Storm Maiden (30 page)

Fiona could read the fear in the
Norsewoman’s eyes. She pulled down the bedrobes and quickly
examined her. Her heart sank. Labor was well along. As intense as
Mina’s contractions were, the birth sack could break at any moment.
The babe meant to be born this day.

To Ingeborg, the smith’s wife, standing
beside the bed, Fiona said, “Bring me some goose fat.” Ingeborg
nodded and went to do Fiona’s bidding. Breaca hurried in with the
herbs; Fiona shook her head, indicating that it was too late to use
them. Then she sat by the bed and waited.

Mina labored silently. Fiona watched her,
wondering if the Norsewoman knew how little hope there was.
Ingeborg returned. She stood by the bed and spoke in a soft,
reassuring voice and wiped at Mina’s sweaty face.

A smothered cry from Mina brought Fiona
instantly to her feet. She swept back the bedrobes and helped
Ingeborg prop Mina up so she could push.

It was an easy delivery, the babe being so
small. Holding the wet, fragile infant, Fiona tried every trick she
had seen Siobhan use. She rubbed the babe’s body with goose grease,
breathed into its mouth, even slapped it gently. Nothing worked.
The tiny body remained still and lifeless.

Fiona handed the little corpse to Breaca,
then turned to Mina, prepared to give her the tragic news. The
Norsewoman’s face was flushed and distorted, and Fiona quickly
realized that she strained to give birth again. In moments, Mina
gave another hard push and a second small infant slid into Fiona’s
hands. This babe took a feeble breath and went limp. Fiona massaged
it frantically, struggling to make it breath again. Tears seeped
into her eyes when she realized the little spark of life was
permanently quenched.

Fiona forced the tears away and returned to
her duties. After wrapping the dead infant in rags and placing it
on the storage chest with the other, she went to aid Mina as she
strained to deliver the afterbirth. When the afterbirth came, Fiona
placed the bloody mass on a rag and carefully examined it. She
breathed a sigh of relief when she found it intact; if a part of it
remained inside the woman, further bleeding was likely, endangering
the woman’s life.

She disposed of the afterbirth while
Ingeborg and Breaca cleaned the bed and made Mina comfortable. When
Breaca offered to get Sigurd, Fiona shook her head. “I want to
speak to Mina alone before Sigurd comes.” Breaca moved to go. Fiona
stopped her. “Nay, you must stay. I may need you to translate.”
Ingeborg also remained in the room. Fiona had grown used to the
smith’s wife’s calm, capable presence, and she didn’t think it
would hurt for the Norsewman to hear her words to Mina.

Fiona sat beside the bed and spoke in Norse.
“You will recover, Mina, but it would be unwise for you to get with
child again too soon.” When Mina gave her a puzzled look, Fiona
grew insecure with her command of the Norse language and had Breaca
repeat her words. Mina still looked puzzled. Frustrated, Fiona
said, “If Sigurd will not leave you alone, you must take something
to prevent conception.”

Breaca repeated the words in Norse. Mina’s
eyes grew wide. “She wants to know how that is done,” Breaca
reported.

Fiona hesitated. Siobhan always said that
preventing unwanted babes was as important a skill as birthing
those which were heartily desired. Still, Fiona knew the priests
frowned on the practice, as did most men. Was it wise to share her
knowledge of such things with this foreign woman? One look at
Mina’s wan face decided her.

“There are several decoctions you can take
to prevent conception,” she told Mina. “You drink them every day
until your bleeding time comes. They work by preventing a man’s
seed from taking root in your womb.”

Breaca translated. Mina gazed at Fiona and
shook her head. “She would not do such a thing,” Breaca said.
“Sigurd wouldn’t like it.”

Fiona gritted her teeth, wondering if Sigurd
would like it better if his wife died in childbirth because she had
conceived too soon. If he were as arrogant and stupid about having
sons as most men were, he probably didn’t care. He likely assumed
he would simply wed another woman.

She shrugged. “Tell Mina that it’s only a
suggestion. If she doesn’t feel comfortable with the idea, then she
should forget it. But I mean to talk to Sigurd myself, to be
certain that he understands the risk.”

Breaca bent over the bed to convey Fiona’s
message, and Fiona left the room. She barely had a chance to take a
deep breath of the fresher air in the main room before Sigurd
grabbed her arm. “How is she?” he asked in Norse.

