Storm Maiden (17 page)

“Enough!” Dag found himself standing, his
body rigid, his sword arm at his belt, ready to draw his weapon and
smite his brother’s grinning face.

He took a deep breath and sat down. It was
just Sigurd’s way. He liked to find a man’s sensitive places and
poke at them. It served nothing to rise to his bait.

Knorri’s faded blue eyes shifted between Dag
and Sigurd. “You boys have always been comfortable together. I used
to tell Groa that you were as close as if you had arrived in this
world in the same birthsack.” He sighed heavily, and his gaze
became distant. “Don’t let a woman come between you now. Women come
and go; all a man can count on is his sword brothers.”

Dag stood once more. His conflict with his
brother unsettled him. Better to seek his bed before his temper
frayed further.

He started toward his bedchamber then
stopped. The Irishwoman. He couldn’t sleep there. He would have to
seek out a bed in the cattle byre. At least the hay would be more
comfortable than the
Storm Maiden
‘s hard deck.

He left the noisy hall and paused outside to
gaze up at the sky. This far north, the nighttime sky was never
fully dark during the sunseason, and the stars appeared only as
faint specks amid the glowing heavens. He breathed in deeply,
trying to find some satisfaction in being home. Nothing had changed
at Engvakkirsted, but he felt different somehow. Was it really the
fault of the Irishwoman, as Sigurd had jested? Had she done
something to him? He held out his right arm and stared at it. Still
stiff, but almost healed. Once he worked to get the muscles built
up again, he would be able to use it as before.

“Thor’s hammer, it feels good to be home,” a
voice said beside him. Dag turned to see Rorig, the youngest of
Knorri’s oathmen. A stab of guilt went through him. It was Rorig
who had offered the Irishwoman fish on the journey home. He had
reacted foolishly, with jealousy rather than gratitude, then later
realized the younger man had made the offer out of kindness.

“My apologies, sword brother, for the
incident on the ship,” he told Rorig. “My anger was directed toward
the woman, not you.”

Rorig shrugged and held out a skin. “No harm
done. If I had a woman like that, I would act like a dog with a
choice bone myself.”

Dag took a gulp of the sweet, potent liquid
that filled the skin, buying time before he spoke. Would he look
more foolish if he denied that the woman meant anything to him or
if he admitted it?

Rorig sighed. “I’m glad you saved the woman.
‘Tis witless of me, but while we were killing and burning, I could
not help feeling pity for the Irish.”

Hearing his own thoughts said aloud rattled
Dag, but he managed to make his voice harsh as he answered.
“Ja,
‘tis witless. A warrior can’t afford to feel pity. Any
hesitation and you give your enemy a better chance of killing you.
I vow you would forget your pity soon enough when you lay in the
death straw bleeding your life away.”

Rorig hiccuped and held out his hand for the
skin. “I hear the wisdom in your words, Dag, but I do not
feel
it. There must be something besides this endless
killing. As the youngest of sixth sons, I had no choice but to
leave home with my sword and find a strong jarl to swear to, but I
find I dislike the life of a warrior.

“What would you wish for instead?”

“My own land, of course,” Rorig answered. In
the glow from the northern lights, Dag could make out the troubled
expression on the young man’s features. “I would be a farmer rather
than a warrior, if I could.”

“Land must always be defended,” Dag reminded
him. “Even a farmer must keep his sword at the ready.”

“I would not be a weak man, but neither
would I be a man who makes his living by killing. I have no taste
for raiding; I would do something else!”

Rorig’s outburst struck an answering chord
inside Dag. He, too, had tired of bloodletting. What was the glory
in cutting down outnumbered, poorly armed men? In burning
prosperous farmsteads? In slaughtering slaves and women? It left a
man with naught but cold, gleaming treasure and ugly memories.
There had to be a better life, but what was it?

Fiona woke with a start. Someone was in the
room with her. She could hear breathing, sense slight movements
near the bed. Sitting up, she called, “Who’s there?”

“You knew I was Irish back there in the
feasting hall. Why else did you speak to me, call me ‘lass’?”

“It’s you, the red-haired girl. You
understood me!”

“Aye, although ‘tis not wise to be seen
prattling together.”

