Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  He sought out the dairy first, a cool, dark building made of stone where the women transformed buckets of fresh milk into curds, buttermilk, and butter. Seeing no sign of Fiona or Breaca, he went on to the bakery. The small building seemed unbearably hot, and he was relieved to find that Fiona had apparently not been forced to toil there. He was on his way to the sour-smelling brewhouse when Breaca came running toward him. Her eyes were wide with alarm, but she did not speak until she drew near.

  “Dag.” She spoke in a low, urgent voice. “I can’t find Fiona!”

  Fear clutched at Dag’s insides. Had Brodir or some other man abducted her? Was she even now being raped in some shadowy glen in the forest? He fought for calm, reminding himself that Brodir had been along on the fishing trip and, until a short while ago, far from the steading.

  “When did you last see her?”

  “She was in the bakehouse,” Breaca panted. “When I went there, the other thralls told me she’d left. When Ymir asked about her, I lied and said that I’d sent her to the brewery to get more yeast. But the truth is, Fiona has vanished.”

  “You don’t think she ran away, do you?” As he asked the question, Dag shuddered inwardly. The punishment for a slave who sought to escape was always death.

  “I don’t think so. She seemed restless this morning, but I feel certain she understands how hopeless such an attempt would be. Still...” Breaca drew nearer and lowered her voice even more. “If she did run away, we must find her before anyone notices she’s gone. I’ve told no one but you that she is missing.”

  The impact of Breaca’s beseeching words jarred Dag. She was asking him to find Fiona and bring her back before her foolishness was known, to cover up an escape attempt. If he did such a thing, he would be in defiance of the laws of his people. Did he care enough for the woman to agree to do something so underhanded?

  He considered a moment, then decided abruptly that he did. It was his fault she was his captive. He was responsible for her.

  “Where would she go?” he asked Breaca.

  Breaca shook her head helplessly. “The forest... the hills... I know not.”

  “Keep looking here,” Dag ordered. “I’ll search the woods.”

  Dag’s breath kept catching in his chest as he searched, even though he moved slowly enough that he caused himself no real exertion. It was his thoughts which made him gasp with dread. If Fiona were found and accused of fleeing, he would have to argue for her life again, and he likely would not succeed this time.

  He swatted violently at an overhanging branch which blocked his pathway. Damn the reckless wench! Why could she not think before she acted?

  As he circled back to the far edge of the home meadow, he heard the commotion. Raised, angry voices, a woman’s scream—it could only mean one thing.

  He raced toward the sound, vaulting easily over the low turf wall and dashing across the open area behind the longhouse. His worst fears were confirmed when he rounded the corner of building and saw the Irishwoman flailing in Balder’s grasp, her long black hair unbound and wild around her face. Nearby, Sigurd stood with his hands on hips, regarding the woman coldly.

  Dag forced himself to a walk and approached. “What’ s this? What’s happened?” he called, struggling not to sound winded.

  Sigurd turned. His blue eyes were harsh, forbidding. “Balder found the woman on the beach. He said she was near the ship, either planning sabotage or intending to hide there until she could escape.”

  In response to Sigurd’s words, the woman shouted something and struggled furiously. Dag was near enough now to see the terror in her eyes, the blind, unreasoning panic. She thought she was going to die.

  Dag tried to meet her gaze, to reassure her, but she looked beyond him, as if he were only another of her persecutors. “What does the woman say?” he asked Sigurd.

  “She denies the accusation, of course. She said she only needed some fresh air, that the heat of the bakehouse made her sick.”

  “It seems like a probable explanation.” Dag shrugged, seeking to lighten the tense atmosphere. “The woman knows it would be futile to run away. Why would she throw her life away in such an absurd fashion? She has no hope of using the ship to return to Ireland; if she wished to escape, or even hide, she would flee to the hills.”

  “Panic can make even clever minds useless. Look at the woman now, and tell me she is not capable of witless behavior.”

  Reluctantly, Dag glanced at Fiona. She did look half mad. Her eyes were dilated, her fine features distorted. Silently, he cursed her for falling into such an obvious trap. But what would he do, he asked himself, if he faced a terrible death in a foreign land? Might not his composure fail him also?

