Storm Maiden (27 page)

Slowly, the warm flush of life creeped back
into his face. Fiona began to weep. It could be her own child she
held in her arms, so grateful she was. Her foster brother Dermot
might be dead, but this child lived!

When the men came, she was cradling Sigurd’s
dazed son in her arms, weeping helplessly.

* * *

“She tried to kill the child! Anyone with
eyes in their head can see that she did something to Gunnar!”

The jarl, seated in his ceremonial chair in
the cool of the longhouse, grunted at Brodir’s words and turned to
Sigurd. “What say you, nephew? ‘Tis your son we speak of.”

Sigurd shook his massive head. Dag thought
his brother still looked ashen. “When I questioned him, Ingolf told
me the Irishwoman saved his brother’s life,” Sigurd answered. “He
said Gunnar wasn’t breathing and Fio—the woman helped him.”

“A boy of five winters!” Brodir’s voice rose
with outrage. “How can you credit the word of child? The witch
might have confused his wits or threatened him if he didn’t lie to
protect her.”

“My son does not lie.” Sigurd’s voice was
soft, but all seated at the jarl’s table guessed the threat behind
his words.

“My apologies, sword brother.” Brodir
lowered his eyes to the table although Dag saw a muscle twitch in
the ugly warrior’s jaw. “I didn’t mean to disparage the boy’s
honor. But surely his explanation lacks sense. If Gunnar were dead,
how could she bring him back to life? I smell witchcraft here. How
do we know she didn’t curse the boy to make him stop breathing for
a time?”

“Breaca said that the boy choked on a piece
of apple. There is no witchcraft in that. I’ve seen grown men
felled by a lump of gristle in their craw.” Dag sought to sound as
reasonable as possible. He didn’t fear that his brother would rule
against the woman.
Nei
,
Sigurd was too relieved to
have his son alive to question the means by which it was
accomplished. But Brodir’s constant mention of witchcraft concerned
Dag. His fellow warriors were a superstitious lot, and the
Irishwoman was so unusual-looking, so fierce and strange in her
manner. It didn’t take much imagination to ascribe supernatural
powers to someone like her. Had not even he, in his delirium,
thought her a fairy?

“I don’t like it,” the jarl pronounced
bluntly. “Since she has been in our midst, the foreign wench has
caused two serious disturbances.” Knorri raised a gnarled hand to
ward off Sigurd’s protest. “Though she may have saved the life of a
child of my own blood, that doesn’t dissolve my distrust of her. I
must think of the good of the steading.” He turned to Dag. “Can’t
you control the woman? In my day, women thralls didn’t roam the
orchard like lazy geese. We kept them busy in the workhouses or
naked and compliant in bed.” He fixed Dag with a commanding look.
“Beat her, shackle her ankles, deprive her of clothing—do
something
to keep the wench out of trouble.”

“
Ja,
uncle.” Dag nodded dutifully,
but in his heart he knew he wanted to do none of those things.

“What about her evil powers?” Brodir
demanded. “If she were merely an unruly thrall, that would easily
be remedied by thrashing. But we speak of a foreigner, and one who
obviously knows sorcery. I say she is a
volva,
and a
dangerous one at that. As long as she lives, all our lives are at
risk. Your wife—” Brodir faced Sigurd accusingly. “—has given the
Irishwoman access to her herbs. How do we know the witch will not
slip something into the ale and poison all of us?”

Knorri sighed and wiped a withered hand
across his brow. “I tire of this conversation. ‘Twas Sigurd’s son
she treated; let him be the judge of the woman’s intent.” The jarl
closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and ordered
peevishly, “Have one of the
hushjelps
bring me a horn of
ale, a cold one this time!”

Rorig, seated at the end of the table,
rushed to do the jarl’s bidding. The young warrior had been the
first man to reach Fiona and the boys in the orchard, but no one
had asked him for his report and he had not volunteered it. Dag
suspected he was still amazed by what he had seen. It had been an
odd sight—the small, dark-haired woman rocking the sturdy Norse boy
in her arms while the other child clung to her, weeping even as she
did. Who would not be touched by such a sight?

