Storm Maiden (44 page)

The slow journey down the hillside was
agonizing. But as much as Dag longed to hurry, they could not risk
discovery yet. They reached the cattle byre and left their horses
there, then went on toward the beach. They crept to the very edge
of the underbrush and paused to listen to the sounds coming from
the funeral gathering.

The
skald
had finished now, and there
was the soft keen of women weeping. As Dag heard men arguing, a
chill ran through him. If Sigurd observed the ancient ritual,
Knorri’s closest oathmen would take turns lying with Fiona before
the fire was set. The thought of it made Dag’s blood run cold.
Fiona would be drugged and near insensible, but still, what would
it do to her to endure one man after another rutting upon her body?
Nei,
he must rescue her before that happened!

He put his hand on Ellisil’s arm. “Go,
announce yourself to Sigurd.” Ellisil moved out of the woods, and
Dag listened for the men’s reaction to his arrival. Sigurd would
surely halt the proceedings to greet a representative from another
steading.

Hearing Sigurd welcome Ellisil, Dag inched
to an opening between the trees and tried to determine his route to
the ship. The
Storm Maiden
was beached crosswise to the
shoreline, with the funeral gathering on the starboard side. If he
could make it safely across the open area between the forest and
the vessel, he could board the ship on the port side without being
seen.

He crept forward. No one seemed to notice
him as he moved past the mourners; the men were gathered around
Ellisil and Sigurd, the women too intent in their weeping to
observe him. He wondered if the women wept for Knorri or for Fiona.
Near- ing the ship, he dashed behind it, and almost cried out in
surprise when he saw Breaca. She knelt on the ground behind the
ship, her eyes red from weeping. As her gaze focused on him, her
despair turned to horror.

He was too late!
The frantic thought
beat in his brain, but he refused to accept it. “I’ve come for
Fiona,” he told Breaca. “Is she on the boat?”

Breaca nodded mutely, her eyes miserable.
Sick with fear himself, Dag asked, “What is it?”

“Poison...” she croaked out. “Mina gave
Fiona poison so she would not have to endure rape and violent
death. I told Fiona to take it as soon as she was placed on the
ship. That was hours ago....”

Breaca’s voice trailed off in a whispered
sob. Dag closed his eyes. Poison! Fiona had taken poison! He stood,
stunned, despairing. Then he opened his eyes and glanced toward the
ship. Even now, Fiona might be dead or dying. Could he bear to see
her thus?

If only they would get it over with.
Fiona clenched her hands into fists, listening. The
skald’s
tale was finished, but still, nothing happened. She gripped the
dagger more tightly in her right hand. Stupid fools, to have left a
ceremonial weapon strapped to Knorri’s belt. Did they think that
she, a woman, would not have the courage to use it? Let the Viking
bastards come for her—they would see!

A grim smile touched her lips as she
adjusted her sweaty fingers on the dagger hilt. The first man would
be easy. She would wait for him to free his member and climb on top
of her, then she would slash his throat. When the second man came,
she would be waiting inside the tent entrance. He, too, would be
sent to the crude Viking underworld with a swift stab of the
blade.

Of course, sooner or later, the other
Vikings would come looking for their companions. Then they would
kill her, but she would die vindicated. If luck were with her,
Brodir would be the first one to the tent, and the first one to
fall. How gratifying it would be to send that arrogant swine back
to the foul
hel
from whence he came!

There was a rustling noise at the entrance
of the tent. Fiona regarded the tent opening through slitted eyes
and adjusted her body on the cushiony furs.

A man thrust through the tent opening. In
the dim light, Fiona could only make out broad shoulders and hair
too light to be Brodir’s. Disappointment swept through her as she
realized her nemesis would not be the first to die. Then the man
approached her, and Fiona’s nerveless fingers dropped the dagger
among the furs and rugs.

“Dag!” His name was torn from her throat in
a gasp of surprise and incredulous relief. Her gaze drank in her
lover’s blue eyes, his handsome features, the reassuring bulk of
his shoulders and chest. He leaned over her, and his hand reached
out to touch her cheek.

“Fiona,” he whispered. “Am I too late? Does
the poison already stir in your veins?”

