Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  “I warned you, Dag.” Mina’s soft voice came from behind him. “ ‘Twill not be easy to keep the men away from her. Mayhap after that wild hair is cut off, her appeal will be lessened.”

  “Her hair?” Dag turned to face his sister-by-marriage. “You mean to cut her hair?”

  “I was just getting the scissors from the storage closet.”

  “Her hair is beautiful,” Dag protested. “Why must you destroy her loveliness?”

  “Really, Dag. Slaves do not have time to brush and plait their tresses, especially when they are as thick and long as hers. ‘Twould be impractical to leave her hair long.”

  “Nei.” Dag struggled to keep his voice calm. It was absurd that it bothered him to think of the Irishwoman having her hair cut. Mina was right. Once shorn of her glorious ebony tresses, the foreign woman would not seem so exotic and enticing. The men would bother her less.

  “Nei,” he repeated. He met Mina’s glance. She looked impatient. “I know it’s foolish, but I...” He took a deep breath, remembering the Irishwoman’s tender care of his arm. He had said he no longer owed her a debt, but in his heart he felt differently. He had made her a slave, but he didn’t want to see her humiliated. Her long black hair made her look like a queen, and he didn’t want her haughty beauty diminished. “I owe her this,” he said.

  Mina gazed at him a long moment, then nodded. “As I said, she remains your responsibility. I merely provide tasks to keep her busy. What of her clothes? Would you have her churn butter and bake bread in that frivolous garment she now wears?”

  Nei, I would rather have her naked every moment of the day. Dag suppressed the ridiculous thought. Of course, the woman must have sensible clothes. He glanced toward the red-haired girl, still standing by Fiona. The young thrall wore a shapeless, brownish wool garment, no doubt the usual attire for slaves. At least such a garment would hide the Irishwoman’s delectible figure.

  “Whatever you think best, Mina,” he answered.

  His sister-by-marriage turned away, her irritation obvious. Dag watched her beckon to Fiona and the slave girl, then lead them toward the storage chamber in the back of the hall.

  Dag returned to the table, his belly now too unsettled to eat. If Ulvi were still alive, he would dump his food in the straw and let her finish it off. Another pang of distress went through him. Engvakkirsted was not the same without his dog.

  Chapter 13

  Wretched itchy cloth! Fiona adjusted the platter of roast meat she carried and used her free hand to scratch at a place on her shoulder where her new garment rubbed. It might be looser and less confining than Duvessa’s kirtle, but the coarse weave of made the garment quite uncomfortable. The thick fabric was hot as well, especially in the closeness of the long- house. Fiona could feel perspiration beading her brow and trickling between her breasts.

  She paused and surveyed the smoky Viking longhouse. The place reeked of ale and stale sweat, and if that weren’t disgusting enough, she had to endure the sight of the bare-chested Norsemen gorging on the roast oxen cut from the steaming carcass in the firepit and swilling horn after horn of ale. It reminded Fiona vaguely of the feasts in her father’s hall, although certainly the Irish warriors who kept company with her father were never as coarse and crude as these men. The Vikings laughed raucously and constantly shouted challenges to each other in their barbaric tongue.

  At least they didn’t sing. Breaca had told her that, unlike the Irish, the Norse weren’t known for their love of music, although they greatly honored their storytellers, called skalds. Later in the evening, Breaca said, when the skald performed, the Vikings would grow amazingly quiet, listening like entranced children.

  Perhaps then she could rest, Fiona thought wearily. Her feet and back hurt and her head ached. If she sat down for even a moment, she would surely fall asleep, despite the din.

  She proceeded to the table at the end of the room where the jarl sat in an ornately carved chair. Fiona shuddered at the sight of his leathery face crisscrossed with wrinkles, his iron gray hair thinned to wisps across his bare scalp. She couldn’t help remembering Breaca’s suggestion that she entice him in order to gain better treatment. Nay, never would she do such a thing. If her lot became unbearable, she might try to win back Dag’s favor, but she would die rather than bed old Knorri.

  She moved behind the table and set the platter down in front of the jarl, acutely aware of Dag seated beside Knorri. Fiona could feel the bronze-haired Viking’s hot eyes watching her, and the awareness of his gaze caused a strange sensation to fill her lower belly. Every time she glanced toward him, Dag’s eyes were upon her. The intensity of his regard made her body feel hot, and the coarse wool rubbing against her nipples contributed to her distress.

