Storm Maiden (41 page)

At Sorli’s words, the thralls quickly
dispersed, the woman to find food stores, the men to begin the
filthy task of scavaging among the rubble.

“I can cook for Mina and the children,”
Fiona suggested.

Sorli shook his head. “Until Brodir’s
accusations are disproved, you will not go near the new jarl’s
family.”

Jarl. Sigurd was jarl now. The thought
banished Fiona’s optimistic mood. When Dag returned, would Sigurd
even allow her to see his brother? “Was there any sign of raiders?”
she asked.

“Some,” Sorli grunted. “The fire was clearly
started by human hands, not sorcery. We found an empty cask of fish
oil near one of the turf walls. I believe someone doused the
outer
timbers of the longhouse and set them ablaze.”

“Are you convinced now that Brodir is
mad?”

Sorli shook his head. “I tell you the facts
as I see them, but I will not contradict Sigurd if he decides
otherwise. ‘Tis for the jarl to decide your fate, not I.”

Fiona shivered. What if Dag did not come
back in time? “When will Sigurd return?” she asked.

“I’ve sent one of the freemen to Ottar’s
steading to seek out the jarl. Unless Sigurd and his warriors are
still chasing after the Agirsson brothers, the message should reach
them in a day. I would look for the jarl to arrive by dusk
tomorrow.”

“And Dag?” Fiona asked breathlessly. “Have
you sent word to him? Knorri was his uncle. He should know of his
kinsman’s passing.”

“Do you hope that the jarl’s brother comes
and speaks for you?” Sorli shook his head sadly. “That Dag cares
for you does not reduce Sigurd’s hatred, but increases it.”

“What should I do?” Fiona asked. “How can I
prove my innocence?”

“If you appear a dutiful thrall, that might
sway Sigurd in your favor. You must keep busy. Cook for the other
thralls, as you have been doing. And spin. Except for what is on
our backs, there is scarce a scrap of cloth left at
Engvakkirsted.”

“Is there another loom?”

“I’m sure one of the freeholder’s women has
one. Can you weave?”

“I was taught to weave as a small child,”
Fiona answered tartly.

“You never know about princesses. I’ll fetch
the loom for you.” Sorli gave her a wry smile and left the
dwelling.

Fiona turned to her domestic tasks with a
sigh. A tremor of grief ran through her as she thought of the piles
of woven linen and wool stored in Mina’s supply closet. It would
take a household of women nearly a generation of spinning and
weaving to replace such a wealth of fabric. Now it was reduced to
ashes, not by an unchancy spark from a cooking fire, but by the
destructive hands of raiders.

Damn men for thinking up war!

Sigurd arrived the next day. Fiona was
alerted by the eager shouts that carried through the thin walls of
the slave dwelling. She went out and watched as Sigurd and his
oathmen entered the steading yard. Women and children, slaves and
freeholders all gathered to welcome their new jarl, their cheers
desperate with relief.

Fiona watched stonily as Sigurd greeted his
wife with a solemn nod, then swept his children up into his arms.
For a moment, her animosity lessened as she saw intense emotion
sweep across Sigurd’s broad face. The man obviously loved his
children; she felt sure he prayed his thanks to Odin for sparing
them.

Then Sigurd’s expression once more grew
harsh and stoic.

He dismissed the women, children, and
thralls and began to question the men he had left behind to guard
his home. Half- hidden behind one of the storehouses, Fiona watched
intently. She heard Brodir voice his vicious accusations. Sigurd
listened briefly, then silenced him with an abrupt gesture. The
jarl turned to Utgard and questioned him.

Fiona strained her ears to hear what he
said. Utgard had been the other warrior guarding the longhouse on
the night of the fire. He could not be found that night, but the
next day he had stumbled into the courtyard with a story of being
struck over the head, tied up, and left in the woods. Fiona was not
certain she believed him, although she had seen the raw places on
his wrists. It seemed very odd to her that the raiders had not
killed him, but had merely shackled him out of the way.

But no more odd than the story Brodir had
finally given Sorli. He claimed the ale he had drunk that evening
was drugged and he had fallen into a deep sleep, not waking until
he “heard the witch’s screams.” Fiona could not fathom Brodir’s
mind. Did he imagine that casting the blame on her would save him
from Sigurd’s wrath? Or did he really believe that she had drugged
him and set the blaze with magical incantations?

