Storm Maiden (28 page)

Dag slipped out of his bedcloset into the
early morning gloom of the longhouse. The place was quiet, save for
the jarl’s oathmen snoring on benches around the hall. But he
wasn’t the first one up. Mina leaned over the hearth, poking the
fire into life again.

He crossed to where she stood. “Mina, can
that not wait? Surely it is too early to begin cooking.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She turned, and Dag saw
the shadows under her eyes, the pinched look of her features. “I
didn’t want to wake Sigurd.”

“Don’t be a fool, woman! That man can sleep
through fierce sea squalls! Take yourself back to bed.”

Mina shook her head.
“Nei,
the boys
will wake soon.” She reached unconsciously to rub her lower back,
and Dag watched a spasm of pain cross her face.

“ ‘Tis the babe, isn’t it? All is not
well.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve never felt
so uncomfortable this early on.”

“You should speak of it with Fiona.”

“She examined me some days ago.”

“What did she say?”

Mina sighed. “Nothing helpful, only that I
should rest more, as if I could sleep when I feel as if a band of
trolls does battle inside me. I don’t mean to criticize her,” Mina
added quickly. “ ‘Tis clear there is nothing she can do.”

“I could wake her, and she could feed Gunnar
and Ingolf their morning porridge.”

“
Nei,
let her sleep. Since you keep
her up most of the night with loveplay, I vow she needs her
rest.”

“I do no such thing!”

A twinge of a smile curled Mina’s lips.
“Explain then those screams and moans which come from your
bedcloset.”

Dag allowed himself to return Mina’s
half-smile. Fiona was an exuberant and
noisy
bedpartner.

“ ‘Tis no harm done,” Mina added. “Because
of her outcrys, half the warriors are convinced you beat her
nightly. They are pleased you show her discipline.”

“Brodir?”

Mina shook her head. “Nothing but rivers of
blood would satisfy that one.”

Dag sighed. “He’ll never cease in his
efforts to have Fiona put to death. Knorri has always said a woman
shouldn’t come between sword brothers. But if I had to choose
between Fiona and Brodir, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

“She is kindhearted,” Mina said. Her voice
trembled with emotion. “I owe her much.”

“I’m pleased she has won your concern.”

Mina straightened and returned to the fire.
“If you wish to help, find Breaca for me. She wasn’t in the
thralls’ dwelling, and I fear she spent the night with one of the
men. Please make certain she hasn’t been hurt.”

Dag smiled again as he left the longhouse.
Nei,
Rorig was not like to hurt Breaca—lest you called the
rending of her maidenhead an injury!

He easily located Breaca, curled up with
Rorig in a corner of one of the byres, a favorite trysting place
during the summer. Breaca hastily grabbed for her clothes, but
Rorig merely sat up, fully naked, and regarded Dag with lazy
contentment. “Do you not have enough to handle in your own bed that
you must interrupt the pleasure of others?”

Dag snorted. Ignorant pup! How soon he
forgot the one who had aided him! “ ‘Tis not you I seek out, but
the girl. Mina is not well this morning. Breaca must see to
her.”

The slave girl jerked her kirtle over her
head, gave Rorig a solemn, unfathomable look, then left the byre
without a word.

“You owe me a boon, sword brother,” Dag told
Rorig.

“
Ja,
I do.” Rorig’s voice was rich
with satisfaction.

“I’m amazed that affection took root so
quickly between you.”

Rorig’s smug look turned to puzzlement. “In
truth, so am I. I spoke a few words to her in the longhouse last
night. A moment later, she followed me outside. What did you say to
her, Dag?”

“I told her that you found her fair to look
upon. Then she asked me what kind of man you were, whether you were
a valiant warrior, if you had won much booty in the Irish
raid.”

“Your answers must have pleased her.”

“Indeed.” Dag regarded the younger man
searchingly. “A woman who values a man only for his wealth and
battle skill is not one worth having.”

“I care not why she agreed to share my bed,
only that she was willing and eager.”

“Someday, mayhap you
will
care. I
warn you, sword brother, I’ve known women like that, and they’re
not worth the pleasure they give you.”

Rorig smiled. “You worry overmuch.”

The younger man began to dress. Dag
hesitated, wondering if he should press his point. Nay. Rorig was
obviously too young to realize he didn’t know everything about
women yet.