  She turned abruptly to head back to the cooking area for another platter. Mayhap Dag didn’t hate her, she thought as she moved among the crowded tables. After all, he had come to her aid when the repulsive Viking—the one Breaca called Brodir—attacked her. If her slap hadn’t caused Brodir to release her, she felt certain Dag would have intervened. He must still feel he owed her for her care of him.

  Near the firepit, the Vikings had pushed the tables together, blocking her way. Fiona looked at the mass of flushed, sweating men and decided to go around. As she turned in the awkward space, a man’s hand reached out and grabbed her kirtle. Fiona shrieked as she recognized Brodir. He jerked her down into his lap. She struggled, crying out with rage and fear. Brodir laughed, his pig-like eyes raking over her. She reached up to strike him in the face, and he grasped her wrist and jerked it down with such force that tears filled her eyes.

  Fiona glanced desperately toward the jarl’s table, hoping Dag would see her and come to her rescue. Dag was turned away, apparently in deep conversation with his brother. Across the crowded, noisy longhouse, she had no hope of gaining his attention. Fiona twisted frantically as Brodir began to fondle her, his greasy fingers probing for her breasts beneath the rough wool. Desperation filled her. She hadn’t endured a ghastly sea voyage and the shame of slavery only to be raped by a filthy Viking swine in front of his leering companions. She must do something!

  She forced herself to go still and wait for her captor to relax his grip. If she had learned anything from her struggles with men, it was that she needed the advantage of surprise to have any hope of thwarting them.

  Brodir’s free hand roamed lower, seeking the bottom of the kirtle. Fiona’s eyes darted to the nearby table, where an eating knife glittered among the refuse of bones. She waited as the Viking tugged up her kirtle. His hand moved up her leg.

  In one swift motion, Fiona grabbed the knife then twisted around and jabbed at Brodir’s face. He jerked back, and the knife caught him in the side of the neck. Brodir bellowed, then released Fiona and reached up with both hands to pull out the knife. Blood spurted everywhere. Fiona, squirming to avoid the spray, lost her balance and pitched into the edge of the table. The rough wood hit her sharply in the shoulder, and pain lanced down her arm. Momentarily stunned, she had no chance to flee before strong arms grabbed her.

  Another Viking held her, his iron-like grip half-crushing the bones in her arms, his angry, flushed face glaring down on her. Fiona began to scream, her terrified cries adding to the uproar in the longhouse. She thrashed wildly, all rational thought gone from her mind. She didn’t want to die like this—murdered by a dozen mad Vikings!

  Fiona screamed and screamed, struggling frantically. She hardly noticed as another pair of strong arms wrenched her from the first man’s grasp. She continued to flail as her new captor flung her over his shoulder.

  Fiona found herself being borne to the corner of the dwelling. The noise and confusion of the longhouse receded. Her abductor ducked down to enter a doorway, then she was upended once more and flung onto a bed.

  Gasping for breath, she stared up into Dag’s livid face. Relief flooded her. He had protected her once again.

  As he continued to glare at her, Fiona’s sense of reprieve vanished.
Dag stood over her, fists clenched, his jaw rigid, his eyes flashing cold-blue fury. He might not kill her, but he looked as if he wanted to beat her senseless at least.

  Fiona heaved a sigh. Her body was bruised and aching, her throat raw from screaming. If she were doomed to die in this grim, foreign place, it might as well be by this magnificent warrior’s hand. She lay back on the bed, her limbs trembling with fatigue. Let him do his worst; she had no energy left to fight.

  Dag watched as the woman lay quiet, her light-colored eyes strangely tranquil, her slender arms stretched outward, as if she offered herself to him. He felt his anger depart as quickly as it had come. The woman had done nothing except defend herself. She couldn’t know that the penalty for a slave attacking a Viking warrior was death. Would the jarl be lenient with her because she was a woman, and a beautiful one at that?

  A shudder raced down his spine. That she was a woman made the insult worse. If Brodir died because of her attack, he would have suffered an ignoble death. Despite a lifetime of valiant fighting, his spirit would not be welcomed by the fallen heroes who knew glory in the great hall of Valhalla.

