Storm Maiden (39 page)

She shivered at the thought then began to
wash. As soon as she was clean, she dressed and sat down on one of
the benches to work the snarls from her hair. Her hands stilled in
her damp tresses as her gaze rested on the wooden bench she sat on.
Never would she forget the feel of Dag’s skin against hers, the
glow of his blue eyes in the firelight. He was her golden
god—impaling her body with his own until they were joined in
ecstasy.

She closed her eyes. How could she leave
Dag? He was her soul, as dear to her as her own self. If she gave
him up to do her duty, she would live the rest of her life as a
ruined, empty shell.

Resolution filled her as she opened her eyes
and gazed at her surroundings. She could not leave Dag. It would be
better to suffer the humiliation of remaining a Norse thrall than
to give up her lover. Better to forget her heritage than to destroy
this chance for happiness. Her parents had married for love. So
would she. She would follow the instincts of her heart.

She sighed deeply. If Dag returned and the
gods blessed her, she would soon conceive. And once she bore Dag’s
child, nothing else would matter. She would find happiness, even in
this grim, lonely land.

She smiled as she looked around the bathing
hut. She could scarcely wait for Dag to return to tell him of her
decision. He need not struggle to put together this expedition to
Ireland. She would stay with him, by his side, until the last
breath left her body.

She got up slowly, picking up her dirty
clothes, and went out of the bathing hut. The cold, raw air
assaulted her damp hair and skin, and some of her euphoric mood
faded. When would Dag return? He had made no mention of how long
his mission would take. Would he be gone days, or weeks?

She quickened her pace, abruptly realizing
how alone and helpless she was. She was nearly to the thrallhouse
when something caught at her hair, drawing her up short. Fiona
twisted around to free herself and met Brodir’s mocking face.

She stared at him wildly, her mind sifting
through the possibilities for escape. There were none. Brodir had
hold of a thick strand of her hair. If she tried to pull away, he
would be on her in seconds. His slit-like eyes glittered with
triumph. His thin lips stretched into a mirthless smile.

“I could have you now,” he said, his voice
low and disturbingly soft. “I could take you into the woods or to
one of the byres and use you until you begged for death.”

Fiona forced herself to take a shaky breath.
She must remember to breath normally or she would never be able to
run if she had a chance.

“But I’ve thought of a better way.” He
smiled again, his ugly face like a death’s mask. “You won’t escape,
witch woman. I will see you die a horrible death.”

He released her hair. Fiona stared at him,
unable to believe he meant to let her go. Then she whirled
away.

By the time she reached the slave dwelling,
her teeth rattled in her head with cold and fear. She sank down
before the fire, close to weeping.

“Fiona?”

She looked up to see the boy, Aeddan, the
one whom Dag had assigned to care for the horses.

“Where is Dag?” Aeddan asked. “Why didn’t he
come back with you?”

Another bolt of fear shot through her. “He’s
visiting another steading. You’ll have to see to the horses by
yourself.”

“When is he coming back?”

In the boy’s stark, anxious gaze, Fiona saw
her own dread. “Soon,” she said firmly. “Soon.”

** *

“The jarl would like to hear of your raid of
the Irish coast.” Ellisil gestured to an older man whose pale hair
and eyes mirrored his own coloring.

Dag settled himself politely on a bench
across from his host. “Of course, Skirnir, I would be pleased to
tell you of our adventures. ‘Twas my brother’s idea to sail so far.
A few years ago, he wintered at the Norse garrison called Dublin.
He became convinced that much of Ireland is ripe for the taking.
The chieftains are forever making war with each other. They have as
yet not learned to stand together to repel invaders...”

As Dag related his story, Ellisil, Skinir,
and the other men listened raptly. With every eye on him and the
crowded long- house quiet except for a fussy child and the click of
a loom in the corner, Dag felt almost like a
skald
spinning
a tale of adventure and heroism. The men shook their heads and
grimaced in sympathy when he told how he had been wounded and
thrown into the souterrain, then edged their benches closer when he
described Sigurd leading the Norsemen in an ambush of Donall
MacFrachnan and his guard.

“Hold, Dag, there seems to be a piece of the
story missing,” Ellisil interrupted when Dag began to tell about
the booty found within the Irish chieftain’s private chambers. “You
tell of the torching of the fortress as if you were there, but you
have yet to explain how you escaped the chieftain’s prison.”