Fiona nearly fainted with relief. Here, at
last, was a friend, an ally. “Are you a slave, too? How long since
you were captured?” she asked eagerly, moving closer to the
girl.

The girl struck a flint to light a soapstone
lamp near the bed. She turned, and the lamplight illuminated her
youthful features and the nimbus of curly hair around her face. “I
don’t remember how long I’ve been here. Five winters mayhap. I was
merely a child when the jarl’s nephew bought me.”

“Bought you? You weren’t captured?”

The girl snorted scornfully. “Not by
Vikings. I was taken in a raid by the Ui Neill clan.”

“Where are you from?” Fiona asked. “What
part of Ireland?”

“Rath Coole, near the settlement the Norse
call ‘Dublin,’ and you?”

“A place called Dunsheana, along the Shannon
River.”

“How did you come to be captured?”

Fiona’s lips compressed with bitterness.
“The Northmen attacked my father’s palisade. They burned
everything. The other women were able to hide in the souterrain,
but I... I...” Fiona hesitated. How could she explain her need to
try and save Dermot and the other boys, to somehow make up for
aiding the Viking prisoner? “I was trying to find my foster brother
when the Vikings found me,” she finished.

The slave girl frowned. “ ‘Tis not like
Sigurd to take slaves in a raid. He believes it easier and less
risky to purchase them at the slave markets.”

“ ‘Twas not Sigurd’s decision. I was made a
slave by the one called Dag.”

“Dag!” The girl looked startled. “ ‘Tis not
like Dag to take slaves at all.” Her gray eyes peered at Fiona
closely. “How did Dag come to possess you? Was he trying to save
you from being killed by one of the other men?”

“In a way,” Fiona acknowledged. “I helped
him, and he... he returned the favor.”

“How did you help him?”

Fiona took a deep breath. “My father’s
warriors captured Dag a few days before the rest of the Vikings
attacked. He was wounded, and my father threw him into the
souterrain. I took pity on him and aided him.” The Irish girl gave
her a startled look. Fiona suddenly realized how traitorous her
actions sounded.

“I didn’t free him or anything so foolish,”
she added quickly, suppressing the memory of removing the Viking’s
arm shackles.

“But obviously he got free.”

Fiona nodded, unable to reply. What she had
done sounded shamefully disloyal.

The Irish girl’s gaze bored into her. “You
and Dag are well- matched. His kindheartedness has more than once
brought about the men’s ridicule. He doesn’t like to see any
creature suffer. He’s very fond of animals. For a while, he had a
pet dog, let it sleep by his bed, and went everywhere with it.”

Fiona’s curiosity was piqued. “A dog? What
happened to it?”

“Died in the spring. Some bad meat or
something.”

A Viking with a pet. The thought jarred
Fiona’s convictions about her enemy even more. Dag sounded almost
like a normal man. Of course, she knew better.

“You’re wrong,” she told the Irish girl.
“Dag is no better than the rest of his bestial countrymen. As soon
as he got me alone, he tore off my clothes and tried to ravish me.”
She shivered at the memory.

“
Tried
to ravish you?”

“I fought him off,” Fiona said proudly.

The Irish girl’s eyes narrowed. “You are a
slave now. The Northmen hold the power of life and death over each
of us. ‘Tis foolish to defy them or anger them, even one such as
Dag.”

“I won’t submit meekly,” Fiona protested. “I
will go to my death cursing my foul captors!”

“Aye, you very likely will,” the girl
agreed. “I’ve seen it before. Those who won’t submit don’t survive.
‘Tis your choice. Apparently you are braver than me. I have a
strong desire to live, even if it means accepting my lot as a
slave.”

Fiona felt a chill at the girl’s
matter-of-fact words. Had she not vowed only a few days ago that
she would do whatever was necessary to survive? Now she threatened
to throw her life away in order to spite her captors. She must not
forget her goal of someday returning to Eire.

“Aye, you are right,” she said with a sigh.
“I don’t really want to die. My plan is to escape and make my way
back to Eire.”

The Irish girl shook her head mournfully. “I
know of not one slave who has ever escaped. Better that you should
earn your master’s favor and win your freedom that way.” While
Fiona stared at her in surprise, the Irish girl continued. “Aye, it
can happen. Sometimes a Northman will become so fond of a woman
slave, he frees her and makes her his wife. You are comely enough
that you might well win a man’s heart—and your freedom.”

