He let his own weapon hang limply from his hand as the sense of defeat swept through him. After offering to aid the princess, he’d been unable to do so. It was galling to feel so powerless, so helpless.
But nothing compared to what the woman was enduring. Magnus made his way back to the side of the ship. He could see Croa’s lackeys leading the princess and the other women away. Where were they being taken? Back to that small storehouse? But, no, it appeared they were being escorted down the dock to another ship. Magnus recalled Bors saying he would be sailing with Croa when he left Dublin. Then he remembered Croa mentioning York.
Hope sprang again in Magnus’s breast. Croa still had to deal with the rest of the cargo off-loaded the day before. There might still be time to rescue the woman. If he could think of a plan. And if he could get on that ship...
Orm came up beside Magnus and punched him on the shoulder. “We’ll find you another pretty red-haired wench. I thought that one was too skinny anyway. I like my women with a little more meat on them. Something to grab onto while I’m—”
“No one of us cares about your taste in woman, Orm,” Skulli interrupted as he joined them. Then he spoke directly to Magnus. “As for you, you have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t muck it up over a wench.”
Magnus barely heard Skulli’s words. He was already imagining ways he might get onto Croa’s ship.
* * *
“Lady, are you well?” Brina whispered.
Ailinn gazed around the dark, smelly hold of the ship and a let out sigh. “Aye, well enough, at least considering our circumstances.”
“’Tis awful,” Brina agreed. “At least in the storage shed we had a candle to see by. But surely Croa doesn’t mean to keep us here very long.”
“You think not?” Ailinn remarked bitterly.
“This part of the ship is meant for transporting cargo, and perhaps livestock.”
“Aye, it does smell like dung,” Gormlaith said.
Ailinn gave a mirthless laugh. “Don’t you understand yet? That’s all we are to Croa—cargo. No different than a barrel of salted fish or a pile of hides.”
“Perhaps that’s true,” Ullach said. “Which is why you must be careful, lady. I was very frightened when that one man laid hands on you. I worried he was going to break your neck.”
Ailinn repressed the shudder Ullach’s words aroused. Her neck and shoulders still ached from the warrior’s rough handling. Clearly, she shouldn’t have spat at him and called him a pile of cow dung. From now on, if she wanted to stay alive, she’d have to be more careful.
“I wonder what happened to Cailin,” Ullach said.
“She ran away as soon she saw Croa’s men approaching,” Brina answered.
Ailinn nodded. She felt a little sick at the idea of the young woman being on her own in the rough settlement of Dublin. It seemed likely Cailin would suffer a fate even harsher than one Croa intended for them. They were all silent for a time. Then there was the sound of someone coming down the ladder into hold. Ailinn tensed with foreboding. She could hear the other women’s quickened breathing.
A bulky shape blocked out the faint light. A meaty hand reached out and grabbed Ailinn by the arm, squeezing cruelly. “Wicked, scheming wench,” Croa muttered. “You’re going to pay for the trouble you caused me.”
Ailinn experienced a wave of fear, then reminded herself that Croa was unlikely to hurt her. She wouldn’t be worth as much if her body was marked or damaged.
Croa leaned down so his face was near hers and his foul breath wafted over her. “I’d almost arranged to sell you to the King of Dublin. But once he heard you’d run away, he changed his mind. You’ve cost me dear, you scrawny little bitch!”
Ailinn was enraged. She’d never had anyone speak to her that way before. “You’re not fit to wipe my shoes, you fat Norse pig!”
To her surprise, Croa laughed. “I may be a pig, but I’m the pig who owns you.” He released her arm and grasped a strand of her hair instead, twining the lock in his fingers. “If I fancied pale, skinny wenches, I’d have had you long ago.”
His words made her stomach roil. Between gritted teeth she muttered, “Curse you, you vile beast!”
He tightened his grip on her hair, pulling the strand so tightly that tears welled in her eyes. “Curse you!” she cried again. She felt so trapped, so debased and defiled. “Blessed Jesu,” she murmured. “Please aid me.”