  “Tell me.” Dag turned his gaze to Balder. “What was she doing when you found her?”

  The barrel-chested warrior gave Fiona’s slim arms a vicious squeeze, then answered. “It matters not what she was doing, only her obvious intent.”

  “Kill her!” Brodir’s voice echoed with barely repressed satisfaction. “If naught else, we have reason to believe she cursed the ship. For that alone, she should die!”

  “Of all the superstitious, stupid...” Dag broke off his angry words as his brother raised his hand for silence. He reminded himself that he must keep his head and make Sigurd his ally. Sigurd might mislike the woman, but he would not allow his feelings to cause him to pass judgment unfairly. “You can’t kill the woman for giving the appearance of trying to escape,” Dag reminded his brother. “What law did she break by going to the beach and looking at the ship?”

  “She cursed it, you fool!”

  “Silence!” Sigurd cut short Brodir’s outburst with a savage glance. “My brother has asked a reasonable question, and I will consider it as such.” He turned his penetrating gaze to Balder. “Tell us, Balder, what was the woman doing when you found her?”

  Some men would have lied—Brodir certainly would have—but Balder was a loyal oathman and he would not bend the truth he gave his leader. “She was sitting on a rock, looking at the ship. When she saw me, she jumped up and began to run.”

  “Which direction did she flee?” Sigurd asked.

  “The path toward the longhouse. When I caught up with her, she tried to scratch my eyes out.” Balder took his sword hand off the woman long enough to gesture toward the bloody gouges on his cheek, and Fiona immediately jerked away from his grasp. Dag reached out and grabbed her, capturing her thrashing form in his arms. She struggled for a time, then quieted. Dag held her in an iron-like grip, determined that she would not slip away again.

  “It seems to me that if the woman’s intent had been escape, she would not have run toward the longhouse,” he argued to Sigurd. “More likely she was afraid Balder meant to molest her.”

  “Once again, your brother defends the little Irish witch.” Brodir moved close to Dag, his eyes narrowed in hatred. “It makes me wonder what the woman did to him when they were down in that hole together. I think she has bewitched your brother, Sigurd. If you want him as he was, you’d best kill her before her venomous beauty poisons the rest of his mind.”

  Dag met his brother’s gaze, wondering if Sigurd believed a little of Brodir’s accusations.

  Sigurd regarded him intently, his eyes dark with displeasure. “ ‘Tis obvious that my brother wishes the woman’s life preserved,” he said grimly. “Because there is no clear proof of her disobedience, I will grant his request. But from this moment on, I make him completely responsible for her behavior. If she breaks Norse law, he will suffer as well as her.”

  “I will go to Knorri!” Brodir howled in outrage, turning to head toward the longhouse. “If you will not punish her, I will see that the jarl does!”

  “Nei, you will not.” Sigurd’s commanding voice stopped Brodir in his tracks. “The incident took place on the beach, near the ship that is under my authority. You will not trouble the jarl with this matter. You will accept my decree.”

  Brodir stared at Sigurd, then his shoulders s
agged with resignation. Dag watched with relief. Despite his hatred, Brodir was obviously not fool enough to defy the man who led him into battle, who guided the ship he sailed on. Then Dag turned toward his brother, and the grinding dread in his belly returned. Sigurd wore an expression which made it clear what he felt about the Irishwoman and Dag’s defense of her.

  Dag tightened his grip on the woman in his arms. He could not keep doing this, defending Fiona against the wrath of his sword brothers. Somehow he must teach her meekness. Somehow he must impress upon her the futility of defiant behavior.

  At Sigurd’s abrupt gesture, the crowd of men dispersed. Dag led Fiona toward the longhouse. Breaca met them and gave Dag a puzzled, worried look. He motioned with his head toward his bedcloset, and the slave girl indicated she would be there soon.

  Inside his sleeping chamber, waiting for Breaca, Dag released Fiona and heaved a sigh of aggravation. He’d had the Irishwoman’s life spared, but what foolishness would she think up for the morrow? As soon as Breaca arrived, he would have her warn Fiona that she must be an obedient thrall from now on or he would beat her himself.