Dag left the byre and walked across the
bare, hard-packed yard, thinking of Fiona, sleeping in his
bedcloset. He knew she didn’t value him for his prowess with a
battle axe or the plundered riches filling his sea chest. But what
did she feel for him? Was it gratitude that he spared her life and
continued to defend her? Hunger for his body and his skill in
bed?

He wanted more from her. He wanted her to
care for him, to prize his spirit as well as his body. To take
pleasure in the sight of him, in the words he spoke. In short, he
wanted her to feel for him as he did for her. How had it come to
this—that the Irishwoman had grown so important to him?

It wasn’t a thing a man admitted to anyone.
Some warriors, like Sigurd, dared to show fondness for their
children in front of all. But to admit love for a woman, and a
foreign, captive one—it was unthinkable. And every day she meant
more to him. Every time he lay with her, her hold upon him
intensified.

Dag frowned. Because of her, the world he’d
grown up in had begun to seem oppressive, its laws rigid and
unfair. To his people, Fiona would always be a foreigner, an
outcast. Even if he freed her and made her his wife, there would be
those, like Brodir, who would never accept her. They would wait for
a chance to destroy her. Even if she ceased her defiant,
independent behavior—which Dag’s instincts told him was
impossible—even then, she would eventually break some Norse law by
accident and face punishment.

Frustration rose inside him. He hadn’t
wanted to care for this woman. He had fought his feelings as
fiercely as he could, but the battle was for naught. The woman had
captured him. She made him see things through her eyes, suborned
his loyalty to his kin and sword brothers, confused his sense of
who he was. Worst of all, a nagging voice warned him that there
might come a day when he would have to choose between his people
and her.

Dag shook off the tormenting thought. He
would go mad if he didn’t stop thinking about Fiona. He needed to
find some backbreaking labor that would numb his mind and chase
away his worries.

Seeing Ranveig, the shipwright, cross the
yard with a chopping axe over his shoulder, Dag called out, “Ho,
Ranveig. Remember that tall pine you saw in the west forest—the one
you thought might make a good mast? Let’s go look at it again.”

* * *

“What next?” Fiona asked, reaching up to
wipe her sweaty face. “The butter is churned, the bread made, the
ale brewing—what else does Mina wish us to do?”

“She suggested we might go berrying.”

Fiona regarded Breaca with amazement.
“Berrying? Truly?”

A smug smile curled Breaca’s lips. “That is
what she said. There is a patch of ripe whortleberries up the
hillside and some blueberries at the edge of the meadow
beyond.”

Fiona swiped again at her brow. “You mean
she doesn’t want us to wear out our fingers spinning or go blind
weaving? That she gives us leave to walk out in the sunshine, to
feel the cool mountain breeze upon our faces?”

“Berrying can be arduous. There are brambles
and thorns to avoid, and your fair skin will get baked in the
sun.”

“You jest!” Fiona accused.

“Aye,” Breaca answered, her smile
broadening. “I look forward to the freedom and fresh air as much
you do.”

Fiona wrinkled her brow. “You’re certain
this is Mina’s order, that it isn’t some trap of Brodir’s? I don’t
want to be accused of trying to escape again.”

“Of course, it’s Mina’s order. I think she
wishes us to enjoy a pleasant afternoon.”

“What of her? Does she promise to leave off
working and rest herself?”

“Aye. Sigurd has the boys with him, and she
said she would try to sleep.”

Fiona smoothed her soiled kirtle. “I would
fetch a head wrap first; I don’t want to sunburn my face.”

“And baskets,” Breaca reminded her. “We must
at least pretend to work.”

Fiona giggled and raced Breaca to the
longhouse to gather the things they would need.

As they left the forest and climbed up the
hillside, Fiona leaned her head back and sighed as the sunlight
warmed her face. “ ‘Tis a beautiful day. ‘Twas kind of Mina to
suggest we go berrying. I have not done it much since I was a
child.”

“She’s fond of you.”

Fiona looked to her companion. “Because of
Gunnar?”

Breaca nodded. “Although she can’t openly
show her gratitude to a slave, I know she feels beholden.”

A twinge of irritation threatened to ruin
Fiona’s tranquil mood.
A slave.
No matter what she did, she
would always be less than human to the Norse.