  But Brodir would not die, especially if his wound were tended properly. He’d survived a dozen serious sword and axe blows already. The man was as hard to kill as a thick-headed ox. But his hatred wouldn’t die, either. Brodir worshipped vengeance as the White Christ’s followers worshiped their kindhearted deity. Even if the jarl spared the Irishwoman’s life, Brodir would never stop plotting her punishment.

  Dag sighed wearily. He had been wrong to think he could be rid of his responsibility for the Irishwoman.

  There was a sound behind him. He turned as light from the doorway splintered across the dimly lit chamber. The red-haired slave crept into the room, her eyes wide. “You haven’t killed her yet, have you?” she asked.

  Dag shook his head. “How goes the mood in the longhouse? Has Brodir let off bellowing like a butchered pig?”

  “Ja, although he still calls for the Irishwoman’s blood. That one, he will not forget this.”

  “And the jarl—what says he?”

  The girl shrugged. “Knorri reassured Brodir that you will see your slave punished appropriately. He also warned him that the woman was your property and yours to do with as you see fit.”

  “Of course,” Dag answered bitterly. “ ‘Tis my responsibility to see her punished.”

  “How?”

  The dread in the slave girl’s tone unsettled Dag. Did she really fear he would kill the Irishwoman?

  “Stay with her,” he ordered the girl. “If anyone comes, run and find me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Dag paused in the firelight shining in through the doorway. “I must consult with the jarl.”

  As he entered, Dag observed that the hall had quieted. Near the firepit, Mina and Ingeborg tended to Brodir. At the front of the room Knorri, Sigurd, and Veland were talking and eating as if nothing had happened.

  Knorri looked up as Dag approached. He frowned slightly but said nothing as Dag took a seat on the bench opposite. Dag recovered his drinking horn and, holding it out, gestured for a slave to fill it.

  When he had drunk it down, he met Knorri’s watery-blue eyes. “I must consult with you, Uncle, regarding my thrall’s disgraceful behavior.”

  Knorri grunted.

  “ ‘Tis true she behaved outrageously, but considering that our ways are foreign to her, and she has been a slave only a short time...”

  “You would make excuses for her?” Knorri interrupted. “A woman? A slave?” He snorted loudly.

  “Why should the fact that she is a woman discredit her bravery?” Dag asked, trying another approach. “Can you deny that she fought well? If she were a man, even a slave, she would be lauded for her valor.”

  “Ja, lauded and then killed.” The jarl’s mouth set in a stubborn line.

  Dag remained silent, trying to reason out another argument for sparing the Irishwoman. He glanced toward the firepit. Two slaves cleaned up the blood; Mina and Ingeborg argued with Brodir, trying to get him to remain still so they could bandage the cut. The warrior’s face was flushed with anger, and he appeared to be cursing everyone and everything in sight.

  Dag turned back to Knorri. “Brodir doesn’t look to be grievously hurt. In a day or two, he will have nothing more than a small scar to show for the incident.”

  “Unless the wound festers,” Knorri said, his voice cold. “If I lose a good warrior because of your thrall’s foolishness, you will pay wergeld to me.”

  Dag set down his drinking beaker and used his finger to trace a pattern in the wood of the table. “If the Irishwoman tended Brodir’s wound, you could be certain it would not fester. She is very skilled. Sigurd had her tend my arm... on the ship.” He glanced up to see if Sigurd meant to contradict the misleading statement. “My sword arm was filling with poison, but she cleaned it and cured my fever as well.”

  Knorri’s eyes flickered with interest. “She is a wise woman?”

  “I can’t say for certain, but she is skilled at wounds.”

  Knorri nodded slowly. “At the very least, we must have her look at Brodir’s neck before we kill her. Knife wounds are serious.”

  Dag grimaced. Knorri’s talk of executing the Irishwoman made his guts twist. “I don’t want to kill her,” he ventured. “I owe her for aiding my arm.”

  Knorri took a drink of ale, then loudly passed wind. “She’s a slave; she had no choice. Even if she saved your life, it wouldn’t be a worthwhile exchange. A woman’s life is not nearly equal in value to a man’s. If a horse should save your life in battle, do you owe the beast a debt?” Knorri guffawed.