Fiona turned toward him. “There were two boy
babes; they were both born too small and weak to live.” Sigurd
nodded, his face expressionless. Fiona guessed Mina had warned him
of the likely outcome.

“And Mina?” he asked.

“Things went well for your wife. She should
recover.” Fiona looked up at Sigurd, searching his massive
countenance. For a moment, she thought she saw relief in his
deep-set eyes then his features resumed their formidable outlook.
“The important thing is that her body not be burdened with another
babe too soon,” Fiona continued, switching to the more comfortable
Irish. “Her womb must heal or there is a serious risk she will
miscarry again.” She fixed Sigurd with a stern look. “With
successive miscarriages, her body will grow less able to carry a
child to term. There is risk to her life as well. If you must rut
like an animal, whenever you will, find another partner for a
time.”

Anger flared in Sigurd’s face. “Mayhap my
wife will be jealous if I stray from her bed.”

“Better jealous than dead,” Fiona said
coldly. She had half- expected Sigurd to act this way, mocking and
defiant. No wonder Siobhan held men in such low regard. It was
despicable that a man considered his own pleasure more important
than his wife’s health. Would Dag refrain from bedding her if he
knew pregnancy might harm her?

As if her thoughts had called him, Dag
suddenly loomed between her and Sigurd. “Fiona,” he said. “You look
very tired. Let me get you something to drink.”

Fiona smiled weakly at him, thinking of his
concern for her, his kindness. Nay, she did not think Dag would
chance starting
a
babe in her body if it put her life at
risk.

She let Dag lead her to the hearth and sat
down wearily. She had been tired when they finished bundling up the
grain; now she was half-dead with fatigue. She sat by the fire,
drinking the ale Dag had brought her and half-dozing.

Dag watched Fiona, frowning. She had not
been able to save the babe, but Mina was well. Recalling the
conversation between Fiona and his brother, Dag’s frown deepened.
They had spoken in Irish, so he couldn’t tell what was said, only
that Fiona had been angry. Had Sigurd lashed out at her for the
loss of his offspring? He would have to confront Sigurd and find
out what had passed between them.

For now, he was reluctant to leave Fiona’s
side. This day had reminded him how fragile life was, how precious.
‘Twas a wonder any boy survived to manhood, or girl to womanhood.
Life began so perilously, so mysteriously. He glanced at Fiona
again, imagining her pregnant, her narrow belly swelling with his
child. It was a foolish, witless thought, but he could not resist
it.

He reached out and smoothed a strand of hair
away from her face. If she still wanted him, he would make love
with her tonight
.
He would not worry about the
future
,
but content himself with the warmth of her flesh,
the silk of her skin, the glow in her unfathomable eyes.

He leaned over and whispered in her ear.
“
Macushla,”
he said. She turned and stared at him. He met
her gaze knowingly. Breaca had taught him the word for ‘dear one’
in Irish, and he had been waiting for the right moment to use
it.

Despite the lack of privacy in the
longhouse, he leaned over and kissed Fiona.
“Macushla,”
he
said again.

She smiled faintly. “I’m tired, Dag.”

“I know. Sleep.” He motioned toward his
bedcloset. “I’ll join you later.”

When Fiona had left, Dag rose and went
outside. He took a deep breath of the evening air, filled with the
sweet scent of fresh hay. The harvest was almost in, and the days
grew shorter. Autumn would be upon them soon, and the whole long
snow- season after that. Mayhap during the endless dark hours in
the longhouse, his people might finally come to accept Fiona.

A low sigh next to him interrupted his
thoughts. Sigurd had come out of the longhouse and also stood
looking out over the harvested fields around the steading.

“You’ve seen Mina?” Dag asked. “She is
well?”

Sigurd nodded. “Weak, but recovering.”

“Thank the gods,” Dag murmured. “I always
fear for women in childbed, especially since our own mother died
that way.” He turned to his brother. “I’m sorry for the babe,
Sigurd. Fiona warned me she feared it would be born too soon.

“There were two babes, both male.”

Dag drew a sharp breath. What could he say
to Sigurd, knowing that his sorrow must be doubled?