  The woman appear to have collected herself. She no longer trembled, and her eyes held sense once again. Dag wasn’t certain he trusted a rational Fiona any more than a crazed one. He remained blocking the doorway.

  There was a faint knock. Breaca entered and rushed to Fiona, examining her for injury. “What did they do to her?” she asked Dag breathlessly. “Did Balder try to rape her?”

  “Nei,” Dag answered, his voice cold. “She left the steading and went down to the beach. Balder found her there and nearly convinced everyone that she was trying to escape. Her dim-witted behavior nearly cost her her life.”

  The woman responded to his words with an angry retort. Aggravated that she could not wait for Breaca to translate his explanation, Dag reached out and grabbed Fiona’s arm. He shook her lightly, punctuating his next words. “Because of her stupidity, I am to be held accountable for her future actions. Her disobedience will be counted as my disobedience. Her punishment will be mine!”

  Breaca’s eyes widened, then she turned to Fiona and spoke rapidly. The Irishwoman’s gaze jerked to meet his. For a moment, there was amazement in her expression, then it gradually froze to anger. She spoke vehemently, then turned her back to him.

  Dag looked to Breaca. She hesitated, obviously reluctant to give him Fiona’s words. “She says... she says she didn’t ask for your help.” Breaca swallowed. “She says you were a fool to save her life.”

  Fury washed through Dag, blotting out all fear, sympathy, and concern. “Leave us!” He ground out the words to Breaca, not looking at her. She took a sharp breath and scuttled from the room.

  He advanced toward Fiona, his hands itching to finish what Balder had begun. When he grabbed her arms and turned her around to face him, fire leapt into her eyes. She jerked away and moved backwards until she could retreat no further, then squared her shoulders and raised her chin. On some level he was aware of how beautiful she appeared in her defiance, how awe-inspiring. No valkerie had ever faced an enemy with more spirit and courage. She was a goddess.

  He reached out and grabbed a handful of her gown, pulling her toward him. Her chin lifted higher; her eyes seemed to flash green sparks. He sought to tear the gown down the front. She yanked it from his grasp, protesting. Before he could lay hands on her again, she lifted the skirt of the garment and began to pull it over her head. He watched, spellbound, as her naked body was revealed. She pulled the garment free of her tousled hair and flung it aside. Her breasts heaved, with exertion, with excitement, he knew not what, only that he was utterly bedazzled by the sight of her.

  Dag felt himself lose control, felt the heavy, intoxicating desire flooding his veins. His anger vanished. He moved toward the bed, half-dragging her onto it. When she lay beneath him, he tore down his trews and mounted her. She moaned softly, but didn’t struggle. He cried out, overcome with the lush warmth surrounding his flesh, thrusting fiercely inside her. She keened her pleasure with a harsh, animal-like cry. He thrust again, harder, knowing he could make her scream, knowing anyone hearing them in the longhouse would think the cause pain, not passion.

  How rough he was! This was what she had expected the first time—not the gentle expertise he had shown her. He was a beast now, a wild, lust-filled beast. But Fiona didn’t care. It didn’t hurt. Nay, it felt wonderful. To feel his power, his strength, his maleness impaling her body to the edge of her womb. She shuddered and gave in to him, reveling in the tremors that wracked her arms and legs and pulled him deeper inside her. Clutching his shoulders, she reached for the heights, climbing to the very precipice. The maelstrom whirled inside her, inflaming her every sense. She arched her back and cried out....

  Spiraling down from her climax, she heard Dag’s exultant shout. Some fierce emotion swept over her, a raging, helpless tenderness. This man had saved her life—again. The thought astounded her, utterly undid her. She reached to stroke Dag’s sweaty skin, murmuring Irish love words.

  Too late, she realized what she was doing. Her fingers stilled on his cheek, and she looked up into his lust-dilated eyes. Her slowing heartbeat began to race again. Did he guess how close she had come to telling him she loved him?

  As he moved off of her, she looked away, embarrassed and disturbed. She didn’t want to be under this man’s power. She had sought to stand up to him, to make him hate her. In the end she had failed.

  Dag shifted to lie on his back and pulled her to nestle against him. Again, Fiona felt the lump in her throat, the onslaught of emotion. Why could she not hate this man? He was her enemy. Why must he try to disprove that fact? He insisted on coming to her defense, saving her life. It made her want to weep. She had no shield against his kindness.

