Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  She glanced quickly at Dag, then chastised herself for her foolishness. It did not seem likely he would agree to spend the time necessary to teach her his language. More likely, she could learn from one of the women. Dag was talking to one now, a tall, buxom creature with shiny yellow braids that came nearly to her knees. A stab of jealousy struck Fiona. Was this the sort of women the Viking fancied? No wonder he had not insisted on bedding her.

  For the first time in her life, Fiona felt self-conscious of her dark coloring and small stature. She looked nothing like the Viking women. She must seem as foreign and strange to the Northmen as they did to her.

  Fiona watched as the yellow-haired woman left Dag and came over to the hearth and filled a wooden platter with some of the flat, brown cakes warming there. The woman wore a plain wool garment with a simple neckline. Over that was a more elaborate green gown with a bright border of embroidered red and yellow flowers around the skirt and straps that fastened above her breasts with large polished oval brooches.

  Gaudy, but not terribly flattering, Fiona decided. She was fortunate to possess Duvessa’s blue kirtle. Although slightly snug across her breasts and hips, it was comfortable. From what she could see of it, Viking women’s attire was anything but. It would be horrible to endure those heavy brooches hanging down all the time. Did Viking women really do their work dressed so foolishly?

  Fiona’s curiosity about Viking women was piqued further when the one who appeared to be Sigurd’s wife came over and spoke to Dag. The two of them stood only a few feet away from Fiona, and she was able to study the woman’s garments closely. Sigurd’s wife’s gown and overgown were similar to the yellow-haired women’s, although looser and dyed in much more subtle hues. Her fastening brooches were smaller and of gold rather than silver. Between her breasts dangled a strange necklace strung with metal objects. Fiona leaned forward, trying to ascertain what they were. When the woman turned sideways, Fiona recognized that the looseness of her gown was intended to make room for the child growing inside her.

  Fiona had barely absorbed this information when the woman walked off. Returning her gaze to Dag, Fiona was startled to see a stricken expression on his face. She stared at him, wondering what was wrong. An older Viking came up and began a conversation with Dag, and his expression quickly returned to normal. Fiona watched him in puzzlement. For a moment she had seen a look of deep grief on Dag’s face. Had she imagined it?

  Fiona took a drink of ale. When she looked up, the old Viking speaking with Dag was staring at her. The man turned back to Dag, and Fiona sprang to alertness. Was the man bargaining with Dag to buy her? She noted the Viking’s sagging, weathered skin, the way the muscles in his bare arms hung stringy and wasted. The gorge rose in her throat. Even marrying Sivney Longbeard would have been better than sharing that old man’s bed!

  Fiona took another sip of her ale, feeling sick. The fatigue and despair caught up with her, and she leaned forward, suddenly faint. A strong arm wrapped around her shoulders, supporting her back. She stiffened immediately and prepared to struggle. Dag’s voice spoke low and harsh in her ear. Unable to understand his words, instinct made Fiona acquiesce to the Viking’s implicit demand. She let herself go limp and did not resist as the Viking picked her up and slung her over his shoulder once more.

  She must make a pretty sight, she thought bitterly as Dag walked quickly across the crowded room. With her bottom and legs hanging over the Viking’s shoulder and her long hair trailing down his back, she retained about as much dignity as a bleating sheep being carried to slaughter. Fiona’s defiance returned, and she resentfully kicked the Viking in the chest. Quick as lightning, his hand came up to give her bottom an answering smack. Fiona gritted her teeth. Someday she would fight him and win! Someday she would finally get the best of the arrogant bastard!

  The Viking ducked as he passed through a low doorway, then bent over to drop her on a raised, box-like bed. Fiona sat up and tried to catch her breath. The tiny room was cold and dark; she could barely make out the Viking’s shadowy shape at the end of the bed. She watched him warily, trying to guess what he meant to do next. If only they could argue, rail at each other. Anything would be better than this mute, frustrating battle between them.

  Dag stood panting, trying to regain control. Must the Irishwoman continually fight him? She was the most frustrating creature he’d ever encountered. Couldn’t she see he tried to protect her?