“The chieftain’s daughter aided me.” Dag
stared at the startled faces of the men around him and felt a
twinge of worry over telling Fiona’s part in his rescue. Would they
think her a traitor to her people, as he had at first?

“Ah, the black-haired thrall.” Ellisil
smiled with sudden comprehension. “She is a princess of her
people,” he told the gathering. “And one of the most beautiful
woman I have ever seen. Hair as black as night, flashing green
eyes, and a slim, supple body like a cat’s. She carries herself
like a queen, too.

“What made this woman aid you, her father’s
enemy?” Tongstan, Ellisil’s brother, asked.

“Mayhap she fell in love with his handsome
face,” Ellisil jibed.

Dag gave his friend an irritated look before
answering. “The woman was angry with her father and desired to
thwart his marriage plans for her.”

Skirnir nodded. “And now you mean to take
this woman to wife and claim her lands?”

“
Ja.
As her husband I will have the
right to her inheritance.”

“And if her people resist, you will enforce
your claim by might.” Skirnir nodded again and pushed away the
platter of pork before him. “It seems a worthy expedition, with
much potential profit. I would be willing to lend one of my ships
to such a venture. But you would have to raise your own crew. ‘Tis
a pity that most of the warriors who might join you have already
agreed to travel to Hedeby with Tongstan.”

“Why could Dag not come with us?” Ellisil
suggested eagerly. “We could obtain supplies in Hedeby, then return
to Ferjeshold and outfit the ship for the Irish voyage.”

Dag repressed a sigh of protest. He didn’t
want to go to Hedeby. Every moment away from Fiona, he felt sick
with worry.

* * *

“The warriors gather at the longhouse.”

Fiona nodded at Breaca’s words and went on
with her spinning.

“If only the Agirssons had agreed to abide
by the decision of the
Thing,”
Breaca complained. “ ‘Twas a
fair decision, Rorig says. They broke the law, and they should pay.
Instead, they commit worse atrocities, until even Sigurd believes
they must be stopped.”

“And how does he plan to do that?” Fiona
asked.

“Sigurd has met with Ottar, jarl of the
closest steading. They intend to join their men and go out looking
for the Agirsson brothers. When they have found them, they will
take them to the Thorvald family for justice.”

Fiona stood up, carrying the spindle with
her. The slave dwelling felt small and closed in, like a prison.
She paced the length of it, then returned to the hearth where
Breaca sat patting dough into loaves. “If Rorig sees fit to share
the men’s plans with you, he must trust you,” she told the younger
woman.

“But he hasn’t spoken of going to the jarl
about purchasing me.”

“Mayhap he doesn’t have the hacksilver to
meet your price.”

Breaca nodded. “When they go to the Agirsson
steading to capture them, they might search for the family’s
treasure trove. If they find it, Rorig would have a share. Then, he
might have enough to buy me.” She frowned. “But I can’t help
worrying. What if he is hurt or killed? Who will care for me and
the babe?”

“Babe!” Fiona exclaimed. “You have
conceived? Why did you not tell me?”

“You have been so anxious over Dag, I feared
to worry you with my own troubles.”

Fiona sighed guiltily. She had been selfish,
moping over her problems and thinking of no one else’s. Without
Breaca’s company, she would have gone mad long ago. “How do you
feel?” she asked the younger woman. “Does your belly churn?”

Breaca nodded. “I have lost my meal these
past three mornings.”

“Go to Mina and ask if she has any willow
leaves so I can make you a brew to ease your discomfort.”

“I’m afraid she will not know willow from
the other dried plants. Mina has little knowledge of herbs.”

Fiona frowned. “Mayhap after the men leave
on the raid, I could dare to go to the longhouse and find what we
need in Mina’s herb basket.”

Breaca’s eyes widened. “You would do that
for me?”

Fiona gathered Breaca’s slim form in her
arms. “Of course, Breaca. I would not see you suffer.”

* * *

“By the saints, not again!” Breaca
moaned.

Before Fiona could reach her, Breaca
stumbled to the hearth and falling to her knees, began retching
into a cooking vessel. Fiona found a rag and took it to Breaca.
“Are you fevered?”