“Poison?” Fiona shaped the word with dry
lips, and, for a moment, she could not think of what he spoke. Then
the memory came back to her.
“Ja,
I mean,
Nei.
I did
not take it. I could not bear the thought of going meekly to my
death.” She fumbled among the furs and retrieved the knife. “They
left Knorri’s ceremonial dagger on his belt. I was going to use it
on the men when they came to lie with me.”

Dag exhaled softly, and some of the tension
in his face eased. “No man will ever lie with you but me, I promise
you.” He cast a dismayed look at Knorri’s corpse.

Giddy with relief, Fiona let loose a small
chortle. “The old jarl is not bad company, excepting he smells a
bit. I trow I would rather share a tent with him than Brodir.”

Dag’s eyes gleamed with something like
amusement, then he grasped her arm. “Can you walk?”

“Of course.”

“Keep close to me. We’ll creep around the
back of the tent and go over the side.

Fiona nodded and got to her knees. Crawling
to the tent entrance, she followed Dag outside. It grew dark, and
Fiona shivered in the evening chill. Dag looked at her elaborate
but impractical attire. He pulled his own fur tunic over his head
and handed it to her. “Put this on.”

Fiona obeyed, inhaling deeply Dag’s warm,
male scent as she pulled the garment over her head. Harsh, excited
voices carried across the beach, making Fiona’s heartbeat quicken.
At any moment, Sigurd might give the order for the men to draw lots
to couple with her. Indeed, that was likely what they argued about.
She heard Brodir’s guttural voice raised in anger, then Sigurd’s
rumbling answer.

She followed Dag to the far side of the ship
and watched him climb down and brace himself on the planks
supporting the hull. He held out his arms and caught her as she
slipped over the side. He scrambled nimbly down the timbers, still
carrying her, then set her on her feet.

“Fiona!” Breaca’s gasp of relief made Fiona
turn. Wordlessly, the women hugged each other.

Dag interrupted their embrace with a
whispered warning. “We must hurry!”

Breathlessly, Fiona released Breaca and took
Dag’s hand. Her bare feet flew over the cold, hard beach as if they
had wings. Once they reached the cover of underbrush screening the
harbor, Dag paused. Fiona waited beside him, aware that he listened
to Sigurd and Brodir argue. The Norse words rose and fell on
Fiona’s ears, but she could not quite catch their meaning. She
touched Dag’s shoulder imploringly. “Why do we wait?”

“Sigurd has decided to forego the bedding
ritual.” Dag’s voice sounded shaky and relieved. “Mayhap he finally
realizes what evil he does.”

“He will still send the Angel of Death to
the tent to kill me. When he does, she will discover I am gone.
Come!” Fiona urged desperately.

Dag took her hand and led her swiftly
through the trees and among the deserted buildings of the steading.
He paused to stare at the gutted longhouse, then hurried on. Behind
the cattle byre waited two horses Fiona had never seen before.

“Where did you—” she began.

Dag did not wait for her to finish, but
lifted her up on one of the animal’s broad back. “The horses belong
to Ellisil, a sword brother of mine. Can you ride?”

Fiona nodded. “Where are you going?” she
asked when he made no move to mount the other horse.

“I must talk to Sigurd. I must convince him
not to burn the ship. It is my nephews’ future he squanders with
this absurd act of mourning.” He looked up at Fiona, his eyes
intense and commanding. “Ride, Fiona. Ride as if the demons of your
dreams followed you. There is a
shieling
beyond these
hills—a summer dwelling for the herdsmen. You remember it?”

Fiona nodded, recalling that they had passed
it on the way to the
Thing.

“Wait there. I will meet you.”

“When?”

Dag gestured helplessly. “I’ll take no more
time than I have to. If Sigurd persists in his stubbornness, I’ll
leave him to his folly. But I have to try. I can’t bear to see the
whole steading suffer because my brother’s wits are
disordered.”

“But what if...”

“
Nei,
he won’t detain me. Even once
he knows I have set you free, Sigurd will not lay hands on me or
order other men to take me prisoner.”

“How can you be certain? You said yourself
that Sigurd’s wits are disordered!” Fiona reached out and clutched
Dag’s tunic.

Dag disengaged her fingers and brought them
to his lips. “I vow I will not desert you, Fiona. Upon my honor as
a warrior, I will meet you at the
shieling.”