  He turned from the bed, reluctant to stay in his bedcloset any longer. There were too many memories. He remembered Ulvi waking him with her wet, sloppy tongue on his face. Her warm, solid shape nestled beside the box bed, guarding him, patiently waiting for him for rise. Ulvi was dead. Never would he see her again.

  His grief over his dog’s death felt like a knife in his belly. Bless Mina for taking him aside to tell him. If she had blurted it out when he’d first arrived on the dock—with the Irishwoman, his nephews, and Sigurd watching—how would he have hid his anguish? Sigurd cared little for dogs, except for hunting purposes, and his nephews had long spent their grief by now.

  Only Mina understood. He had seen the sheen of tears in her eyes when she told him that Ulvi had died from eating bad meat. An accident, she said, something no one could have prevented. Guilt roiled in Dag’s guts. Ulvi had not died immediately. She had suffered, and he had not been there to soothe her, to look into her dark eyes and reassure her.

  He sighed heavily, preparing himself to go out into the crowded hall. Behind him, the woman made a small sound.

  What would she think of him if she knew he was sick with grief over a dog?

  Dag squared his shoulders. She would never know. No one would. A warrior couldn’t afford to be soft and vulnerable. He would hide his grief as he had hid all his deeper feelings since he was a boy.

  He turned, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. He could barely make out the Irishwoman, sprawled on his bed. The image evoked a throb of longing in his loins. He remembered the wonder of her silken flesh, the warmth of her skin, the taste of her lips.

  He repressed the intense desire such thoughts aroused. The Irishwoman hated him, and he had no strength to endure another bout of grappling with her. She was clearly exhausted as well. He would leave her to sleep. She would be safe here. Later, after he had shared in the celebration, he would find a warm place to make his own bed.

  He turned and left the bedcloset. As he stepped into the main longhouse chamber, the light and noise hit him like a blow. He paused a moment to orient himself, then sought out his brother at the raised table at the end of the room. Sigurd was deep in conversation with Knorri, their uncle and the Jarl of Engvak- kirsted. At Dag’s approach, both men raised their drinking horns in salute. Dag signaled one of the kitchen thralls to bring him a horn of ale and sat next to his uncle.

  Sigurd began a detailed account of the events in Ireland. Dag tensed when his brother reached the part about his imprisonment; but to his relief, Sigurd made no mention of the woman. Dag silently thanked his brother for his foresight. If Knorri knew the woman was a traitor to her people, Dag suspected he would order her sold outside the steading.

  As Sigurd continued his report, Dag found his mind wandering. He couldn’t help worrying over the Irishwoman. How was he to explain why he had brought her back to his homeland? If he made her his bed thrall, no man would question his desire to keep a comely wench for his pleasure. But he had no intention of bedding the Irishwoman. She’d made it clear she was unwilling, and that was not the way he liked his women. The memory of her seductive eagerness when she’d first come to him still tantalized him.

  “You took only one slave?” Knorri’s raspy voice jerked Dag back to awareness. “Why not more?”

  Sigurd’s voice was calm and reasonable as he answered. “I didn’t think there was room on the ship with all the plunder, and in truth, we encountered no women or young boys suitable for enslavement.”

  “We could use the help in the fields,” Knorri groused.

  “With
the fine booty we took, we can easily purchase all the thralls we need next spring,” Sigurd responded. “Taking slaves is risky business. I would prefer to let other men take the chances.”

  Knorri muttered something under his breath and Dag guessed that the old jarl secretly thought Sigurd’s caution a sign of cowardice. It hardly mattered. Knorri might rule at Engvakkirsted, but on the ship, the men all recognized Sigurd as their leader.

  “The black-haired creature I saw—is that the slave you mentioned?”

  Sigurd nodded. Dag held his breath, wondering what his brother would say.

  “The woman is Dag’s,” Sigurd announced loudly, as if to remind the men nearby of the fact. “She represents his share of the booty we took.”

  Knorri’s grizzled brow furrowed. “How can a scrawny wench compare in worth to the gold and silver the other men flaunt?”

  Dag licked his dry lips and prepared to respond. Sigurd answered first. “She is a beauty, for all her strange coloring. Brodir has already offered a good price for her.”

