Storm Maiden (21 page)

“About Dag...” Fiona began uncertainly. “Do
you still think I should seduce him?”

Breaca shrugged. “ ‘Twould not hurt. He is
the only ally you have.”

Fiona bit her lip. “He turned away from me
this morning when I tried... tried to offer myself to him. Mayhap
he does not want me after all.”

Breaca laughed. “Even with men, some times
are better than others. I imagine Dag is outside right now puking
up his guts. I found out the fool shared a whole skin of mead with
Rorig last night.”

“He was drunk?”

“Aye. I imagine when he came to bed he was
seeing two Irish princesses and unsure which one to fondle. And
this morning—even stallions won’t rut when their bellies ail. If
you have any healing skill, you might mix a potion which will
soothe Dag’s stomach and cure his aching head. I’m certain he would
be grateful.”

Fiona frowned, trying to recall if she had
ever heard of such a thing. Siobhan had never been keen on helping
men, especially the sort that drank to excess. But there was always
chamomile, effective for settling sick stomachs, and thyme, a
common remedy for aching heads. “Does Mina have any healing herbs?”
she asked.

Breaca shrugged. “Come, get dressed, and
we’ll ask her. I’m certain she knows you will require some
medicines to dress Brodir’s wound.”

Fiona made a face. Here she was, abetting
her enemies. Would the spirits of her slaughtered kinsmen ever
forgive her? She could not fret on it. They were dead and she was
alive—and she meant to stay that way.

* * *

Fiona carefully rubbed the healing paste
over the wound she had inflicted on Brodir’s neck, ignoring the
almost tangible malice radiating from the man. The cut was actually
quite shallow, disappointingly so. Breaca was right. He would
likely heal without treatment of any kind. Even so, she must put on
a good display, thoroughly smearing the greenish paste over the
wound. The stuff smelled horrid, and she knew a sort of
satisfaction in thinking that the other Vikings would avoid Brodir
for a while.

She glanced up from her work, instinctively
looking to the entry way. So far, Dag had been conspicuously absent
from the longhouse. It was a shame he was not here to regard the
sacrifice she made to save his honor, and her own skin. When she
saw him again, she meant to cry peace and offer him a brew of the
chamomile and thyme leaves Mina had given her.

Brodir grunted; Fiona returned her gaze to
his neck. Aye, that should finish it. Too bad Mina didn’t have any
fluxweed. It made a disgusting concoction which she could have made
Brodir drink, and it truly was good for helping wounds heal.

She stepped back, relieved to be finished
with her hateful task. Brodir glared at her, a look filled with
such loathing, Fiona felt a tremor of foreboding run down her body.
She had made a dangerous enemy. But what else could she have done?
She wasn’t going to let rape her in the middle of a crowded
feasting hall. It was possible Dag might have eventually come to
her rescue, but she hadn’t been certain he cared enough to spare
her. At the time, she’d had no choice but to defend herself.

She went to the firepit and washed in a pot
of water warming there, eager to remove the stench of Brodir from
her hands. How strange it was. Brodir and Dag were countrymen and,
judging from what she’d learned of the Vikings, kin as well. Like
the Irish, Northmen allied themselves by the means of blood ties,
and it was unlikely that any two men at Engvakkirsted were not
related in some fashion.

But two men could hardly be so different.
Dag was clean and neat; Brodir filthy. Brodir acted like a
gluttonous boor while Dag apparently had some notion of honorable
behavior. Breaca had said he was kind to animals. If that were
true, even Siobhan might approve of him. She always said that a
man’s character could be judged by his attitude toward the
beasts.

Fiona sighed. If she could, she would like
to begin again with Dag. To forget what his people had done to her
kinsmen and go back to that extraordinary time they had spent
together in the souterrain. He had moved her then, inspired her
tender thoughts and lustful ones as well. Now, she wasn’t certain
what she felt for him. He was her protector; she needed him to
survive. Was that why she felt so drawn to him or was there
something more? Could it be she had begun to forgive him for his
part in her people’s slaughter? Forgiveness—the Christian priests
preached of it incessantly, but with little impact on the ancient
Irish values of revenge and retribution.