“Even Sigurd admits he owes you. He loves
his firstborn deeply. If Gunnar had died, Sigurd would have been
devastated.”

Fiona nodded, wondering how far Sigurd’s
gratitude extended. Would he take her side the next time Brodir
threatened her?

“You’ve done well, Fiona.” Breaca paused on
the pathway to remove a stone from her shoe. “I would not have
thought it possible a fortnight ago when you first came to
Engvakkirsted, but you have managed to earn the goodwill of the
most powerful men of the steading.”

Fiona, pausing beside her companion, poked
at the dirt with her shoe. She wasn’t certain the idea of winning
the Norsemen’s goodwill reassured her. Were they not still her
enemies? Should she not be fighting them rather than earning their
favor? A part of her felt guilt at Breaca’s words.

“Sigurd owes you a boon, and Dag—why the man
is clearly besotted with you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided
to give you your freedom and make you his wife.”

Breaca’s words jarred Fiona even more. “My
freedom I might well wish for,” she answered. “But not marriage to
a Norseman. I would never agree to that.”

“But Dag is kind to you; he cares for you.
And you—’tis clear you hold him in affection.”

Fiona opened her mouth to protest, then
realized she could not. It was all true. Dag treated her well, and
she did care for him. Fiona swallowed. How had it happened? How had
she fallen in love with her enemy?

“I would be grateful if you could tell me
how you won his favor.” Breaca cleared her throat. “I’m certain
much of your appeal for him is your beauty, but there must be other
things. Are you bold with him in your loving? Do you merely agree
to do as he wishes or do you offer to pleasure him before he
asks?”

Fiona regarded the woman beside her. “Why do
you ask?”

Breaca flushed. “ ‘Tis not something any
other woman will share with me. The other thralls haven’t had the
opportunity to know loveplay with a warrior. ‘Tis different from
rape. More subtle... more complicated...”

“Jesu! Breaca, what are you asking? What
have you done?”

Breaca’s fair skin flushed vividly.

“Who is he?” Fiona demanded. “Did some
Viking ravish you?”

“Nay, I was willing.”

“Who?”

Breaca’s auburn-lashed eyelids drooped
demurely. “Rorig,” she answered.

For a moment, Fiona did not know how to
respond. Rorig
was
handsome, and Dag spent enough time in
his company to suggest the young man might be honorable and kind.
But Breaca was so young, so vulnerable. “What you do is dangerous,”
Fiona pointed out in a shaken voice. “He could use you and throw
you aside, and no one would protest or think anything wrong in
it.”

“But he won’t,” Breaca insisted. “Not if you
tell me how to please him. You’ve won Dag’s heart. ‘Tis unfair of
you to refuse to share your secrets!”

“My secrets?”

“Aye. All know you have bewitched Dag. How
did you do it? Is it mere skill in bed or did you use some potion
to weaken his wits and make him love you?”

“Blessed Saint Bridget!” Fiona cursed. “
‘Tis not like that!
I
never intended Dag to care for me, at
least not more than was necessary to gain his protection. What
happened between us is not based on magic or spells! It’s just...
there.”

“Rorig said I was comely. Do you think he
begins to care for me?”

“Mayhap, mayhap. I don’t know!” Fiona took a
deep breath, trying to think what to say to Breaca. Why was the
girl obsessed with making Rorig fall in love her? Did she truly
desire the man, or did she follow what she saw as Fiona’s example
in gaining the protection of a warrior? She rounded on the young
woman. “Do you care for Rorig? Not because he is a good warrior,
but because you take pleasure in his company.”

Breaca shrugged. “He’s pleasing to look
upon, and he won treasure in the last raid. Most of all, I decided
to bed him because he sought me out. I thought it would be easier
to win the favor of a man who already seemed to desire me.”

“But what of your feelings? Do you
care
for Rorig?”

“I don’t know.” Breaca sighed. “If I thought
about what I felt, I would have perished long ago. Life is harsh. I
do what is necessary to survive. I don’t think about it.”

Once again, Fiona was struck by the grimness
of a thrall’s lot. Would that be hers in a few years? Would she
lose her sense of honor, of herself, of her dreams? Would she live
from day to day, doing whatever was necessary to endure?