Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  Fiona shivered as her companions on the ship were suddenly transformed into terrifying supernatural beings. Her thoughts crept back to her last night in Eire, and she relived the horror of seeing the monstrous Vikings prowling among the buildings of her father’s palisade, their armor and helmets casting grotesque shadows in the flame-lit night. She had almost forgotten: all around were her enemies, depraved, bloodthirsty Vikings.

  A quaver ran along her spine and cold sweat broke out on her skin. Once again, she had to resist the mad urge to hurry to the edge of the ship and throw herself over the side. She closed her eyes and prayed for strength.

  When she opened her eyes, her heart again leaped into her chest. Dag stood facing her. The copper of his mustache and long hair and the sun-glossed ruddy-gold of his skin blended perfectly with the polished bronze surfaces of his breastplate and helmet. He looked like a god—a fiery golden sungod. Fiona stared, unable to take her gaze from him.

  Spokes of white flashed through his azure eyes, echoing the cold, frothy tumult of the sea. But there was yearning within their frigid depths as well, an aching hunger that made Fiona’s body respond with an answering shudder. For a moment, she wanted to reach out to him, to caress the fierce, lovely lines of his face and body as she once had. Then he spoke. “Engvalkkirsted, “ he said.

  Fiona’s heart sank. They had reached his homeland. Now Eire was well and truly lost to her.

  He turned away and nodded brusquely to the nearest rower, indicating to the man that he would take a turn at the oars. Fiona watched him, struggling to recapture her hatred. The Viking had brought this despicable fate upon her. If not for him, she would be safe in Eire and her father would be alive. Ah, but you would be married to Sivney Longbeard, her inner voice added. She had sought to change her fate, and so she had. Mayhap, as the pagan lore warned, it was wiser not to meddle with the plans of the gods. What had she wrought by defying her father’s wishes?

  Bright sunlight reflected off the armored shoulders of the rowers. Fiona took a seat at her place in the far starboard quarter of the ship and watched the dazzling show of Viking manpower. She didn’t want to look at the shoreline looming ever nearer. She didn’t want to think about what was to become of her.

  The grunts and pants of the rowers soon gave way to another sound, the dull thunder of the Vikings shouting as their countrymen on shore came into sight. Fiona ducked her head, determined not to face her future until she had to.

  Dag leaned forward and concentrated on rowing. Any moment Sigurd would give the word that they were close enough to shore to let the ship glide to the dock. Then they would wade in to greet their families and friends before unloading the ship.

  He wondered why he felt so grim. Was it because, unlike Sigurd, he had no wife and children to greet him? It had never bothered him before. He had been content to be home, to see familiar faces and sights. Mina usually brought his dog down to the dock, and Ulvi, the huge deerhound he had brought home from a raid on the Orneys, would be waiting for him with furiously wagging tail and slobbering, eager mouth. That had always been enough of a greeting for him before this.

  “Engvakkirsted! We’re home, men!” At Sigurd’s bellow, Dag released his oar and stood up to peer at the shore. His eyes scanned the crowded dock. He saw Mina and Ingolf and Gunnar, Sigurd’s two boys, but there was no sign of Ulvi. Frowning, Dag swiped at the sweat trickling down his brow.

  Around him, men scrambled to retrieve their choicest booty before wading in. Dag’s eyes went to the Irishwoman. She appeared terrified. Her lips moved, likely in prayer, and her eyes stared straight ahead, as if she could not bear to face their arrival in his homeland. The sight of her irritated Dag. Because of her, he had no spoils to carry ashore. As he had told Sigurd, she was the only treasure he had stolen from Ireland; and at this moment, she seemed more of a burden than booty.

  Dag glanced toward the crowded dock. Several dinghies were being launched to offload cargo from the ship and transport it to shore. He could wait for a dinghy to take the woman or wade in like the others. A quick look at the woman decided him. She would not arrive in her new home like the haughty queen she thought she was. Instead, he could carry her ashore like the worthless baggage she had turned out to be!