Now Sigurd spoke to Sorli. Fiona held her
breath, praying that the slavemaster would be able to sway the new
jarl with his practical explanation for the source of the fire. She
knew Sigurd respected the old warrior. Surely he would accept
Sorli’s word over that of a raving, self-serving lunatic like
Brodir.

Sigurd looked thoughtful as Sorli made his
report, but his thick fists clenched and unclenched in an impatient
rhythm. Fiona’s dread intensified. Finally, he spoke. Fiona could
hear his deep voice boom across the courtyard. “Bring me the
woman.”

She wanted to run and hide, but she would
not. She had faced Sigurd before and survived. Of course, she
reminded herself, those times Dag had intervened. Now he was not
here, nor would he be, mayhap, until it was too late.

Trembling, she stepped out from behind the
building and walked to face her fate.

Sigurd regarded her as she approached. His
eyes were full of hatred. Fiona straightened her shoulders,
standing tall, like a queen. She wished she wore something finer
than the soiled tunic she had worn to the
Thing,
but there
was no help for that now. Sigurd had never responded to her as an
attractive female anyway, at least not since the first time he had
seen her and tried to ravish her.

She reached him and bowed slightly.
“Jarl.”

His eyes, darker and less blue than his
brother’s, swept over her contemptuously. She guessed he noted how
small she was, how frail. In a physical contest with him, she had
as much chance as a lamb facing down a full-grown wolf.

“Fiona of the Deasunachta—you have been
accused of treachery and murder.”

Fiona’s heart skipped a beat, and she
watched Sigurd intently.

“Sorli argues for your innocence,” Sigurd
continued. “And for all you have shamefully manipulated my brother,
I have marked that you have a kindness for woman and children. I
don’t believe you would murder my family while they slumbered in
their beds.”

Fiona released her breath.

“But—” Sigurd eyes glittered suddenly.
“—’twould be an easy way for me to be rid of you and I cannot say
that the thought of your death displeases me. You have cost me much
by subverting my brother’s mind with your bedevilments. I must
think on this matter. Even now, Utgard rides to deliver the tragic
news of my uncle’s passing to Dag. I judge that I have less than
two days to decide whether it would be wiser to greet my brother
with your corpse or your living body.”

Fiona closed her eyes and swayed.

“No word of Dag’s arrival?”

Breaca entered the doorway and shook her
head. Fiona cursed and began to pace the small building, her body
as tense as a water-soaked skin left out to dry. Any moment she
expected Sigurd to enter the tiny doorway of the dwelling and
condemn her. That he had not only worsened her ordeal.

“What could be keeping Dag?” Fiona demanded.
“It’s been two full days since Utgard left for Skirnir’s steading.
Surely

Dag would not decline to come back for his
uncle’s funeral. If he does refuse to return—sweet Jesu, save
me—Sigurd will have me put to death for certain!”

“The weather has worsened,” Breaca reminded
her. “That might have delayed him. Or it could be that Dag was not
at Skirnir’s steading when Utgard arrived. They might have gone off
on a journey.”

“Where?” Fiona whirled to confront Breaca.
“If the weather is chancy, why would they travel? I fear the worst,
that Dag has declined to come. He may not even know what danger I
face.”

“This is foolishness. Of course, Dag will
come. He would not do something so ignoble as missing Knorri’s
funeral. The Norse gods willing, Dag will be here.”

“Even if he comes, I do not know if he can
stop Sigurd from killing me.” Fiona chewed her lower lip furiously.
“Sigurd does not understand what Dag and I share. He thinks that I
have bewitched Dag and undermined his loyalty to the Norse. Sigurd
especially hates me for making his brother plan a journey to
Ireland.”

“Dag can convince his brother to spare you,
I know it. He will return and set things right with Sigurd.”

Fiona sat down on a stool by the fire,
exhausted. “I keep hoping you are right. Yet with each hour that
passes, my hope
grows fainter.”

“Mistress! I have news!”

Fiona sprang up again as Aeddan came flying
into the room. The youth paused to compose himself, then bowed
faintly to Fiona. She winced inwardly. Try as she might, she could
not convince Aeddan that she was a thrall like him and deserving of
no special consideration. He persisted in calling her “mistress”
and observing absurdly respectful behavior in her presence.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Utgard has returned.”