Breaca shook her head as she wiped her
mouth. “Nay, ‘tis the babe.”

Fiona regarded Breaca with concern. Sickness
in the morning was common for a woman with child, yet it worried
her. She knew how dangerous pregnancy could be, especially for one
as young as Breaca. Quickly, Fiona decided. “We
must
go to
Mina and seek the aid of her herbs. With the men gone after the
Agirssons, there is no one here to prevent me from seeing her.”

Breaca nodded. “Let us dress and then we’ll
go.”

As they walked to the longhouse, Fiona
noticed Breaca’s gloomy, preoccupied mood. “You are worried about
Rorig, aren’t you?”

Breaca sighed. “ ‘Tis not all fear for my
babe’s future. I have come to care for Rorig. I would miss him if
he didn’t return.”

Fiona smiled. “I am pleased. I had hoped the
two of you would come to share a little of what Dag and I
have.”

“But it hurts,” Breaca complained. “I didn’t
want to fall in love, to care!”

Fiona patted her arm. “You said the men
would not be gone long, only a few days. And if Rorig succeeds, he
will be able to purchase you. You’ll be a free woman.”

A tremulous smile broke through Breaca’s
gloom. Fiona felt an answering warmth inside her. For all the
anxiety it could bring, love was what made life worth living.

When they reached the longhouse yard, Fiona
spied Brodir practicing with his weapons. She froze and watched
uneasily as the warrior flung his battle-ax blade into the dirt. He
retrieved the weapon and repeated the motion. Taking a deep breath,
Fiona turned to Breaca. “What is he doing here? I thought you said
all the warriors had gone with Rorig.”

“Someone had to stay behind and guard the
steading. Apparently, Sigurd chose Brodir for the task.”

Fiona cursed softly. “I’ll wager Sigurd
hopes Brodir kills me while he’s gone. That way he would be rid of
me without having it on his conscience.”

“What do we do?” Breaca asked. “Do you wish
to return to the thrallhouse.”

“Nay.” Fiona squared her shoulders. “We have
come to see Mina, and so we shall. I’ll not let that ugly Viking
rule my life.” She turned to Breaca. “Is there another man at the
steading who could watch as we spoke to Mina?”

“There is Veland. The smith didn’t go on the
raid either.”

“Run and find him,” Fiona said. “He can
verify that I didn’t speak of anything unseemly to Mina.”

Breaca returned with Veland. He gave Fiona a
wary look when she explained what she wanted, then accompanied them
inside the longhouse. Fiona squinted in the dim light and saw Mina
at the loom in the corner. Nearby, two house thralls busied
themselves spinning while young Gunnar and Ingolf shelled hazelnuts
near the hearth.

Mina left her weaving as they approached.
“Breaca, are you well?” were the first words from her lips.

Fiona answered, “Nothing appears amiss, but
her belly is queasy in the forenoon. If you have some willow, I
would like to make her a soothing draught.”

Mina nodded. “I’ll get my herbs.” She gave
Fiona a searching glance before turning and heading toward the back
of the dwelling.

She returned shortly with the basket of
dried herbs for Fiona to inspect.

“I need a lamp,” Fiona said, bending over
the basket. “So many plants look alike when they are dried.” Breaca
lit a lamp, and Fiona searched until she found what she desired.
“Your supply of dragonwort is almost gone,” she warned Mina as she
closed the lid.

“I know. We are short of medicines,” Mina
answered. “I meant to remind Sigurd to ask Ottar’s wife if they had
any to spare. They are fortunate to have a wise woman living at
their steading.”

Fiona met the other woman’s gaze. There were
so many things she wanted to ask Mina, but she could not speak
freely with Veland watchng.

“Have a care,” Mina said to Fiona, her gaze
flickering toward the entrance of the longhouse. It was clear she
also feared what Brodir might do.

Fiona nodded. “And you as well.”

When they left the longhouse, Brodir was
gone. Breaca and Fiona looked around uneasily, then raced back to
the slaves’ dwelling, heads bent against the wind.

No escape. Fiona ran, desperate, terrified.
Flames were everywhere, licking furiously, vicious tongues of gold
and orange. Smoke billowed up and smudged the night sky. At every
turn, the massive silhouettes of Viking warriors stalked the
blaze-filled corridors of the palisade.