  Knorri looked vaguely around the room, then complained, “Damn my fading eyesight. I would like to admire her comeliness ere Brodir ruins her pretty features.”

  “I don’t intend to sell her to Brodir!” Dag’s words came out sharper than he intended, and he felt both Sigurd and Knorri’s eyes on him. “ ‘Twould be a waste to sell her to a brute like him. She would die within days from his torture, and the steading would lose the benefit of any useful skills she possesses.”

  “What skills might those be?” Knorri asked.

  “She seems to know of herbs and simples; and since she was a princess in her country, she is like to be an accomplished seamstress as well. I’m certain Mina could use the aid of another gentlewoman. She complained to me not long before we left on the raid that most of the women thralls are too clumsy and heavy-handed for clothmaking.” Mina hadn’t addressed the words to him, but to Ingeborg, the smithy’s wife, but Dag thought they lended weight to his argument.

  Dag waited for Sigurd to protest against the plan, but he did not, only gave Dag a thoughtful, assessing look.

  “Do what you will with the woman then,” Knorri answered, obviously tiring of the subject. “It matters not to me, as long as she doesn’t cause conflict. I won’t have the camaraderie between my oathmen torn apart by some cunning-faced bitch. Loyalty to the clan is more important than anything. Speaking of which, have you heard about this feud between the Thorkvalds and Agirssons?”

  “Nei, tell us,” Dag prompted, greatly relieved the jarl had dismissed the subject of Fiona. He could still feel Sigurd’s warning eyes on him.

  “It all started with a few raids here and there,” Knorri said. “Nothing serious. A few cattle stolen, a slave girl raped and left for dead. Then a sennight ago, someone burned out the Thorkvald steading.”

  “Was anyone killed?” Dag asked.

  Knorri nodded. “Thorkvald’s wife and youngest son. Some slaves. The rest of the household climbed up in the loft and escaped by pushing out the ceiling and jumping down into the cattle byre.”

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  Across from Dag, Sigurd shrugged. “There’s been bad blood between the Thorkvald line and Jarl Agirsson’s people for some time. I believe it started out in a dispute about grazing lands. That was years ago. I had thought the feud died out, but memories are long.”

  “And land is scarce,” Knorri said grimly. “That’s what usually motivates murder. Jarl Agirsson has four sons, and not near enough land for all of them. I suspect the younger ones mean to secure their fortune any way they can.”

  “Will the Thorkvald family take their dispute to the Thing?”

  Knorri snorted. “That’s what should be done. Let the council determine wergeld for the murders and insist that the Agirsson’s pay it. But ‘tis not like to happen. Thorkvald has sworn blood vengeance. Before you know it, half the fjords of the Norselands will be ablaze as one murder leads to another.”

  Dag sighed. Once, talk of raids and counterraids would have invigorated him. Now it made him weary. He was sick of bloodshed for the sake of bloodshed. He had looked forward to a dull winter sitting cozily around the fire with a horn of ale in his hand.

  “What? My little brother doesn’t jump at the chance to avenge his kinsmen?” Dag looked up, startled, and Sigurd laughed and continued, “The Thorkvalds are kin on our mother’s side, brother. No one would think it strange if we joined their raiding party.”

  “I don’t savor the thought of waking up to find burning timbers above my head,” Dag answered. “And you, Sigurd, have your sons to consider. Children are the first to perish if the raiding fever gets out of control.”

  “Have you lost your fighting spirit, brother?” Sigurd challenged. “It makes me wonder if that little Irish witch didn’t do something to you after all.”

  “Enough!” Dag found himself standing, his body rigid, his sword arm at his belt, ready to draw his weapon and smite his brother’s grinning face.

  He took a deep breath and sat down. It was just Sigurd’s way. He liked to find a man’s sensitive places and poke at them. It served nothing to rise to his bait.

  Knorri’s faded blue eyes shifted between Dag and Sigurd. “You boys have always been comfortable together. I used to tell Groa that you were as close as if you had arrived in this world in the same birthsack.” He sighed heavily, and his gaze became distant. “Don’t let a woman come between you now. Women come and go; all a man can count on is his sword brothers.”

