Storm Maiden (42 page)

“For now, the jarl’s body lies in a
temporary grave, with food and drink and his weapons beside him,”
Breaca said. “When the funeral pyre is ready, they will dress him
in what finery they can devise—since the fire destroyed so much—and
place him in a tent on the ship.”

“And me?” Fiona asked. “What will they do
with me?”

Breaca’s mouth quivered as she answered.
“You will be taken to the ship and placed in the tent with Knorri’s
corpse. There will be feasting and celebration. The warriors will
toast Knorri’s memory and the
skald
will tell tales of his
bravery.” Another tremor passed over her face, then she continued.
“Before the actual cremation takes place, the closest of Knorri’s
oathmen will come and lie with you.”

“Lie with me? You mean...”

Breaca nodded stiffly. “To honor Knorri.
After he lies with you, each man will ask you to convey his regards
to the dead jarl. ‘Tell your master that I do this only for love of
him,’ they will say.” Seeing Fiona’s appalled look, she added, “By
this time, you will have been drugged by the wise woman; you will
not even know what is happening. They say there is no pain; that
you will feel peace and even happiness.”

“The wise woman—who is she?” Fiona demanded.
She must focus on the facts; that was why she had asked Breaca to
tell her exactly what Sigurd planned. If she knew every detail of
the Viking funeral rites, she could discover some route of
escape.

“Sigurd has sent for the old wise woman from
Ottar’s steading. For the funeral, she will play the role of the
‘Angel of Death.’ “ Breaca grimaced. “ ‘Tis she who will oversee
your execution.”

“You mean I am to be killed before the fire
is lit?”

Breaca nodded. “A cord will be tied around
your neck, and you will be strangled and stabbed to death at the
same time.”

Despite her resolve to be calm and
dispassionate, Fiona shuddered. The worshippers of the old gods of
Eire had once performed similar sacrifices, but most of her
countrymen were Christian now. The Viking funeral rite seemed
barbaric in the extreme. What horrified her the most was the
thought of coupling with Knorri’s warriors. In her worst nightmares
she had imagined being raped repeatedly by Vikings; now, if Sigurd
had his way, such a fate would be hers.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Fiona
gazed desperately at the doorway. How was she to escape? The
entrance to the slave dwelling was guarded day and night, and she
would scarcely have any more freedom once she was placed on the
ship. She would be in the care of this wise woman, this “Angel of
Death.” The horrible creature would surely guard her prey
carefully.

Fiona shivered again. She could only hope
that the drug the woman gave her banished her awareness of what was
happening. If she were not able to comprehend what they did to her,
it would not be so bad. Nay, it would be worse. To go helplessly,
meekly, to her death—it was a shameful thing. Better to end her
life herself and cheat the Vikings of their ugly, evil plans. Fiona
glanced around the small building again, searching for a knife or
other weapon.

Breaca saw Fiona’s questing glance, and
immediately guessed her goal. “Nay, Fiona,” she said quietly. “They
left no weapons for you to use against yourself or them.” The young
woman shook her head, sympathetic tears blurring her eyes. “I will
try to find some poison for you, if you wish it. I know Mina would
help, but her store of herbs is gone.”

“Mina!” Fiona looked up, surprised out of
her blind terror. “You think Mina would help me?”

“Aye, I do,” Breaca answered, moving close
to Fiona so that she might whisper. “Mina thinks what Sigurd plans
is wrong. She argued with him to spare your life, to forget his
murderous scheme for burning you with Knorri.”

“And?”

“He would not listen. Sigurd has made up his
mind, and he sees it as a sign of weakness to back down. He will
not heed the advice of anyone, even his wife.”

“Do you think Mina would contrive to help me
escape?”

Breaca shook her head. “As much as she
disapproves of Sigurd’s plans, she would not defy him openly. Nay,
the most we could hope for is that she might secure some poison
from one of the other women so you could end your life ere Sigurd
puts his wicked plan in motion.”

Poison. Fiona wrinkled her brow in thought.
Would it be more noble to seek her end that way? In the past, she
had considered choosing death a coward’s decision; now, she was not
certain. Why should she endure the degradation and pain Sigurd had
planned for her if she had the means to avoid it? The image of
Brodir coming to rape her flashed into her mind, and Fiona decided
quickly.

She took Breaca’s arm. “Ask Mina,” she
whispered. “Ask her if she would do this for me.”

