Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  “Where are you from?” Fiona asked. “What part of Ireland?”

  “Rath Coole, near the settlement the Norse call ‘Dublin,’ and you?”

  “A place called Dunsheana, along the Shannon River.”

  “How did you come to be captured?”

  Fiona’s lips compressed with bitterness. “The Northmen attacked my father’s palisade. They burned everything. The other women were able to hide in the souterrain, but I... I...” Fiona hesitated. How could she explain her need to try and save Dermot and the other boys, to somehow make up for aiding the Viking prisoner? “I was trying to find my foster brother when the Vikings found me,” she finished.

  The slave girl frowned. “ ‘Tis not like Sigurd to take slaves in a raid. He believes it easier and less risky to purchase them at the slave markets.”

  “ ‘Twas not Sigurd’s decision. I was made a slave by the one called Dag.”

  “Dag!” The girl looked startled. “ ‘Tis not like Dag to take slaves at all.” Her gray eyes peered at Fiona closely. “How did Dag come to possess you? Was he trying to save you from being killed by one of the other men?”

  “In a way,” Fiona acknowledged. “I helped him, and he... he returned the favor.”

  “How did you help him?”

  Fiona took a deep breath. “My father’s warriors captured Dag a few days before the rest of the Vikings attacked. He was wounded, and my father threw him into the souterrain. I took pity on him and aided him.” The Irish girl gave her a startled look. Fiona suddenly realized how traitorous her actions sounded.

  “I didn’t free him or anything so foolish,” she added quickly, suppressing the memory of removing the Viking’s arm shackles.

  “But obviously he got free.”

  Fiona nodded, unable to reply. What she had done sounded shamefully disloyal.

  The Irish girl’s gaze bored into her. “You and Dag are well- matched. His kindheartedness has more than once brought about the men’s ridicule. He doesn’t like to see any creature suffer. He’s very fond of animals. For a while, he had a pet dog, let it sleep by his bed, and went everywhere with it.”

  Fiona’s curiosity was piqued. “A dog? What happened to it?”

  “Died in the spring. Some bad meat or something.”

  A Viking with a pet. The thought jarred Fiona’s convictions about her enemy even more. Dag sounded almost like a normal man. Of course, she knew better.

  “You’re wrong,” she told the Irish girl. “Dag is no better than the rest of his bestial countrymen. As soon as he got me alone, he tore off my clothes and tried to ravish me.” She shivered at the memory.

  “Tried to ravish you?”

  “I fought him off,” Fiona said proudly.

  The Irish girl’s eyes narrowed. “You are a slave now. The Northmen hold the power of life and death over each of us. ‘Tis foolish to defy them or anger them, even one such as Dag.”

  “I won’t submit meekly,” Fiona protested. “I will go to my death cursing my foul captors!”

  “Aye, you very likely will,” the girl agreed. “I’ve seen it before. Those who won’t submit don’t survive. ‘Tis your choice. Apparently you are braver than me. I have a strong desire to live, even if it means accepting my lot as a slave.”

  Fiona felt a chill at the girl’s matter-of-fact words. Had she not vowed only a few days ago that she would do whatever was necessary to survive? Now she threatened to throw her life away in order to spite her captors. She must not forget her goal of someday returning to Eire.

  “Aye, you are right,” she said with a sigh. “I don’t really want to die. My plan is to escape and make my way back to Eire.”

  The Irish girl shook her head mournfully. “I know of not one slave who has ever escaped. Better that you should earn your master’s favor and win your freedom that way.” While Fiona stared at her in surprise, the Irish girl continued. “Aye, it can happen. Sometimes a Northman will become so fond of a woman slave, he frees her and makes her his wife. You are comely enough that you might well win a man’s heart—and your freedom.”

  “I will do no such thing,” Fiona insisted. “I made a vow to my dead kin that I would avenge them. How can I seek revenge if I wed one of my enemies? Besides, I am poor at deception. My face shows everything I feel. I could never convince a Viking I cared for him when, in truth, I hate the whole race.”

  “A pity.” The Irish girl shrugged. “If I possessed your beauty, I would use it to better my lot any way I could, even if it meant spreading my thighs for the old jarl himself.”