  Leaving his seat on the sea chest, he went to the Irishwoman and gestured for her to gather up her things. She apparently did not know what he meant, for she simply gaped at him. Too impatient to wait, Dag grabbed her about the waist and half- carried her to the side of the ship. He left her there, then with a graceful vault, slid over the side into the water. Gritting his teeth at the cold, he shouted up at the woman in the ship, indicating that she should jump down to him. She stared at him, looking stricken and making no move to obey.

  All around him, men dropped into the water and began to splash toward shore. Dag felt his armor absorb the chill of the frigid water. Aggravation surged through him. Damn the woman! He should have thrown her over first. If he had to climb back into the ship and get her, he would make sure she swallowed plenty of seawater before they got ashore!

  He took a breath and once more looked up at her, trying to force his voice to sound coaxing. He held up his arms again. He intended to catch her and keep her from getting soaked. Was she too stupid to see he meant to aid her?

  He saw her eyes widen in startled awareness, then a determined look crossed her features. She scrambled nimbly up and perched on the edge of the ship’s timbers. Then, with a beseeching look at him, she jumped. Dag deftly caught her about the waist, then swung her over his shoulder.

  He slogged the few paces through the freezing water toward the dock, glad she was such a small woman. The icy water sucked at his boots and trousers, reminding him that he was back in the North, where the coastal waters never warmed. Panting heavily, he reached the dock and flung his burden onto the wet timbers. He climbed up after her, then paused a moment, breathing hard.

  “Uncle, what did you bring me?”

  Dag looked up into the piercing blue eyes of Gunnar, his eldest nephew.

  “Greedy child,” he answered with a growl and a feigned cuff at his nephew’s skinny shoulder. “Is that any way to greet a wounded kinsman back from war?”

  “You were wounded?” The boy’s eyes rounded in awe.

  “Ja.” Dag sat up and held out his right arm. He had begun to use it normally and no longer needed to keep it bandaged, but the scar was still an ugly, livid reminder of the seriousness of the wound.

  Gunnar sucked in his breath in wonder and envy. “How many Irishmen did you kill?” he asked breathlessly.

  Dag glanced toward his captive, lying in a disheveled heap a few feet away. It was well she didn’t understand the boy. He shook off the unwelcome stab of guilt and answered his nephew. “It took ten men to take me down, and I’m certain at least two of them suffered mortal wounds.”

  The boy’s eyes widened even more, if that were possible, and he sucked in his breath with a satisfied sound. “You’ll tell us all about it, won’t you, Dag?” The boy glanced at the slender, fine-featured woman who had come to stand beside him and added hastily, “Tonight, around the feasting fire, of course.”

  Dag got to his feet and gave his sister-by-marriage a careful hug. “Greetings, Mina. I see you have your hands full with the boys these days. And another one on the way.” He glanced down at her swelling belly. “By Thor’s Hammer, my brother plants his seed well. For all that he is gone from home so much, he keeps you busy birthing sons.”

  “Ja,” Mina agreed matter-of-factly. “For all that he is gone...” She shrugged.

  Dag did not know how to respond to Mina’s indifferent reply. He could not quite fathom his brother’s marriage. Sigurd seemed content, and he and Mina didn’t appear to argue much, but Dag wasn’t sure how things were between them. If he had a wife, he would like her to act more fond of him.

  He glanced quickly at the Irishwoman, who had apparently shaken off her terror and gotten to her feet. She stood watching the other people o
n the dock with a look of mingled wariness and curiosity. What would she be like as a wife? he wondered. She might be a shrew and a nag, but he didn’t think she would ever be indifferent to him.

  He dismissed the absurd musing and grasped Mina’s arm. Although larger than the Irishwoman, his sister-by-marriage still only came to his shoulder. Her small features and skimpy, dark-gold braids gave her a youthful, almost childlike appearance. Dag had to remind himself that at twenty-five winters, she was as old as he. “I’ve brought you a slave,” he told her as he guided her over to the captive. “She’s an Irish princess. Too slight and well-bred for kitchen work, but I thought she could help with the sewing and weaving.”

  They paused before the Irishwoman. Mina exhaled softly with what could have been either a sigh or a sound of pleasure. “She is very beautiful,” she said, turning toward him.