“Mina said that’s likely the reason they
came too soon,” Sigurd said. “Women aren’t meant to birth twins.
‘Tis unnatural.”

“I’m sorry, brother.”

Sigurd shrugged. “There will be other babes.
Although Fiona did warn me that I should not lie with Mina too soon
lest she conceive before her womb is healed.”

Dag looked at his brother searchingly. “
‘Tis good advice.”

Sigurd nodded. “Although I did not much like
the manner in which she gave it to me, suggesting I had as little
control over my actions as a rutting beast.” He gave a snort of
disgust. “The Irishwoman is so arrogant at times. She forgets that
she is a slave.”

Dag’s insides tightened. Fiona seemed
incapable of learning the meekness necessary for her situation. How
was he to protect her?

“It might surprise the Irishwoman to know
that I’ve practiced restraint before,” Sigurd continued irritably.
“I didn’t take Mina’s maidenhead until after we were wed, and our
courtship was one of several months.” There was a look of challenge
in Sigurd’s eyes as Dag met his gaze. “It seems to me that the
Irishwoman should look to her own situation before she chastises
me. If anyone ruts like animals in this longhouse, it’s the two of
you.”

“She is my bed thrall,” Dag protested. “From
the beginning, on the ship, you encouraged me to seek my pleasure
with her.”

“I wished you to master her, not fall in
love with her,” Sigurd growled. “There is a difference.”

“What has turned you against her this time?”
Dag complained. “Do you hold her responsible for Mina’s loss? You
admitted that the babes were born too soon to live.”

“
Nei,
I don’t blame her. Nor have I
forgotten that I owe her for Gunnar’s life. I merely seek to warn
you, as your brother and your future jarl, that I see what the
woman does to you and I do not like it!”

Dag faced his brother angrily. “Why must you
meddle in something that doesn’t concern you? I have never told you
how to manage things between you and Mina.”

“Mina is Norse and behaves as a proper wife
should. Fiona is a slave. Her independence and lack of meekness is
shameful.

“I find no shame in it!”

“
Ja,
that’s the trouble.” Sigurd’s
voice grew thoughtful. “I wonder more and more if she has not
already corrupted your sense of Norse ways.”

“That’s absurd!”

“Is it?” Sigurd’s mouth quirked bitterly.
“Can you swear that you would put the interests of the steading
before your concern for the woman?”

Dag opened his mouth to swear before Odin
and the other gods, then stopped. Had he not once told Mina that if
he had to choose between Brodir and Fiona, he wouldn’t
hesitate?

“She unmans you, brother,” Sigurd said. “I
sensed it the first time I beheld you together on the ship. I
should have drowned her then and saved us both this trouble.”

Sigurd walked off into the twilight. Dag
remained, staring after his brother. Was it true? Had the
Irishwoman stolen his Norse soul? He had once thought her a fairy,
a supernatural being. Had there been some wisdom in his instinctive
fear of her?

He turned, gazing toward the longhouse.
Never in the few weeks since Fiona had learn to speak his tongue
had he dared to ask her about the first time she had appeared to
him in his damp, dark prison. His memory of the incident was
blurry, fever-glazed. It was time he knew the truth.

Fiona tossed and turned restlessly in the
box bed. Why did Dag not come? He had said he would. His eyes had
promised hours of passion, and at this moment, her spirit craved
passion, craved the fierce senselessness that filled her when Dag
made love to her. His strong, powerful body reminded her of life,
of potency and triumph. She needed something to take her mind from
the two small bundles wrapped in rags. That was death and sadness
and failure; she needed the warmth and vigor of Dag to replenish
her spirit.

For a time she had dozed, but her dreams
were unsettling, suffused with images of blood and fire. Her soul
seemed filled with death. The two stillborn infants added
intolerably to her burden of grief. If all died, she thought
despairingly, what was the point of life?

She closed her eyes, wishing she could weep
and let the blessed pain wash over her and cleanse her thoughts.
Grieving purged her doubts and left her spirit bright with anger
and determination. But the tears would not come. She felt empty
inside, empty and cold. Oh, where was Dag?

She must have slept again. When she woke,
Dag was beside the bed, calling her name. She sat up abruptly,
aware of the serious timbre to his voice. What had happened?

“Mina?” she asked anxiously. “Has she need
of me?”