  Fiona shuddered. The girl was very young for such grim reasoning. “How old are you?” Fiona asked.

  The girl frowned. “Mayhap fourteen or fifteen winters by now.”

  “Are there many Irish slaves here?”

  “There are my two brothers, plus a half-dozen others. You are not like to meet them, though. They all work in the fields and seldom venture into the longhouse.”

  “That would make almost ten. If we all joined together and planned an escape...” Fiona mused.

  The Irish girl gave her a stricken look and moved toward the door.

  “Wait!” Fiona scrambled to the edge of the box bed. “Where are you going?”

  The girl regarded her warily. “I told you, I have no wish to displease my Viking masters. I want no part of any plan for escape. ‘Tis foolhardy to even speak of it.”

  “All right.” Fiona sighed softly, wondering if in five years her outlook would be as resigned and hopeless as this girl’s. “I won’t speak of things that distress you. I would like to be friends.”

  The girl nodded. “I would like that also.”

  “What’s your name?” Fiona asked.

  “Breaca.”

  “I am Fiona, daughter of Donall Mac Frachan, chieftain of the Deasunachta.”

  “Fiona of the Deasunachta—a fine name,” Breaca said, her voice soft with something like awe. “A name fit for a princess.”

  “I was,” Fiona said bleakly. “I was.”

  * * *

  He was burning. The blazing timbers of the longhouse showered him with sparks that smoldered against his skin. He tried to run, but the flames followed him. He saw the Irishwoman and shouted a warning. She turned, and her green eyes met his with a defiant look.

  Dag shouted again. This time he woke himself up. Relief shuddered through him. There was no fire, merely the sun shining on his face through a broken patch in the byre roof. His skin was not burning, although the straw he was lying on made it itch mightily. And the woman. Mayhap she was not real either.

  Dag sighed. Nei, he had not dreamed the woman. He remembered dumping her in his sleeping chamber. While he tossed uncomfortably on a pile of straw, she snuggled among the soft furs on his bed.

  A tremor of sexual longing went through him as he envisioned the Irishwoman, her creamy nakedness spread out on the bedfurs, the silky patch of black curls between her thighs contrasting with her milky skin, the tantalizing pink tips of her breasts jutting upwards. He groaned. The bedeviling woman continued to torture him.

  Getting up, he stretched, trying to ease the stiffness from his muscles. He could not wait much longer to settle his captive’s situation. He must find Mina and win her aid.

  As he had anticipated, his sister-by-marriage was already up and busy with household tasks. He found her near the hearth, ladling porridge into a wooden bowl for the boys’ morning meal.

  “Mina.”

  She nodded and went on with her tasks after he greeted her. “About the woman,” he began. “I think she could be of use to you. You spend hours in the task of clothmaking. Certainly another pair of skilled hands would be welcome.” Dag paused, reluctant to push too hard.

  “Sigurd thinks you will regret it if I accept your gift,” Mina answered in her soft voice. “He thinks you should keep the woman as a bed thrall.”

  Dag’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want her, no matter what Sigurd thinks.”

  “Sigurd said you would sa
y that.” Mina turned to look at him. “For your sake, I will agree to train her as a house thrall, but I can do nothing else. She needs a protector, and Sigurd refuses to take on the responsibility. If the other men harass her, you will have to be the one to defend her.”

  “Can she sleep with the other female slaves?” Dag asked. He would do anything to get his bedcloset back—and his life as well.

  “If you wish it. Although it might not be the safest arrangement for a comely, young thrall.”

  Dag heaved a sigh of relief. “She’s yours then. I serve as her protector, but you will order her life and keep her busy.”

  Mina nodded.

  Dag turned and headed toward the corner of the longhouse where his bedchamber lay. He would not waste any time making it clear to the Irishwoman what her new circumstances were. Her life as a house thrall would not be idle, but it would not be overly harsh, either. Among the Norse, no woman’s life was leisurely. Mina might rule as the mistress of Jarl Knorri Sorlisson’s household, but she had little free time to enjoy her status. She was always busy.