She turned at a sound behind her and saw Dag
take a seat on the bench Brodir had vacated. He looked sick, his
normally ruddy complexion a shade too pale, his blue eyes laced
with red. Sympathy filled her. She went to him and tried to gesture
that she would bring him something to drink. He watched her
suspiciously. She touched her stomach and head, indicating that she
knew he was hurting. His face remained wary.

Fiona sighed and went to get the brew she
had made for him. She
must
learn the Norse language. It was
so frustrating that they could not understand one another.

* * *

Dag took the steaming beaker from Fiona and
sniffed it. It smelled of earthy, dark things, but not unpleasant.
He glanced at her face. Could she mean to poison him?
Nei,
if there were anyone she meant to murder, it would be Brodir, and
he seemed well enough after her treatment, except for his foul
temper. By now, the woman knew that he had saved her life, and she
likely did this out of gratitude. Miserable as he felt, he would
not turn away anything which might reduce his distress.

He gulped down the contents of the beaker.
It tasted strong, but rather savory. He looked up. The Irishwoman
was smiling, an enchanting smile, a smile to steal a man’s soul.
For a moment he resisted, then he smiled weakly back. Their eyes
locked; the first rays of understanding passed between them. He
decided he must really learn some of her language; there were
things he would say to her, things he would ask.

“Do you think she is a wise woman?” Mina’s
soft voice came from behind him.

Dag pulled his glance away from Fiona’s. He
shrugged in response to Mina’s question. “Apparently she has some
knowledge.”

“Magic?” Mina asked solemnly.

Dag regarded his sister-by-marriage with
surprise. He had hinted as much to Knorri and Sigurd, but was it
advisable to ascribe supernatural powers to the Irishwoman? It
might force his kinsmen to hold her in higher regard, but it would
also irrevocably set her apart. The Norse respected wise women, but
they didn’t associate with them. He didn’t want to doom the
Irishwoman to always being an outcast. He knew from personal
experience what loneliness being different could bring.

“
Nei,
I don’t think so.”

Mina frowned. “You must beware, Dag. I think
the woman is deceitful. I heard her talking with her countrywoman,
Breaca, and I understood a little of what they said. It seems the
Irishwoman plots to win your goodwill by sharing your bed.”

Dag opened his mouth to say he was well
aware of the woman’s motivations. Mina stalled his words by
continuing. “Knorri and Sigurd were also mentioned. While I care
little if my husband beds a slave now and then, I would not see you
hurt. If the woman is willing to offer herself to any man who gives
her protection, you would be unwise to let yourself care for her
too deeply.”

Dag stared at Mina. His sister-by-marriage
was not given to idle suspicions. “How could you know what they
said?” he asked. “I was certain the Irishwoman spoke only her own
language.”

“I understand a bit of Irish,” Mina
answered. “At least those kinds of words.” A slight blush spread
across her cheeks. “Sigurd taught me. He likes that sort of
bedplay.”

“You mean she spoke of bedding Knorri or
Sigurd? What did she say?”

Mina blushed more deeply. “I believe she
said something about being able to make Knorri’s old shaft
rise.”

Dag sucked in his breath. The scheming
wench! She had rejected him on the ship, now she prepared to offer
herself to the jarl!

His gaze sought the Irishwoman. She sat
dutifully spinning wool with a hand spindle a short distance from
the hearth. Looking up, she gave him a shy smile. The smile changed
to bewilderment as he continued to glare at her. She flushed and
put the spindle aside. He stared daggers at her as she got up and
hastily left the longhouse.

Dag sighed. The fact that she fled his
presence only confirmed her guilt.

Mina had moved away and was adding wood to
the fire. “Mina,” Dag called. “When did you overhear the Irishwoman
talking to Breaca?”

“Yesterday, when they returned from the
bathing hut.”

Dag looked toward the longhouse entrance,
remembering how the Irishwoman had offered herself to him that very
morning. Did that mean she had changed her mind about enticing
Knorri? Or had she turned to him because she realized that Knorri
was not a man easily manipulated by a woman—and he was?

Bitterness filled his throat. A few moments
ago, he had felt a special intimacy with the Irishwoman. Now his
doubts were back. Could he ever trust such a fickle, inconstant
creature?