  Dag shrugged. “I’m sure I could get a good price for her at the Hedeby slave market.”

  Mina’s voice was gentle. “Then, why don’t you?”

  Dag took a deep breath before answering. “The truth is, I owe her my life. When I was scouting upriver before we attacked, the Irish took me captive. My sword arm was wounded badly. The woman cleaned it and stitched it, else I would have died.”

  “Why would she aid you, the enemy?”

  “I don’t know. Sigurd asked her, but she wouldn’t say.” The familiar anger rose at the memory, sharpening his voice. “It matters not why she did it, only that I am alive because of her competence with healing herbs and fever brews.”

  “She’s a wise woman?”

  Dag shook his head. “I doubt she’s a trained healer. She seems too young, and she hardly has the gentle nature of a wise woman.” He jerked his head toward Sigurd, supervising the unloading of the dinghies. “Ask your husband. He’ll tell you she’s a fiery little wench, as likely to try and scratch out a man’s eyes as to aid his wounds.”

  Mina’s mouth twitched. “So, you want to give her to me, to assist me in my sewing work.”

  Faintly embarrassed, Dag pressed his lips into a thin line, but was saved from responding by Sigurd’s appearance. The big man blustered up, brushing packing straw from his hands. He leaned embraced Mina briefly, then turned to Dag. “I suppose you’re already pressing my wife to take charge of your captive.”

  Dag opened his mouth to argue.

  “Mayhap we should wait to have this discussion,” Mina said. She cast a glance in the Irishwoman’s direction. “If I were ever made a slave, I would prefer not to have my future debated in front of me as if I were naught but a pig or cow.”

  “She doesn’t know what we’re saying,” Dag argued. “She speaks not a word of Norse.”

  “Oh, she knows,” Mina said firmly. “While she may not understand our words, ‘tis clear she is half-sick with fear over what we will decide for her future.”

  Dag looked at the Irishwoman and realized Mina was right. The captive woman’s skin appeared as pale as bleached linen, her slim form taut with tension. Her astonishing green eyes reminded him of a cornered wildcat, regarding her surroundings with frantic alarm. Reluctantly, Dag allowed himself to feel pity for her.

  “We should all go into the longhouse and discuss this over a horn of ale,” he said. “You want me to help you finish unloading, Sigurd?”

  The big man shrugged. “We’ve done enough for now.” He leaned down and hauled Ingolf up on one of his shoulders. When Gunnar clamored for a turn, Sigurd lifted his elder son with his free hand and helped him find a perch on the other side. Thus laden, he started toward the longhouse. Mina trailed after him.

  Dag waited, uncertain what to do about the Irishwoman. He was frankly sick of carrying her around like a sack of grain, but he wasn’t certain she would come otherwise. He jerked his head toward the path to the steading, indicating she should follow him. Her eyes flared with a rebellious look, then she broke her rigid stance and approached him. Dag turned and started down the path, mentally urging the woman to follow him so he wouldn’t have drag her. The soft sound of her footfalls on the dirt pathway reassured him that she came.

  Chapter 11

  Fiona followed the Viking, apprehension weighing down her every step. What was to become of her? It was clear the Viking and his brother could not agree. She was not certain which man’s judgment she feared the most. Sigurd appeared cold and unfeeling toward her, but not necessarily unreasonable, while Dag’s attitude ran hot and cold from one moment to the next.

  And now there was another person involved. Fiona frowned, trying to gauge the Viking woman’s reaction. She appeared to be someone of wealth and substance. The two young boys favored her, suggesting she was Sigurd’s wife, although his manner toward her had not been overly affectionate. Some marriages were like that, Fiona knew. If she had wed Sivney, certainly she would never have been able to manage a show of fondness toward him in front of others.

  Beyond a low turf wall, a complex of timber buildings loomed ahead of them. She raised her eyes toward the soaring, darkly forested hills beyond the settlement and a new wave of homesickness crept over her. Such a harsh, lonely place to live. For all that it was summertime and the valley green and lush with plantlife, the place seemed cold and unfriendly. She could already imagine the wind sweeping fiercely down from the north, the ridges of the valley frosted with glittering snow. There was none of the softness of the Irish landscape, the gentle mists moving in and out among the rolling hills and gnarled, ancient forests.