  Reaching the door of the bedchamber, Dag flung it open. Two pairs of startled eyes met his. Dag looked from the little red-haired thrall’s face to the Irishwoman’s. There was something conspiratorial about the way they stood near each other.

  “You speak her language?” he demanded of the red-haired girl. She watched him warily a moment, then nodded.

  Dag felt a spurt of resentment. It made him feel more frustrated than ever to think that a raggedy thrall could communicate with his captive while he could not.

  He quickly quelled his irritation. The Irishwoman needed someone to share her thoughts with, else she would be miserable with loneliness. Besides, it would be less troublesome to communicate with the captive through a female thrall than through Sigurd.

  “Tell her that she is to serve Mina,” he said to the girl. “Mina will be responsible for her duties and her living arrangements.”

  The girl turned and repeated his words to the Irishwoman. Dag saw Fiona look past him toward the main room of the longhouse. Her expression was cautious, but not rebellious. He inwardly heaved a sigh of relief.

  Mayhap his burden for the foreign woman would finally lift.

  “Take her to Mina now,” he told the girl. “She will see that she is fed and cared for.”

  The slave girl nodded. Dag darted one last look at the Irishwoman’s endlessly beguiling face, then strode out of his bedcloset.

  Fiona followed Breaca into the main room of the longhouse. She was to serve a woman, and a gently bred one at that. Observing Sigurd’s wife closely the previous night, she had been impressed by her quiet, efficient manner. It was startling to imagine someone like her married to a lout like Sigurd.

  The woman known as Mina looked up as Fiona approached. A slight frown marred her face then disappeared. She said something to Breaca in Norse. Breaca quickly translated. “She asks how much you know about clothmaking?”

  “Some.” Fiona met the Norsewoman’s probing gaze. She must please her new mistress, but it seemed better not to exaggerate her abilities. Although, like all woman, she had been trained in spinning and weaving garments, in recent years, her duties had been limited to supervising others.

  Mina again spoke to Breaca, who translated. “She wants me to take you to the bathhouse. After you are clean, she will find some clothes for you and your hair will be cut to an acceptable length.”

  Fiona’s hand went to the long braid that hung over her shoulder.

  “Come,” Breaca said abruptly and headed toward the door. Fiona forced herself to follow.

  “What is Mina like?” Fiona asked as the two women walked across the hard-packed dirt outside the longhouse.

  “She is not cruel, but she demands hard work from her thralls. You would be better off if you had submitted to Dag and he had decided to keep you for his bed.”

  Fiona decided not to argue. She had no fear of hard work, and serving a woman was bound to be better than serving Dag. But her hair—did Mina truly mean to cut it off? She glanced at Breaca’s butchered tresses and shuddered.

  The girl turned to her. “If you were Dag’s bed thrall, he would not cut your hair.” Her eyes took in Duvessa’s kirtle. “Like as not, he would let you keep your own clothes as well.”

  Fiona clenched her jaw. She would not let petty vanity weaken her resolve. Even so, she could not resist looking down at the soft blue wool she wore. The garment was the only thing she possessed which linked her to her past life in Eire. To give it up would be another painful loss.

  Breaca led her to a timber building with smoke pouring through a hole in the roof. Inside, there was a large pile of rocks near a fire and several troughs full of water. Breaca gestured to a wooden bench near one of the troughs. “Take your clothes off and put them there.”

  Fiona removed her shoes and kirtle. Breaca watched, her blue eyes intent. Fiona had not been so acutely aware of her body since the Viking saw her naked. There was not lust on Breaca’s face, but cool assessment. Fiona felt herself being inspected like a cow at a summer fair.

  Breaca filled a pail with water from one of the troughs and dumped it over Fiona’s head. Fiona spluttered and pushed her dripping hair out of her face. Before she could catch her breath, Breaca doused her again.

  When Fiona was fully soaked, Breaca handed her a fistful of squishy soap that smelled strongly of pine. Fiona rubbed it over herself. Breaca rinsed her, then Fiona stood shivering until Breaca fetched her a rough cloth to dry off with.

  Her bath finished, Fiona put on her kirtle again and combed her fingers through her hair. It felt wonderful to be clean, but underneath her satisfaction, anxiety hovered. How long would it be before she was forced to relinquish Duvessa’s gown and have her hair hacked off?