  Dag must have sensed her turmoil, for he moved his hand to fondle her breast. Fiona felt an answering throb inside her. With a sigh, she gave in to the slow, lazy waves of pleasure lapping at her resolve.

  Chapter 18

  “Kylling. “ Breaca pointed to brown-feathered fowl pecking in the dirt.

  Dutifully, Fiona repeated the word. Her mind whirled with strange sounds; she wondered how she would ever remember them.

  “Ull.” Breaca gestured to the bales of raw wool stacked against the wall of the weaving house, Fiona nodded and said the word, then took a seat on a stool to begin spinning. “You must continue with my lessons as we work,” she told Breaca. “I would speak at least a few Norse words to Dag this night.”

  Breaca repeated the words she had already given to Fiona. Fiona repeated them impatiently, desperate for a grasp upon this elusive tool which might give her access to Dag’s thoughts. The lesson was abruptly interrupted by a loud shriek. Young Gunnar came tearing in, his brother Ingolf in hot pursuit. Mina rose wearily and said something in her quiet voice.

  Ingolf exploded with a torrent of angry, tearful words. Fiona guessed that his older brother had done something to him and Ingolf had retaliated. Now, Gunnar was out for vengeance.

  Gunnar began to shout as well. Mina took a sharp breath, as if in pain. She looked as if she might faint. Fiona hurried toward her while Breaca shooed the quarreling boys outside.

  Fiona helped Mina to the stool, frowning. It was bad enough that Mina had to work so hard, worse yet that her sons were constantly coming to her to settle their disputes. Why couldn’t Sigurd look after the boys for a time if no women could be spared for the task?

  Fiona picked up the spindle she’d dropped and resumed her seat on the stool. Breaca came back in, still carrying her spindle. Fiona looked at the simple implement, and a sudden thought came to her. Why must the spinning always be done in the weaving house? The spindles were portable, as was the wool. Why couldn’t the tedious work be done outside where it was more pleasant?

  She pondered the thought, trying to decide how to suggest the idea to Mina. The sound of the boys arguing again gave her the perfect plan. “Breaca,” she called softly in Irish. “Why
can’t we take our spinning outside while we look after Gunnar and Ingolf? We could take them to the orchard and give Mina a respite from their squabbling.

  Breaca seemed startled by the idea, but then she nodded and explained the plan to Mina.

  Mina assented easily, and Fiona and Breaca gathered up their spindles, distaffs, and wool. The boys raced ahead to the orchard. Breaca followed quickly after them. Fiona took her time as she walked through the sweet-smelling hayfield that bordered the orchard, savoring the warm nostalgia that washed through her. On hot days like this one, Duvessa and she had often found refuge under the boughs of her father’s apple trees, spicy rich with fruit ripening in the sunshine. It seemed so long ago. She had been such a child then, no more heedful of the dangers of the world than young Gunnar and Ingolf. How swiftly her life had changed. She had acquired the wisdom of a woman and been made a thrall in one bleak, dark night.

  She looked back toward the steading, and a shadow of fear crossed her mind. What if Brodir or the other men accused her of trying to escape again? Nay, surely they would not. Why would she take Sigurd’s sons if she meant to flee?

  She turned again toward the orchard and willed the rare sense of peace to return.

  The boys took turns seeing who could climb each tree the fastest, then made a contest of gathering apples. Finally, exhausted by their competition, they joined the women in the shade and began to munch the tart, still-green fruits. Fiona had Breaca warn them not to eat too much, lest they get a stomachache. They ignored her, and Fiona resigned herself to having to brew some chamomile that night to soothe their bellies.

  Not yet satisfied, the boys thought of another game, seeing who could eat apples the fastest. Fiona shook her head at their foolishness and went back to her spinning and repeating the words Breaca taught her.

  She was concentrating so intently, she didn’t realize what had happened until Ingolf grabbed her arm. “Gunnar,” he said, his voice high with panic. Fiona turned to see Sigurd’s eldest son in the throes of choking. He clutched his throat and tried to cry out, but could not. His face was purple.