Croa laughed again. “Your puling Christian god can’t help you. He’s a worthless coward who’s always whining about peace and forgiveness.”
There was something to his words, Ailinn thought bleakly. The holy brothers did preach turning the other cheek to your enemies as Christ had. Perhaps she should call on the ancient deities her ancestors had believed in. The old gods, who represented the powerful forces of fire and earth and water. “I curse you, Croa Ottarson,” she spat out. “I curse you by the wrath of Morrigan, lady of death and destruction, by Balor of the evil eye and by Lugh, lord of sun and fire. May your balls wither. Your possessions burn to nothing. And...” She thought a second, trying to come up with an appropriate threat. “May your ship flounder in a storm send by Lir, the great god of the sea, and sink down into the cold, dark depths.”
Croa laughed once more. “A sorceress are you now, wench? I think not.” He paused a moment, then shouted up to the deck. “Thorvald! Get down here with those ropes.”
Ailinn inhaled sharply. She dreaded the thought of being bound. Surely he wouldn’t do that to her--would he? If he tied her wrists, it might mar her skin and make her less valuable. Unless he’d given up the notion of selling her as a bedslave. Perhaps he’d decided he would take more pleasure in punishing her rather than selling her for the highest possible price.
Her heart began to pound in her chest like a trapped bird. She thought of the young Norseman. If only she’d been able to reach him before Croa’s men found her. But nay, he was a hireling who possessed no property and had no real authority or power. He wouldn’t have been able to free her.
If only he hadn’t raised her hopes. She would never have tried to get away. How could she have thought they could escape from a settlement controlled by her enemies? Now their situation was worse than ever. She thought bleakly of the blue-eyed Norseman. He’d made her feel hopeful, but in the end it had all been a cruel lie.
Chapter 4
It took much of the morning to off-load the blocks of soapstone, barrels of salted fish and beaver and sable pelts that made up the bulk of the Waverunner’s cargo. Sigurd inspected the goods to make certain they were undamaged, then assigned men to deliver them to the buyers he’d spoken to the day before. Magnus was chosen to deliver the soapstone to the local craftsman who’d purchased it.
As Magnus was loading the blocks of stone into a handcart, Orm came along. “I’d be happy to help you, Magnus. Although I’m not a bull ox like you, I could help guide the cart. The walkways here are treacherous. I’m sure you’ll need assistance in maneuvering such a heavy load.”
Magnus regarded the other man shrewdly. “I know what you’re up to. You’ll seize any excuse to go into the settlement.”
“Can you blame me?” Orm responded. “From what Sigurd said, we load the ship tomorrow and set off for home the day after. Then it’s over a sennight at sea, with no chance to even look at a woman until we reach Hedeby.”
“Since you lost what little silver you had in the dice game last night, you’re hardly in a position to do anything about it even if you do find a wench.”
“At least I can look. That’s better than being stuck here with naught to gaze upon but the ugly snouts of my shipmates.”
Magnus guffawed. Although he preferred to make the trip into the settlement alone, he couldn’t quite bring himself to turn Orm away. “Come on then. I’ll expect you to pull the cart at least part of the way. I didn’t get to be this strong by standing around while other men did all the work.”
“I’ll have you know I unloaded ten barrels of fish
by myself,” Orm said they left the dock and guided the handcart between two warehouses. “I’m not such a weakling as you think.”
Magnus grunted in response, his thoughts returning to the Irishwoman. He didn’t have much time. As soon as he finished this errand, he must try to find a way onto the ship where she was held.
Abruptly, the trackway between buildings grew treacherous and the handcart got stuck. Several of the wooden planks laid down to create a walkway had been sucked down into the mud, and the cart’s wheels were on the verge of becoming hopelessly mired. Magnus swore, irritated at himself for not paying more attention.
Orm took hold of the back of the cart. Magnus grabbed the front end. Together they struggled to lift the iron wheels up and get the cart back on the planking. It took several tries, and by the time they succeeded, they were both filthy and sweating.
Magnus straightened and looked over at Orm. His crewmate’s face was splattered with mud. He laughed. “I doubt you’ll attract any maid looking like that. I’ve seen pig farmers cleaner than you.”