  Dag stood once more. His conflict with his brother unsettled him. Better to seek his bed before his temper frayed further.

  He started toward his bedchamber then stopped. The Irishwoman. He couldn’t sleep there. He would have to seek out a bed in the cattle byre. At least the hay would be more comfortable than the Storm Maiden ‘s hard deck.

  He left the noisy hall and paused outside to gaze up at the sky. This far north, the nighttime sky was never fully dark during the sunseason, and the stars appeared only as faint specks amid the glowing heavens. He breathed in deeply, trying to find some satisfaction in being home. Nothing had changed at Engvakkirsted, but he felt different somehow. Was it really the fault of the Irishwoman, as Sigurd had jested? Had she done something to him? He held out his right arm and stared at it. Still stiff, but almost healed. Once he worked to get the muscles built up again, he would be able to use it as before.

  “Thor’s hammer, it feels good to be home,” a voice said beside him. Dag turned to see Rorig, the youngest of Knorri’s oathmen. A stab of guilt went through him. It was Rorig who had offered the Irishwoman fish on the journey home. He had reacted foolishly, with jealousy rather than gratitude, then later realized the younger man had made the offer out of kindness.

  “My apologies, sword brother, for the incident on the ship,” he told Rorig. “My anger was directed toward the woman, not you.”

  Rorig shrugged and held out a skin. “No harm done. If I had a woman like that, I would act like a dog with a choice bone myself.”

  Dag took a gulp of the sweet, potent liquid that filled the skin, buying time before he spoke. Would he look more foolish if he denied that the woman meant anything to him or if he admitted it?

  Rorig sighed. “I’m glad you saved the woman. ‘Tis witless of me, but while we were killing and burning, I could not help feeling pity for the Irish.”

  Hearing his own thoughts said aloud rattled Dag, but he managed to make his voice harsh as he answered. “Ja, ‘tis witless. A warrior can’t afford to feel pity. Any hesitation and you give your enemy a better chance of killing you. I vow you would forget your pity soon enough when you lay in the death straw bleeding your life away.”

  Rorig hiccuped and held out his hand for the skin. “I hear the wisdom in your words, Dag, but I do not feel it. There must be something besides this endless killing. As the youngest of sixth sons, I had no choice but to leave home with my sword and find a strong jarl to swear to, but I find I dislike
the life of a warrior.

  “What would you wish for instead?”

  “My own land, of course,” Rorig answered. In the glow from the northern lights, Dag could make out the troubled expression on the young man’s features. “I would be a farmer rather than a warrior, if I could.”

  “Land must always be defended,” Dag reminded him. “Even a farmer must keep his sword at the ready.”

  “I would not be a weak man, but neither would I be a man who makes his living by killing. I have no taste for raiding; I would do something else!”

  Rorig’s outburst struck an answering chord inside Dag. He, too, had tired of bloodletting. What was the glory in cutting down outnumbered, poorly armed men? In burning prosperous farmsteads? In slaughtering slaves and women? It left a man with naught but cold, gleaming treasure and ugly memories. There had to be a better life, but what was it?

  Chapter 12

  Fiona woke with a start. Someone was in the room with her. She could hear breathing, sense slight movements near the bed. Sitting up, she called, “Who’s there?”

  “You knew I was Irish back there in the feasting hall. Why else did you speak to me, call me ‘lass’?”

  “It’s you, the red-haired girl. You understood me!”

  “Aye, although ‘tis not wise to be seen prattling together.”

  Fiona nearly fainted with relief. Here, at last, was a friend, an ally. “Are you a slave, too? How long since you were captured?” she asked eagerly, moving closer to the girl.

  The girl struck a flint to light a soapstone lamp near the bed. She turned, and the lamplight illuminated her youthful features and the nimbus of curly hair around her face. “I don’t remember how long I’ve been here. Five winters mayhap. I was merely a child when the jarl’s nephew bought me.”

  “Bought you? You weren’t captured?”

  The girl snorted scornfully. “Not by Vikings. I was taken in a raid by the Ui Neill clan.”