Brodir, he thought grimly. He had turned the
woman’s rescue of the child into an accusation of witchcraft.
Calling her a
volva
was certain to unsettle most of the men.
Volvas
were soothsayers, and not so much honored by the
Norse as feared. Dag wondered if Brodir really believed his own
words or had merely seized upon this clever plan to destroy
Fiona.

Sigurd rose from the table. The slowness
with which he moved revealed to Dag how drained his brother was. “I
will not condemn the woman who saved my son’s life,” Sigurd
announced. “There is no clear proof of her treachery. I would have
the whole matter dropped.” He paused. “If that is satisfactory with
you, Jarl, of course.”

Knorri weakly gestured his assent. Dag
thought the old man well on his way to falling asleep and that
someone should help him to his bed. Sigurd apparently shared his
thoughts, for he called out sharply to the blank-faced thrall who
brought the ale. “Wench, come and aid the jarl. The warm ale you
served him before has given him a bellyache. Help him to bed!
Now!”

Fortunately, the thrall was as stoutly built
as she was obedient and she had little trouble supporting the jarl
as he moved sluggishly to his bedcloset.

The men drifted away from the table after
the jarl departed. Sigurd joined his wife and children in their
bedcloset; Brodir left the longhouse with Balder and Kalf, still
muttering angrily. Dag went to the hearth and stared at the glowing
embers of the fire that burned there summer and winter, day and
night.

“Do you think the Irishwoman knows magic?”
Rorig’s tentative voice interrupted Dag’s musings.

“
Nei,
not the kind Brodir speaks of.”
Dag turned to regard the younger man. “She is quick-witted and
resourceful, and I suspect she has trained with a wise woman, but
that is all.”

Rorig exhaled his breath slowly. “ ‘Tis a
relief. Breaca is so much in her company, and I should not like to
bed a woman who is a
volva’s
assistant.”

“Breaca?” Dag raised a brow.

Rorig grinned sheepishly. “I had not noticed
before we left on the Irish raid, but the thrall
is
comely.”

“You’ve bedded her?”

Rorig’s smile vanished.
“Nei,
she is
always busy, like a little bee buzzing around the longhouse, one
that never lights long in one place. I vow she does not even know I
exist.”

Dag considered his companion’s confession.
What words of advice did he have for a fellow warrior smitten with
a foreign thrall’s charms? His relationship with Fiona was rife
with misunderstanding and tension. He could hardly pretend to give
sound counsel. “I could speak to Breaca,” he offered. “I cannot yet
converse well with Fiona, but Breaca and I are quite comfortable
with each other.”

Rorig flushed. “What would you say, that I
would like to lie with her?”

Dag grimaced at the other man’s obtuseness.
“Nei,
I would tell her that the color of her hair reminds
you of the sunset. That you have never seen such beautiful tablet
weaving as she does.” Poor Rorig, Dag thought. Even
he
knew
enough of wooing to realize a man must ply a woman with compliments
about her looks and womanly skills before he attempted bedding
her.

“You promise to speak for me?”

Dag nodded, touched by the yearning in the
other man’s voice. Had he ever been so blindly lovesick over a
woman?
Ja,
his mind answered,
when you met Kira, you were
just like Rorig
.
“I will aid you, but you will owe me a
boon because of it.”

Rorig nodded. “When will you speak to
Breaca? I vow I am so hungry for her, I can’t sleep at night.”

“Loki help you! Don’t be so impatient. I
will speak to her this night, but you can’t expect her to offer
herself to you on the morrow. These things take time. Women like to
think they have chosen you, and they don’t always make up their
minds quickly!”

Rorig sighed and walked off, obviously
mooning over his beloved. Dag turned back to the fire, sifting his
own words in his mind. In his disillusionment over Kira, he had
hardened his heart against all women, and it seemed to him now that
he had been overly harsh with Fiona. Her treachery toward her
father still worried him, but less these days. He’d seen enough of
her consideration for others to know she wasn’t heartless. Surely
she must have had some good reason for what she did. Someday he
would ask her.

In the meantime, he found himself caring
more and more for her. Even the catastrophes she involved him in
had not sapped his passion but, instead, had sharpened his
admiration. She was proud, courageous, clever. Who would not admire
such attributes? His own people, Dag reminded himself grimly. They
feared her spirit and willfulness and sought to crush it. To them
she was a thrall, to be subdued and used. To him, she would always
be a princess.