Orm made a face. “You don’t look much better. If your little Irish princess could see you now, she’d probably run away screaming.”
Magnus’s playful mood vanished. “But she couldn’t run away. She’s still a captive of that beast, Croa.” He gritted his teeth as the familiar frustration washed over him.
“Sorry,” Orm said. “That was a stupid thing to say. I shouldn’t have mentioned her.”
“We’d better keep moving,” Magnus said. “Otherwise, this will take all day.”
They finally got past the warehouse area and reached a trackway that was more stable. “Which way now?” Orm asked.
Magnus explained Sigurd’s instructions and they soon arrived in the market area of the settlement. Both sides of the trackway were lined with workshops. In front of each shop was a wooden sign with a picture of the kind of merchandise made there: shoes, jewelry, combs, weapons. Magnus examined each sign, looking for one that might indicate a soapstone carver. Finally spying what looked like a bowl on one of the signs, he gestured to Orm. “I think that’s the place.”
As they hauled the cart toward the shop, a woman stepped out in front of them. She paused, startled, and the hood of her sable-trimmed mantle fell back to reveal her carefully braided auburn hair and elegantly beautiful face. Her light brown eyes flashed over them, then she made a face and turned away, stepping daintily on her wood-bottomed shoes and holding her green and blue plaid mantle out of the muck. A moment later, a man dressed in the coarse garb of a servant came out of the shop carrying a cloth-wrapped package and hurried after her.
“Did you see that?” Orm asked.
Magnus snorted. “Aye. She looked at us as if we were two worms who’d just wriggled out from under a rock.”
Orm sighed. “What I would give to possess such a creature.”
“Don’t even think about it. She’s undoubtedly the wife or concubine of one of the jarls who live here.” As he said the words, Magnus thought of the princess. Was she destined to end up in similar circumstances? It didn’t seem so bad a life—to dress in fine clothing and have servants wait upon you. Yet he knew she’d hate it and always recall what it was like to be free.
“I suppose you’re right,” Orm said glumly. “She’s far beyond me.” He nodded to the cart. “We might as well get our errand over with.”
They found the soapstone carver’s shop and Magnus went inside to speak to the owner. The man told them to take the cart behind the shop—no easy task given the narrowness of the walkway around the building. Once there, they unloaded the chunks of soapstone into a pile. While the shop owner inspected his purchase, Magnus noted a small gray and gold cat sitting near the doorway of the shop, watching them with serene gold eyes. It reminded him of the one that had guided him to the storeroom behind Croa’s dwelling. Regret stabbed through him. He should have rescued the princess then. It would have been difficult, but far less challenging than what was ahead of him now.
Satisfied with his purchase, the soapstone carver unfastened a money pouch from beneath his tunic and held it out to Magnus. Magnus took the pouch and tied it to his cowhide belt. He nodded to the shop owner, then grabbed the handle of the empty cart and started back around the building. Orm followed.
As soon as they were out of earshot of the shop owner, Orm said, “How much do you think is in the pouch?”
Magnus reached down and hefted the leather bag in his hand. “Two pounds. Maybe more.”
“That would buy a lot of ale and willing wenches.” Magnus raised his brows at Orm, who quickly added, “Of course, since the silver doesn’t belong to us, it doesn’t really matter. On the other hand, I doubt Sigurd would miss a piece or two.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Magnus responded. “Sigurd will probably weigh the pouch when we get back to the ship. If it’s short, he’ll know we took some. Besides, it would be wrong to steal from Sigurd. Especially since he’s been fair and honest in all his dealings with us.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Orm said wistfully.
Even as he explained to Orm why they dare not take the silver, Magnus couldn’t help wondering if the amount in the pouch would be enough to purchase the princess. Hardly. Soapstone was a useful commodity—almost any household Magnus had ever been in owned several bowls and a lamp or two made of the material—but it wasn’t a particularly valuable one. The princess’s worth was more in line with the merchandise the well-dressed Irishwoman had purchased at the jewelry shop. Besides, it didn’t matter. The money wasn’t his. And he wouldn’t steal—even for her.
