilling, and
that was not the way he liked his women. The memory of her
seductive eagerness when she’d first come to him still tantalized
him.

“You took only one slave?” Knorri’s raspy
voice jerked Dag back to awareness. “Why not more?”

Sigurd’s voice was calm and reasonable as he
answered. “I didn’t think there was room on the ship with all the
plunder, and in truth, we encountered no women or young boys
suitable for enslavement.”

“We could use the help in the fields,”
Knorri groused.

“With the fine booty we took, we can easily
purchase all the thralls we need next spring,” Sigurd responded.
“Taking slaves is risky business. I would prefer to let other men
take the chances.”

Knorri muttered something under his breath
and Dag guessed that the old jarl secretly thought Sigurd’s caution
a sign of cowardice. It hardly mattered. Knorri might rule at
Engvakkirsted, but on the ship, the men all recognized Sigurd as
their leader.

“The black-haired creature I saw—is that the
slave you mentioned?”

Sigurd nodded. Dag held his breath,
wondering what his brother would say.

“The woman is Dag’s,” Sigurd announced
loudly, as if to remind the men nearby of the fact. “She represents
his share of the booty we took.”

Knorri’s grizzled brow furrowed. “How can a
scrawny wench compare in worth to the gold and silver the other men
flaunt?”

Dag licked his dry lips and prepared to
respond. Sigurd answered first. “She is a beauty, for all her
strange coloring. Brodir has already offered a good price for
her.”

Knorri looked vaguely around the room, then
complained, “Damn my fading eyesight. I would like to admire her
comeliness ere Brodir ruins her pretty features.”

“I don’t intend to sell her to Brodir!”
Dag’s words came out sharper than he intended, and he felt both
Sigurd and Knorri’s eyes on him. “ ‘Twould be a waste to sell her
to a brute like him. She would die within days from his torture,
and the steading would lose the benefit of any useful skills she
possesses.”

“What skills might those be?” Knorri
asked.

“She seems to know of herbs and simples; and
since she was a princess in her country, she is like to be an
accomplished seamstress as well. I’m certain Mina could use the aid
of another gentlewoman. She complained to me not long before we
left on the raid that most of the women thralls are too clumsy and
heavy-handed for clothmaking.” Mina hadn’t addressed the words to
him, but to Ingeborg, the smithy’s wife, but Dag thought they
lended weight to his argument.

Dag waited for Sigurd to protest against the
plan, but he did not, only gave Dag a thoughtful, assessing
look.

“Do what you will with the woman then,”
Knorri answered, obviously tiring of the subject. “It matters not
to me, as long as she doesn’t cause conflict. I won’t have the
camaraderie between my oathmen torn apart by some cunning-faced
bitch. Loyalty to the clan is more important than anything.
Speaking of which, have you heard about this feud between the
Thorkvalds and Agirssons?”

“
Nei,
tell us,” Dag prompted, greatly
relieved the jarl had dismissed the subject of Fiona. He could
still feel Sigurd’s warning eyes on him.

“It all started with a few raids here and
there,” Knorri said. “Nothing serious. A few cattle stolen, a slave
girl raped and left for dead. Then a sennight ago, someone burned
out the Thorkvald steading.”

“Was anyone killed?” Dag asked.

Knorri nodded. “Thorkvald’s wife and
youngest son. Some slaves. The rest of the household climbed up in
the loft and escaped by pushing out the ceiling and jumping down
into the cattle byre.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

Across from Dag, Sigurd shrugged. “There’s
been bad blood between the Thorkvald line and Jarl Agirsson’s
people for some time. I believe it started out in a dispute about
grazing lands. That was years ago. I had thought the feud died out,
but memories are long.”

“And land is scarce,” Knorri said grimly.
“That’s what usually motivates murder. Jarl Agirsson has four sons,
and not near enough land for all of them. I suspect the younger
ones mean to secure their fortune any way they can.”

“Will the Thorkvald family take their
dispute to the
Thing?”

Knorri snorted. “That’s what should be done.
Let the council determine wergeld for the murders and insist that
the Agirsson’s pay it. But ‘tis not like to happen. Thorkvald has
sworn blood vengeance. Before you know it, half the fjords of the
Norselands will be ablaze as one murder leads to another.”

Dag sighed. Once, talk of raids and
counterraids would have invigorated him. Now it made him weary. He
was sick of bloodshed for the sake of bloodshed. He had looked
forward to a dull winter sitting cozily around the fire with a horn
of ale in his hand.

“What? My little brother doesn’t jump at the
chance to avenge his kinsmen?” Dag looked up, startled, and Sigurd
laughed and continued, “The Thorkvalds are kin on our mother’s
side, brother. No one would think it strange if we joined their
raiding party.”

“I don’t savor the thought of waking up to
find burning timbers above my head,” Dag answered. “And you,
Sigurd, have your sons to consider. Children are the first to
perish if the raiding fever gets out of control.”

“Have you lost your fighting spirit,
brother?” Sigurd challenged. “It makes me wonder if that little
Irish witch didn’t do something to you after all.”