  Fiona followed Breaca back the way they had come. Before they reached the longhouse, Breaca veered off toward a squat daub-and-wattle building that stood near what was obviously a cattle byre. She led Fiona inside the dwelling and gestured to the rows of pallets spread on the floor. “This is where we sleep.”

  Fiona looked at the bare, gloomy chamber, the rude, uncomfortable-looking pallets, and the first glimmerings of doubt stirred in her mind. Could she endure the hardship which lay ahead?

  She met Breaca’s pitying gaze. “I warned you,” the red- haired girl said. She took Fiona’s arm and guided her back toward the longhouse. “At least consider what I suggest. If you are set against offering yourself to Dag, what about Sigurd?”

  They reached the doorway of the longhouse and went in. Seeing Mina at the hearth, Fiona expected Breaca to end the conversation. Instead, she continued arguing her cause. “Sigurd will be jarl after Knorri dies, and ‘tis not uncommon for jarls to take second wives. If you could snare his interest, you’d want for nothing. He dotes on his sons, too; if you birthed him a babe, he would certainly claim it.”

  “Sigurd?” Fiona smothered a laugh. “He hates me.”

  “What about Knorri, then? The jarl’s been ailing lately, but he’s still a man.”

  “He’s old,” Fiona protested. “I doubt I could even get his shaft to rise.”

  “But if you did, he would be exceptionally grateful,” Breaca pointed out. “He’s old, but he might live many more years. He could gift you with many things during that time, even your freedom.”

  Mina turned toward them, and Fiona flushed, thinking of the impropriety of their conversation. Thank the saints the North woman did not speak Irish.

  * * *

  Dag took a deep breath of fresh air before entering the stuffy longhouse. He went to the hearth and grabbed a piece of rye bread, then spooned some milk curds into a wooden bowl. Going to one of the board tables, he took a seat on a bench and began to eat.

  Brodir sauntered over to the table, scratching his belly. “What have you done with the Irish bitch?” he asked. “Does she still sleep? Did you ride her so hard she cannot rise?”

  Dag shrugged. “She’s up and bus
y with the other women. Mina will be ordering her tasks.”

  “Mina?” Brodir’s beady eyes narrowed even further. “You mean to make the foreign woman a house thrall? To set her to spinning and baking bread?”

  Dag shot the other man a warning look. “ ‘Tis what she was trained for.”

  Brodir chortled. “Nei, that woman was made for bedding and naught else. What ails you, Dag, that you don’t keep her as a bed thrall?”

  A muscle in Dag’s face twitched. This was what he feared, the other men’s interest in Fiona. How could he warn off Brodir without again involving the Irishwoman in his life? “Mina will see to her,” he answered firmly.

  “And at night...” Brodir’s eyes glittered with lust. “Who will see to her then? I warn you, Dag, if she doesn’t sleep in your bed, I mean to have her in mine.” The greasy-haired warrior rose and strode away.

  Dag’s stomach clenched. Not two hours had passed since he’d spoken with Mina, and already his plan was threatened.

  He glanced toward the door and sucked in his breath in consternation. Fiona and the red-haired slave girl entered the longhouse as Brodir was leaving. Dag watched Brodir brush by the Irishwoman, nearly knocking her off her feet. The warrior reached out, as if to steady her, but instead of grasping her arm, his hand caught her waist, then skimmed upwards to grope her breast.

  In a second, Dag was on his feet and heading toward the doorway. He saw the outrage and fury on the Irishwoman’s face as her hand came out to strike at Brodir. She slapped him hard on the chin. Brodir laughed and released her. Before Dag could get there, Brodir slipped out the door, still laughing.

  As Dag strode up, the Irishwoman fixed him with a defiant glare, her green eyes flashing fire. He returned her gaze coldly. Although pleased at her swift response to Brodir, he resented that he was again forced to concern himself with her welfare.

  With only a few feet between them, he could smell the pine scent of Mina’s special soap clinging to Fiona’s damp hair and observe the pink flush of her clean, glowing skin enhancing her already formidable sexual appeal. He wanted her with a desire bordering on obsession—-why should not the other men crave her as well?