“Dag, would you mind bringing in some more
firewood?” Mina asked.

He looked irritably at his
sister-by-marriage. There were shadows of weariness under her eyes,
and she held one hand to the small of her back, as if it pained
her. He remembered suddenly she was with child, and his irritation
vanished. “Of course, Mina,” he answered.

“You should have more help,” he said as he
rose from the bench. “Where is Breaca?”

“I sent her to the brewhouse to aid
Ingeborg. After that, she will churn the butter.”

“Shall I call back the Irishwoman?”

“You don’t care that she might mar her
pretty hands?”

Dag grimaced. His sister-by-marriage was
right; he had pampered Fiona too much already.

“She is a slave,” he answered fiercely. “She
will do as she is bid.”

* * *

Another feast—did these gluttonous Vikings
never tire of eating? Fiona sighed as she delivered a third platter
of meat to the jarl’s table. It was roast pork this time, served
with lingonberry sauce. She watched Knorri stuff another knifeful
of greasy meat into his mouth. Fat pigs—if they didn’t curb their
greed, they would soon blow up like sheep bladders and find
themselves too stout to wield their weapons.

Except Dag. She noted that he ate sparingly
and with an easy grace she admired. He didn’t stuff his mouth with
so much that he looked like a squirrel hoarding food for the
winter, nor did he wipe his greasy hands on his tunic afterwards.
His decent manners were a relief, especially now that she had
decided to let him bed her.

If he still wanted her.
The thought
sent a shaft of anxiety through her. Dag had acted strangely
throughout the feast, and, indeed, the whole day. He still watched
her with gleaming, lust-filled eyes, but the spark of concern,
almost tenderness, which she had observed earlier had vanished.
Something had happened to make him hate her again. What was it?
After she saw him talking to Mina, his expression had changed. What
had Sigurd’s wife said to him?

Fiona proceeded to the cooking area and
filled another platter, this time with dark bread. As Fiona passed
by, Mina glanced up and smiled at her. Fiona nodded stiffly and
continued on her way. Mina didn’t seem to bear her any ill will.
What could she have said to Dag?

Fiona took a detour to the side of the
longhouse where Breaca was occupied filling endless alehorns from
wooden casks. Fiona pulled the younger woman aside. “What does Mina
think of me?”

Breaca gave her a startled look. “I think
she is pleased for your help. I know the babe tires her. She seems
paler than usual, and I often catch her rubbing her back. ‘Tis
early for her to experience such discomfort.”

“When is the babe due to be born?”

“In the month of the Blood Moon. Sigurd
worries because old Amir died last winter and we no longer have a
wise woman at the steading. If the weather is bad when the babe
comes, it will be difficult to get a midwife here in time.”

Fiona opened her mouth to say she knew
something about birthing babes, having helped Siobhan deliver at
least a dozen. Quickly, she closed it again. If she earned a
reputation for being a “wise woman,” it might bring her trouble.
People were often known to turn on a healer who failed. So far, she
had not earned much goodwill among her captors.

“I’m sorry she ails,” Fiona said quietly. “I
can’t help but like Mina, although I fear she has turned Dag
against me.”

Breaca’s blue eyes were instantly alert.
“Why do you think Dag has turned against you? He saved your life,
and at some cost to his pride.”

Fiona shrugged. “ ‘Tis a feeling I have.”
She glanced once more toward the jarl’s table.

Dag still watched her, his eyes a bleached,
frosty blue that made her shiver.

Dag watched the Irishwoman approach. As much
as he despised the crude gown she wore, completely hiding her
luscious curves, the way it covered her was for the best. She
already attracted enough men’s attention to anger him. Brodir
watched her like a hungry predator, and Kalf and Balder, also. Even
old Knorri could not keep his gaze away.

Dag glanced narrowly at the jarl, well aware
of the lecherous expression in the old man’s watery eyes. “ ‘Tis
pleased I am that you advised me to spare the Irishwoman’s life,”
Knorri announced as Fiona reached their table. “Now that I’ve seen
her closely, I realize that she makes a fine serving thrall.
Watching her entertains me. Tell me, Dag, are her breasts as full
and high as they appear?”