Breaca nodded and left the slaves’ dwelling.
Fiona sighed and sat by the fire. An image came to her, taking
shape among the flickering flames—Dag’s proud, handsome face, his
blue eyes glowing with passion, his wavy hair a wild nimbus around
his features, his body strong and hard. Fiona’s soul reached out
for the compelling vision, drawing it into her heart. She would
think of Dag when she took the poison. She would send him her
spirit as she died. In death she would be joined with him, even if
they had failed to join their spirits in life.

A sob broke from her throat. She was not
ready to die! She had not said goodbye to Dag nor had the chance to
tell him how much she loved him. She had not borne him a child of
her womb. How could she leave him now, with so much left unfinished
between them?

She choked back another moan of grief and
stood up and began to pace. There must be some way out of this
trap, some means of escape she could not see. Mayhap the wise woman
could be bribed. At the thought, Fiona paused in her restlessness.
Breaca had said that Rorig had returned with treasure, enough
hacksilver to buy her freedom and more. Would Breaca consider
asking her lover for a portion of his wealth, enough to tempt the
wise woman? Fiona exhaled in relief. It was a clumsy plan, but a
plan nonetheless. While there was breath in her body, she would not
yield. She would fight for her life until the cincture closed
around her throat and her vision went black.

“Fiona would be very distressed to learn of
your plan,” Breaca said.

“Do not tell her,” Aeddan responded. “If
Sorli knows of it and promises not to speak, what have I to
fear?”

“But you are a thrall—thralls do not carry
messages to other steadings. You don’t even know the way to
Skirnir’s holding.”

“I cajoled directions from Gudrod; he’s been
there once. Besides, I am taking Brudhol; the horse will find
Dag.”

“That’s absurd. A dog might be able to trail
its master, but a horse, never. They are naught but stupid
beasts.”

“Do not speak ill of Brudhol!” the boy
responded angrily. “She is a fine animal with a stout heart and
willing spirit.”

Breaca shook her head in consternation.
Aeddan meant to go after Dag, to make one last attempt to save
Fiona. A reckless, foolish plan, but how could she fail to help? If
there were anyone who could turn Sigurd from his horrifying scheme,
it would be Dag. If only Aeddan could find him in time...

She drew breath sharply. “If you insist on
going, I will find you some provisions. And you’d best take grain
for the horse; this time of year there is not much fodder.”

“
Would you speak to her? Please?” Fiona
stopped her pacing and gestured beseechingly to Breaca.

Breaca gave a mournful shake of her head.
“It won’t work, Fiona. Even if I offered the wise woman gold, she
would not free you. Creatures like her...” She hesitated. “She
enjoys her role as Angel of Death. One of her assistants told me
that she goes into an ecstatic trance as she wields the dagger. She
loves to see blood shed.”

“But you will approach her?” Fiona insisted.
“You will at least try?”

Breaca sighed. “Of course. Rorig has agreed
to give me part of his treasure for the bribe. I will do what I
can.”

Fiona started to pace, but Breaca grabbed
her arm and drew her near. She cast a swift, surreptitious glance
at the doorway, then fumbled beneath her cloak. With her back
turned to the two thralls who sat spinning in the other end of the
room, Breaca held out a small packet. “The poison,” she whispered.
“If nothing else works, there is always this. Mina says it takes
some time to take effect. Don’t wait too long to put it to
use.”

“How will I ingest it?” Fiona whispered.

“Ask for ale when Sigurd orders you put on
the boat. As soon as you receive the drink, pour the poison into
the ale and swallow it down.”

Fiona nodded and reached for the packet.
Breaca shook her head. “You will be stripped and bathed ere you are
placed in your ceremonial funeral garments, and the poison would
surely be discovered. Mina will sew it in a flap at the entrance of
the tent. I merely wanted you to know what it looks like so you can
find it more easily when you search for it.”

Fiona pulled her shaking hand away. “When
will they come for me?” she asked.

“Sigurd has decreed that the funeral rites
will take place at sunset on the morrow.”

Although it was difficult to ascertain the
time of day from within the slaves’ dwelling, Fiona guessed it to
be near sunset now. One journey of the sun across the sky, and her
doom would be upon her. Dread, heavy and thick, closed over her. If
only she could breath fresh air once again and feel the breeze in
her hair. If only she could see the green hills of Eire one more
time.