“I will do no such thing,” Fiona insisted.
“I made a vow to my dead kin that I would avenge them. How can I
seek revenge if I wed one of my enemies? Besides, I am poor at
deception. My face shows everything I feel. I could never convince
a Viking I cared for him when, in truth, I hate the whole
race.”

“A pity.” The Irish girl shrugged. “If I
possessed your beauty, I would use it to better my lot any way I
could, even if it meant spreading my thighs for the old jarl
himself.”

Fiona shuddered. The girl was very young for
such grim reasoning. “How old are you?” Fiona asked.

The girl frowned. “Mayhap fourteen or
fifteen winters by now.”

“Are there many Irish slaves here?”

“There are my two brothers, plus a
half-dozen others. You are not like to meet them, though. They all
work in the fields and seldom venture into the longhouse.”

“That would make almost ten. If we all
joined together and planned an escape...” Fiona mused.

The Irish girl gave her a stricken look and
moved toward the door.

“Wait!” Fiona scrambled to the edge of the
box bed. “Where are you going?”

The girl regarded her warily. “I told you, I
have no wish to displease my Viking masters. I want no part of any
plan for escape. ‘Tis foolhardy to even speak of it.”

“All right.” Fiona sighed softly, wondering
if in five years her outlook would be as resigned and hopeless as
this girl’s. “I won’t speak of things that distress you. I would
like to be friends.”

The girl nodded. “I would like that
also.”

“What’s your name?” Fiona asked.

“Breaca.”

“I am Fiona, daughter of Donall Mac Frachan,
chieftain of the Deasunachta.”

“Fiona of the Deasunachta—a fine name,”
Breaca said, her voice soft with something like awe. “A name fit
for a princess.”

“I was,” Fiona said bleakly. “I was.”

* * *

He was burning. The blazing timbers of the
longhouse showered him with sparks that smoldered against his skin.
He tried to run, but the flames followed him. He saw the Irishwoman
and shouted a warning. She turned, and her green eyes met his with
a defiant look.

Dag shouted again. This time he woke himself
up. Relief shuddered through him. There was no fire, merely the sun
shining on his face through a broken patch in the byre roof. His
skin was not burning, although the straw he was lying on made it
itch mightily. And the woman. Mayhap she was not real either.

Dag sighed.
Nei,
he had not dreamed
the woman. He remembered dumping her in his sleeping chamber. While
he tossed uncomfortably on a pile of straw, she snuggled among the
soft furs on his bed.

A tremor of sexual longing went through him
as he envisioned the Irishwoman, her creamy nakedness spread out on
the bedfurs, the silky patch of black curls between her thighs
contrasting with her milky skin, the tantalizing pink tips of her
breasts jutting upwards. He groaned. The bedeviling woman continued
to torture him.

Getting up, he stretched, trying to ease the
stiffness from his muscles. He could not wait much longer to settle
his captive’s situation. He must find Mina and win her aid.

As he had anticipated, his
sister-by-marriage was already up and busy with household tasks. He
found her near the hearth, ladling porridge into a wooden bowl for
the boys’ morning meal.

“Mina.”

She nodded and went on with her tasks after
he greeted her. “About the woman,” he began. “I think she could be
of use to you. You spend hours in the task of clothmaking.
Certainly another pair of skilled hands would be welcome.” Dag
paused, reluctant to push too hard.

“Sigurd thinks you will regret it if I
accept your gift,” Mina answered in her soft voice. “He thinks you
should keep the woman as a bed thrall.”

Dag’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want her, no
matter what Sigurd thinks.”

“Sigurd said you would say that.” Mina
turned to look at him. “For your sake, I will agree to train her as
a house thrall, but I can do nothing else. She needs a protector,
and Sigurd refuses to take on the responsibility. If the other men
harass her, you will have to be the one to defend her.”

“Can she sleep with the other female
slaves?” Dag asked. He would do anything to get his bedcloset
back—and his life as well.

“If you wish it. Although it might not be
the safest arrangement for a comely, young thrall.”

Dag heaved a sigh of relief. “She’s yours
then. I serve as her protector, but you will order her life and
keep her busy.”