  Recalling the violent, warlike gods she had heard the Northmen worshiped, Fiona shuddered. She didn’t belong in this place, but she must adapt if she were to have any hope of returning to Eire. Quickening her pace, she hurried after the bronze-haired Viking. For all the turmoil he had brought her, his presence was somehow familiar and reassuring.

  As if sensing her anxiety, Dag turned and looked back at her. Fiona steeled her expression to coldness once more. He scowled back at her, and her insides twisted. She should hate him, but more often than not, she could not manage it. Mayhap it would be better if he did sell her to another warrior, one she could despise unreservedly.

  The Viking stopped and waited for her. Fiona hesitated then walked to where he stood. When she reached him, he took her arm. His fingers were warm on her flesh as he led her along. Fiona repressed the urge to jerk away from his grasp. She reminded herself that she must try to appear docile. She was a slave now, and disobedient slaves were treated poorly by all masters.

  They reached a very large timber building built in the shape of an overturned ship. At the Viking’s urging, Fiona entered through the carved doorway. She froze on the threshold. The entire chamber was filled with Vikings. They all talked at once, and the cavernous dwelling echoed with the din of their harsh- sounding language. Dag gave Fiona a gentle push, and she half-stumbled into the room.

  A few people turned to look, but most ignored her. Fiona saw numerous women among the brawny warriors, as well as many light-haired children. The children were appealing, at least. Their fair hair and rosy cheeks made them seem angelic. The warriors didn’t seem immune to the children’s charm either. Like Sigurd, they allowed their offspring to climb all over them and examine the loot they had brought home.

  One small boy with a dirt smudge on his cheek clutched a heavy bronze dagger in both hands and threatened a massive warrior with the weapon. The Viking laughed and leaned down to adjust the boy’s hold. Fiona swayed slightly, feeling sick. She recognized the dagger by its gaudy red-and-gold enameled hilt. It was Etain’s. For all she knew, it was still stained with her cousin’s blood.

  She shook her head, trying to regain her composure. The Vikings played with their children and hugged their wives just like normal men. How, then, could they be such beasts, such bloodthirsty, evil demons to the peoples they preyed upon? She glanced at Dag. He watched her impassively. When she swayed again, he led her over to the hearth in the center of the room and helped her sit down on one of the benches arranged around the fire.

&nb
sp; Fiona took a seat gladly, feeling that her legs might collapse at any moment. She sat quietly for a moment, then turned at the sound of a voice next to her. A girl with startling curly red hair held out a beaker of ale. A wave of aching longing swept over Fiona as she accepted the beaker. The serving girl reminded her painfully of Duvessa.

  The red-haired girl returned her gaze. Fiona noticed that she wore a rough, brown kirtle and a plain strip of leather held her chopped-off hair in place. Her humble attire suggested she was a person of low status, probably a slave. Fiona felt encouraged by the thought. This girl might also have been stolen from her homeland and brought here to serve the hateful Vikings. With that vivid hair, it was even possible she was Irish.

  Fiona glanced around for Sigurd, then spoke clearly in her own tongue. “Good day, lass,” she said. The girl’s blue eyes widened slightly, then the look of awareness faded. After giving Fiona another careful glance, she hurried away.

  Fiona stared after her, puzzled. Did she recognize the sound of the Celtic tongue, but not understand it? She might be a Pict or Cymru from Albion. For that matter, the woman could have been abducted from any of hundreds of isolated islands scattered along the Viking route between Eire and the Northlands. They had all been settled by peoples who spoke languages slightly different from Irish.

  Fiona chewed her lip in consternation. If only she could communicate with someone, someone besides Sigurd, that is. If naught else, she must learn the Norse language so she would have a means to speak with the other slaves. If they knew her plight, they might aid her in her plan to return to Eire. She took another sip of her ale, considering who might consent to teach her Norse.