He shook off his melancholy mood as Breaca
approached the hearth carrying a large platter of fresh loaves.
“Breaca,” he called. “Put your burden down and come speak with
me.”

Quickly, the slave girl obeyed. “What is
it?” she whispered as she neared him. “What have they decided to do
to Fiona?”

“Nothing, for now at least.”

Breaca looked toward his bedcloset. “Why
don’t you go to her and tell her what the jarl has decided?”

Dag shook his head. “I have not the
words—remember? You must tell me a few things to say, in
Irish.”

Breaca nodded. “Of course. What words do you
wish to learn?”

Dag furrowed his brow as he repeated the
phrases Breaca gave him. When he had learned them to Breaca’s
satisfaction, the slave girl went to pick up her load of bread. Dag
stopped her. “There is another thing. You know the young warrior
Rorig? I would have you tell me what you think of him. Later, after
I have reassured Fiona.”

Breaca looked surprised, but nodded as she
left.

Fiona waited quietly in Dag’s bedcloset
while the jarl decided her fate. She knew no fear. Indeed, she was
so filled with exultation, she could not worry that they might
decide to execute her. The child lived. That was what mattered.
That she had been able to save Gunnar at least partly made up for
her failure to protect Dermot and the other boys.

She looked down at her hands, no longer fair
and smooth but roughened by the days of work she had endured on the
ship and in the steading workhouses. Siobhan had been right when
she’d promised Fiona had the healing gift. And it was a gift, too,
the gift of life. Someday she would use these hands to bring babes
in the world, to soothe the brows of those who passed on to the
next one.

If she lived. She glanced toward the
bedcloset door, wondering when word would come. Rorig had scarce
handed Gunnar to Sigurd before Brodir had begun his ugly
accusations. She hadn’t needed to know the Norse words to tell that
he had accused her of hurting the child. It was unfair, vicious,
but what could she expect from one such as Brodir?

At least Sigurd had not believed the ugly
warrior. After Mina came to get Gunnar, Sigurd had squatted down
and questioned Ingolf himself, listening intently to his childish
voice. When Sigurd had looked at Fiona, there had been gratitude in
his expression. He might never say a word of the matter, but she
knew he acknowledged that he owed her a debt.

She stood, growing restless. She had not
heard men’s voices raised in anger for some time. Surely they had
decided her fate by now. Had Sigurd and Dag prevailed, or Brodir?
For the second time in a sennight, she faced death.

The door to the bedcloset opened. Fiona went
still, expecting Breaca to come rushing in with the men’s verdict.
Instead, Dag’s tall form loomed on the threshold. He looked so
somber, Fiona decided the worst had come to pass. She swallowed,
fighting tears. How could she say goodbye to this man? They had had
so little time to understand one another, to make the long journey
from enemy to friend. Somewhere in between, they had met as lovers.
It was not enough; her spirit yearned for more.

Dag stepped into the chamber, and Fiona
sought to memorize his graceful features, the way his hair shone
gold-red even in the dim light. She would remember him thus.

“Thank you,” he said in Irish. Fiona stared
at him. The words were so unexpected, she didn’t know what to
think. He must be thanking her for saving his nephew’s life.

He reached out and lifted a strand of her
hair, smoothing it between his fingers. “Fiona,” he said. His deep
voice caressed the word.

His eyes were smoky-blue, intent, but they
spoke nothing of death or punishment. Fiona realized she’d been
again reprieved from the Vikings’ wrath. Once more, she owed Dag
her gratitude for saving her life.

“Fiona,” he said again. He moved close and
bent his mouth to hers. After the kiss, he again spoke haltingly in
Irish. “They do not understand.” He motioned toward the main room
of the longhouse. His gaze was helpless, but expressive with
meaning.

Fiona closed her eyes, struggling with tears
once more.

“Storm Maiden,” he whispered in Irish,
calling her by the name of his brother’s ship. “You fight for what
you believe in—my fierce, lovely storm maiden.”

For once, Fiona didn’t fight the tenderness
Dag aroused in her. She wrapped her arms around his broad chest,
clinging to him. It did not matter that she did not yet speak his
language. There were no words for this, for this moment.