“With Dag?”

The boy shook his head. Fiona bowed her head
and turned away.

“Tell us.” Breaca demanded. She grabbed the
boy’s arm. “Did Dag refuse to come?”

“
Nei,
Dag was not there. He had gone
somewhere with Skirnir’s sons.”

Fiona turned slowly around. “Did Skirnir say
where?”

The boy looked sheepish. “I did not hear.
After Sigurd received the news, he walked away, angry. Utgard was
busy with his ale, and I could not ask him the rest of it.”

“I’m finished,” Fiona whispered. “Even now,
Sigurd plans my execution.”

“Nay!” both Breaca and Aeddan cried.

“
Ja
,” a rumbling voice responded.

Fiona raised her gaze to the huge man
blocking the doorway.

“I’ve chosen a fitting punishment for a
woman who does not know her place,” Sigurd said. “I’m sending you
with the old jarl—as his slave and concubine in the
otherworld.”

Breaca gasped. Fiona’s throat closed up.

Sigurd continued his pronouncement, “ ‘Tis
customary to send a great jarl to the otherworld with an
accompaniment of his wealth—fine clothes stuffs, utensils,
armaments, and jewels. The fire has stolen much of the riches of
our steading, but I would not have Knorri go on his journey without
gifts appropriate to his standing. We will send him on his proud
ship, accompanied by a woman to tend to his needs. You will be the
woman, Fiona. The jarl desired you in this life; now he will find
satisfaction with you in the realm of the dead.”

Her thoughts disordered by shock, Fiona
wanted to laugh hysterically at the irony of Sigurd’s decree. She
had once feared that Knorri would make her his concubine. Now she
was to be bound to the ancient Viking in death; the bed they shared
would be a funeral pyre.

“You cannot do this!” Breaca stared up at
Sigurd, her blue eyes wild. “You cannot kill Fiona! She has done
nothing to deserve death!”

Sigurd regarded the young thrall with
narrowed eyes. “You forget yourself wench, to speak to me so. I am
jarl now. I can do anything I wish. As for the fairness of my
pronouncement—” He swung his gaze to Fiona. “—’tis considered an
honor for a young woman to serve a great warrior in death. I honor
you, Fiona of the Deasunachta.”

A muscle twitched in Sigurd’s jaw. Fiona
wondered briefly if he mocked her. But if Sigurd were amused by the
cleverness of his vengeance, he hid it well. His eyes were grim and
bitter.

Fiona took a deep breath. She must argue for
her life, and she had only one weapon to use. Although she had
feared to bring up Dag before this, now she had nothing to
lose.

“And what will your brother say?” she asked
boldly. “Do you not fear to lose your brother’s regard altogether
if you murder me?”

The muscle in Sigurd’s lower cheek jumped
again. “He might be grieved at first, but in the end, he will thank
me. I do him a favor by disposing of you in such an appropriate
fashion.”

“
Nei,”
Fiona protested. “Dag loves
me! He will be sorrowed by my death.”

Sigurd shook his head. “He will come to his
senses and remember who he is. A Norseman—a proud, valiant warrior
who would never lose his heart to a woman of foreign blood.”

Fiona felt numb. She forced herself to meet
Sigurd’s cold eyes. “Your brother does not plan to attend his
uncle’s funeral?”

“The messenger could not reach him.”
Sigurd’s voice was taut. Fiona knew better than to think he lied
merely in order to torture her. She accepted the truth. Dag could
not be found. He would not return in time to save her.

Sigurd nodded to her curtly, then left the
dwelling. After a moment, Fiona went to the doorway. Pushing the
hide covering aside, she came face-to-face with a stony-faced
Viking named Kalf. “Get back inside,” he ordered in gruff Norse.
“Sigurd says you are not to leave this dwelling until the day the
old jarl is sent on his journey to the otherworld.”

Fiona retreated inside the building,
trembling. Breaca took her arm, leading her to a stool by the
hearth. “We’ll think of something,” Breaca reassured her. “Dag will
get the message and come and save you, I know it.”

Fiona shook her head. “The messenger came
back without delivering his message, and Sigurd will not send
another. By the time Dag returns, there will be naught left of me
but ashes.”

Breaca began to weep.