She choked back a sob. Her rebellious nature
had brought her to this pass. She had sought to please herself and
ended up destroying all. Now she was to end her life in a foreign,
barbaric land, her disgrace complete. Desperately, she thought of
Siob- han. Her aunt was said to have the gift of sight. Why had she
not warned Fiona of her woeful fate? Siobhan had encouraged her to
aid the Viking prisoner. Had her aunt’s hatred of Donall compelled
her to urge Fiona on this destructive path?

“If you cannot sleep, Mina has given me
something for that as well,” Breaca said gently.

Fiona shook her head. She had little enough
time in this world; she would not waste it in sleep. “Do you think,
if I asked him, Sigurd would allow me a boon before I die?”

Breaca gestured uncertainly. “I know not.
Mayhap. It would depend upon what your request is.”

“I would like to climb the the hill behind
the steading and watch the sun rise one last time,” Fiona answered.
“Sigurd can send a dozen men to guard me if he wishes.”

Breaca nodded. “I will ask him.”

Again, Fiona paced the narrow dwelling;
impatience swept over her. If Sigurd waited too long, she would not
get her wish. Already the other thralls rose from their beds and
prepared to begin their work. Sunrise came late in the month of the
Blood Moon, but it could not be much longer.

“Fiona.” Sorli appeared in doorway and
nodded solemnly. Fiona hastened to pull her heavy tunic over her
head and put on the fur boots, then followed the slavemaster
outside. She paused to take a deep gulp of fresh air before
hurrying after Sorli. Already, the darkness thinned in the east. If
she meant to observe the sunrise, they did not have much time.

Sorli set a brisk pace along the pathways of
the steading. Fiona half ran to keep up, her nerves dancing with
excitement.

Pulling beside the man, she said, “I can
scarce believe Sigurd sent only you as my guard. Does he not fear I
might run away?”

“I have given him my word that I will return
you to the steading ere the sun reaches midpoint in the sky. I
trust that you will not force me to break my vow.”

Fiona took a deep breath. Sorli had been
nothing but kind to her; she would not compromise his honor in a
futile attempt at escape.

They were past the turf wall of the steading
now and climbing upwards. Sorli’s pace slowed, and Fiona guessed
that his old, battle-scarred legs pained him. She slowed as well,
no longer in a hurry. She meant to savor every moment of these last
hours of freedom. To memorize the feel of the cold, moisture-laden
air upon her skin, the crunch of the half-frozen ground beneath
their boots, the smell of the sea wind blowing in over the valley.
This place was not Eire, but there was beauty here as well, a
harsh, dazzling loveliness. Fiona could imagine the valley swathed
in glittering snow, ice crystals winking in the sun. And she had
memories of the landscape green and gold and lush with the bounty
of summer and a sky overhead so blue that it nearly hurt the
eyes.

This wild land of the North had its own
enchantment, its own ancient gods. They were deities of the sky, of
thunder and lightning, of stone and oak and things unyielding and
powerful. And the men of this place were equally fierce and
stalwart, men like Dag.

Fiona felt the memories assault her mind.
She remembered Dag as she had first seen him—wounded, bloodied,
weak, but so unearthly handsome and well-made it seemed a crime
against the gods to let him perish. He had looked at her with those
stunningly blue, fever-glazed eyes and something inside her had
answered.
Such a man would sire valiant sons and proud
daughters,
her woman’s instinct spoke.
He is for you,
the gods whispered.
Save him, heal his wounds... love
him.

Fiona shuddered. She and Sorli had reached a
little ridge above the steading. They turned toward the east. The
sky brightened expectantly, but she watched unseeing. Her mind was
filled with dreams and memories more real than the sunrise.

She blinked, forcing herself back to the
moment, to reality. Her last sunrise. Her last hours in the world
of the living. She watched ribbons of lush pink and mauve unfurl
across the sky. Then, suddenly, the vision altered. The rugged
Norse landscape vanished, and she stared instead at the sun rising
over one of the green hills of her homeland. A man stood on the
crest of the hill, his hair long and gleaming gold, his stance
strong and proud. Fiona gasped as she recognized Dag. She felt his
spirit reach out to her, drawing her toward him. The bounds which
connected her to the earth unraveled. She was free, her soul
released from the constraints of her flesh....