Tears filled Fiona’s eyes. She curled her
fingers around Dag’s strong jaw and stroked his whisker-roughened
cheek. Damn his honor and his sense of responsibility to his
people! She could not bear to lose him now.

“Dag, please...”

Her entreaty whirled away on the wind as Dag
slapped the horse’s flank and the beast jerked forward. “Ride,” Dag
ordered harshly.

Clinging to the horse’s mane, Fiona twisted
her body so she could catch one last look at her lover. The
startled horse gained speed, and staying on its back required all
Fiona’s attention.

At last the animal slowed and she was able
to retrieve the dangling reins. She allowed herself one miserable
glance behind her, then urged her mount in the direction Dag had
pointed.

Dag warily approached the gathering on the
beach. Despite his confident words to Fiona, he was not certain
what his brother would do when he saw him. He could not imagine
Sigurd taking him captive, but then he had hardly imagined his
brother planning to kill Fiona and burn the ship, either.

Dag paused as he made out the eerie,
torchlit scene ahead of him. Sigurd stood by himself, scowling.
Across from Sigurd, Ellisil and the steading smith, Veland,
restrained a furious Brodir. It was obvious that Brodir felt
provoked to violence by Sigurd’s decree. Dag felt a stab of
hope.

Moving into the torchlight, he called his
brother’s name. The crowd of men and women went silent. Sigurd
recognized him and stepped forward. “Brother,” he said.

Dag nodded curtly but made no move to
approach. “I mourn our loss as much as you do, brother, but I
cannot agree with your plan to destroy all that Jarl Knorri
Sorlisson built over his proud and honorable lifetime.” He motioned
to the ship. “Are you so vain that you must shout your grief to the
world with this outrageous display? ‘Look at me, I am Sigurd
Thorsson. I am such a great jarl; I will burn my only ship to prove
I can soon build another!’ “

Dag saw a muscle twitch in his brother’s
jaw, but it was Brodir who broke the frosty silence. “Don’t listen
to him, Sigurd. The Irish witch has filled his mind with lies. You
must kill her... now... before she destroys the rest of us!”

“The woman is gone.” Dag gestured again
toward the ship. “Search and see. Naught but the body of our
revered jarl lies on the deck of the
Storm Maiden.

A hush settled over the beach, then a huge,
ugly woman stepped forward. “You cheated me!” she accused Sigurd.
“You brought me here for an execution and made me wait and wait.
Now the victim is gone. I will curse you for your foolishness!”

The crowd backed away. She must be the Angel
of Death, Dag thought. A twinge of fear swept across his mind as he
wondered if she had any real power, then he banished his
foreboding. “Go,” he ordered her. “You are not needed here.”

Her grotesque features contorted with hate
and rage. “I will curse you as well!” she sputtered. Slumping to
her knees, she began to screech strange, blood-chilling words.

Dag hesitated, dread prickling along his
spine. Then anger swiftly overtook his anxiety. This foul, twisted
creature had meant to kill Fiona! He stepped forward and pointed at
the woman. “Where are her handmaidens?”

Two young, unattractive women silently
appeared in the torchlight.

“Take her from our sight,” Dag commanded.
“She has no power here. She is naught but an evil, old creature,
jealous of all youth and beauty.”

The two women looked at him hesitantly. He
met their stares with cold, ruthless command. Fear and awe crept
over their faces, and they went to the wise woman and hurriedly
helped her to her feet and led her away.

The crowd was utterly still. Dag faced at
his brother and was startled to see an awed look on Sigurd’s
face.

“So, the boy has become a man at last,”
Sigurd said. “Do you come to challenge me as jarl, brother?”

Dag took a deep breath.
“Nei,
brother. I intend to build my own steading, in Ireland.”

Sigurd’s smile vanished. “You will not swear
to me as oathman?”

“
Nei
.”

Sigurd stared at him, his mouth working.
Finally, he said, “Come and share a horn of ale with me. Tell me of
your plans.” He gestured toward the steading. “My longhouse is no
more, but we will find a warm hearth to sit beside.”

Dag hesitated, thinking of Fiona, fleeing
blindly into the darkness. He could not be certain she would be
able to find the
shieling
on her own.

Eliisil’s voice came to him from behind the
other men. “I will go after the woman, Dag. I will see that she is
safe.”