“You’re deep in thought, Magnus,” Orm said. “Are you still worrying over the Irishwoman’s fate?”
Magnus nodded. “I can’t help myself.”
“There’s nothing you can do. You have to forget her. She’s as unattainable as the amber-eyed beauty back there is for me. If you must think of her, do it when you’re alone in your bedsack under the stars.” Orm winked.
“It’s not like that,” Magnus said. “My feelings for her go beyond lust. She reminds me of a trapped wild creature. A beautiful, caged bird I long to set free.”
“All I ask is that you don’t risk your own freedom—and your life—to secure hers.”
Magnus nodded. Sound advice. He must be careful and wait for the right opportunity.
On the way back, Magnus spotted a cistern, and he and Orm washed their hands and faces. Then they returned to the ship and Magnus handed over the pouch of silver to Sigurd. The captain hefted the pouch much as the merchant had done. “Well done, Magnus. Now you’re free to enjoy yourself for the rest of the day. I won’t need your services until tomorrow morn when it’s time to load up our new cargo.” Sigurd went back to bartering with a dark-haired Dane over the value of a pile of furs.
Magnus returned to where Orm waited. “Sigurd says he won’t need us the rest of the day.”
Orm grinned. “Which means I’m free to go back into the settlement and enjoy myself.”
“No dice games, though,” Magnus said sternly.
Orm’s grin widened. “You’ll have to come with me to make certain of that.”
“Nay. I have other things to attend to.”
Orm’s expression grew serious. “Be careful, Magnus. Remember what I said.”
Magnus nodded.
“I guess I’ll have to find someone else to go to the alehouses with me.”
“And you might want to change your tunic first.”
Orm glanced down at his mud-spattered garment. “It’s the best one I have. I’ll wait until it dries, then brush off the dirt.” He gave Magnus a quirky grin, then took off in the direction of the settlement.
Remembering the Irishwoman’s scorn when he first approached her, Magnus decided he’d best follow his own advice. He found a clean tunic in his sea chest and put it on, then disembarked from the Waverunner and started down the dock toward Croa Ottarson’s ships.
Approaching the warrior standing guard n
earby, Magnus said, “I’m looking for a man named Bors Ulfarson. He’s about forty winters old and wears his hair pulled back in a knot.”
“Don’t know him,” the man responded. “But then, I just hired on with Croa myself.”
Magnus nodded and focused his gaze on the middle ship, which was much larger than the other two. He felt certain the women must be on this vessel. “What sort of cargo are you carrying?”
The man’s deep-set blue eyes fixed on Magnus. “Why do you ask? Where do you know Bors from?”
“I met Bors last night at the ale house. He mentioned Croa might be interested in hiring more men for his upcoming voyage. I’ve just arrived in Dublin on another ship, but I don’t fancy heading home so early in the sailing season. I was looking for another crew to hire on with.”
The man looked him up and down. “You appear stout and strong, but are you skilled with weapons? Wielding an axe to chop wood is much different than cutting an enemy’s throat.”
In the space of a heartbeat, Magnus snatched his knife from his belt and held it to the man’s neck. “Is this skilled enough for you?”
The man’s gaze flicked downward to where the blade rested on his throat, then back to Magnus. “Aye. If Croa’s wants a recommendation of your skill, I’ll give him one. When he returns, that is. He’s off in the longphort right now, finishing up his business.”
Magnus released the man and resheathed the knife. “Then I’ll wait until he returns. Can you tell me how soon Croa plans to leave?”
“Tomorrow we set out.”
Tomorrow. That didn’t give him much time. Magnus glanced up at the dragonship. “Would you have any objection to my boarding the ship and seeking out Bors? I’d like to thank him for suggesting I hire on with Croa.”
The man shrugged. “Look around if you wish. Most of the cargo I’ve seen loaded is bulky stuff—hides, casks of wine, bags of grain. Nothing a man can walk off with.”
Magnus nodded, surprised by the man’s cordial tone. Most warriors would be a little more wary, and perhaps even hostile to a man who’d just held a knife at their throat.
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