  Why not? Dag questioned silently. Why could not an animal and a man’s soul be bound together? He had saved Ulvi’s life, and she would have been willing to do the same for him, if she still lived. He could not feel that animals’ souls were so different than men’s. And a woman—was not the Irishwoman’s spirit every bit as valuable as his?

  “On my honor as a warrior, I can’t see her put to death.” He met the jarl’s gaze firmly. “She is my property, is she not? Surely you will not force me to kill a valuable slave, so long as Brodir recovers fully.”

  “What about flogging?” Veland, who had been sitting quietly nearby, spoke up. “ ‘Tis a lesser punishment, but it might satisfy Brodir. He only wants to see her suffer.”

  The image of the Irishwoman’s slender back crisscrossed with scarlet welts flashed into Dag’s mind. Nei, he could bear that even less than seeing her put to death. “I fear such treatment would kill her,” he said. “She is a small, soft-skinned woman, unused to hardship. Even if flogging didn’t cause her death, it would ruin her as a thrall.”

  “Why?” Knorri asked. “If, as Sigurd tells me, you mean to set the woman to baking and weaving for Mina, why should a few scars on her backside interfere with her usefulness?”

  Dag felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He had no explanation for his wish to spare the Irishwoman. It was weakness on his part, pure and simple.

  Knorri gazed at Dag sharply. “Feel you some affection for this woman, mayhap desire to beget children of her?”

  Dag froze. What should he say? He didn’t want to admit his feelings for the Irishwoman, but it might be the only way to save her. “She is comely,” he admitted.

  Sigurd laughed loudly. Knorri did not join in Sigurd’s amusement. He frowned and said gravely, “If you care for her, I will respect your wishes. But don’t forget that your first responsibility is to your sword brothers.”

  Dag released his breath in a sigh. Thank Odin, Knorri was so fond of him. The old man would never have honored the feelings of any man excepting his nephews.

  “What of flogging?” Veland asked. “Have you decided to forgo that as well?”

  “Dag is right,” Knorri said. “Such harsh treatment might well kill her.” He waved his gnarled hand dismissingly. “The woman will tend to Brodir’s wound, and Dag will choose some appropriate
punishment to subdue her spirit.” The jarl paused and glared at Dag. “From now on, you must control her. A slave who dares to attack a warrior—I will not allow it at my steading.”

  The jarl got up and began to walk unsteadily toward the longhouse entrance, likely intent on relieving himself. Dag heaved a sigh at the jarl’s departure, then cast a look toward the door of his bedcloset. His jaw set. In his mind at least, the debt to the woman had been repaid. Would she ever appreciate how much he had risked to save her life?

  Sigurd’s mocking voice interrupted Dag’s musings. “How will you punish her, brother?” he asked. “Or will you?”

  Dag rose abruptly and followed the jarl’s path to the door of the longhouse.

  * * *

  “You think they will kill me?” Fiona gaped at the Irish girl. “For stabbing a man who molested me? What kind of savages are these Northmen?”

  Breaca shrugged. “I warned you that they consider slaves as little better than animals. In their eyes, Brodir had the right to rape you on the table in front of all. When you struggled, you broke their laws. When you stabbed him, you committed an outrageous crime.”

  “But Brodir had no right to touch me! Sigurd said clearly that I belong to Dag!”

  “That is all that might save you. As Dag’s property, your punishment is up to him. If he argues for your life, you might escape with only a flogging.”

  Fiona felt sick. All the times she had defied Dag—now, her life was in his hands. Would he see fit to spare her?

  Fiona got up quickly, brushing down her kirtle. A plan whirled through her mind. She recalled seeing a forested area behind the steading when they first arrived. If she could escape from the longhouse...

  “What are you planning?” Breaca asked sharply.

  Fiona gazed at the Irish girl. Could she trust her? Truly, she had no choice. If she were to get away, she must have help. “I mean to run away. Will you help me?”

  Breaca’s expression grew grim. “You really are a lackwit, aren’t you? You think you have merely to walk off? That they will not search for you and bring you back? A runaway slave is always killed, and not in a pleasant way, either. Even Dag could not forestall that verdict.”