Fiona dropped her spinning and leapt up to pound the child on the back. She guessed immediately that a piece of apple had blocked off his breathing passage.
“Run,” she told Breaca. “Get Dag, Sigurd, any of the men.”
Breaca didn’t hesitate, but set off at a wild pace. Fiona bent the boy forward and tried to pick him up by his legs. As she feared, she wasn’t strong enough to hold him upside down and pound his back at the same time. She looked desperately toward the steading, hoping Breaca could find someone quickly.
Moments passed as Fiona futilely pounded the child’s back. Gunnar went limp. Ingolf sobbed great gulping sobs. Fiona felt like crying herself. She dropped to the ground, then maneuvered the boy’s body so it rested over her knees. Again, she struck him brutally on the back. Once... twice... with a popping sound, the piece of apple flew from his throat.
Fiona took a deep breath of relief, then went rigid as she examined the boy. His face remained bluish and still. He did not breathe! Fiona’s panic increased. Too late had she jarred the apple loose! Too late! She ran her fingers over the small perfect child’s face and felt tears flow down her cheeks. Then something took hold of her, a fierce determination
“Nay,” she whispered. “You will breathe. You will!” She shook the boy, then again thumped him on the back.
She knew not if it were the third or fourth or tenth time she struck him when she was rewarded with a faint gasp. She turned the boy over. His pale-gold lashes fluttered. “Breathe,” she whispered. “Breathe.” She held her own breath as his narrow chest began to expand and contract with a normal rhythm.
Slowly, the warm flush of life creeped back into his face. Fiona began to weep. It could be her own child she held in her arms, so grateful she was. Her foster brother Dermot might be dead, but this child lived!
When the men came, she was cradling Sigurd’s dazed son in her arms, weeping helplessly.
* * *
“She tried to kill the child! Anyone with eyes in their head can see that she did something to Gunnar!”
The jarl, seated in his ceremonial chair in the cool of the longhouse, grunted at Brodir’s words and turned to Sigurd. “What say you, nephew? ‘Tis your son we speak of.”
Sigurd shook his massive head. Dag thought his brother still looked ashen. “When I questioned him, Ingolf told me the Irishwoman saved his brother’s life,” Sigurd answered. “He said Gunnar wasn’t breathing and Fio—the woman helped him.”
“A boy of five winters!” Brodir’s voice rose with outrage. “How can you credit the word of child? The witch might have confused his wits or threatened him if he didn’t lie to protect her.”
“My son does not lie.” Sigurd’s voice was soft, but all seated at the jarl’s table guessed the threat behind his words.
“My apologies, sword brother.” Brodir lowered his eyes to the table although Dag saw a muscle twitch in the ugly warrior’s jaw. “I didn’t mean to disparage the boy’s honor. But surely his explanation lacks sense. If Gunnar were dead, how could she bring him back to life? I smell witchcraft here. How do we know she didn’t curse the boy to make him stop breathing for a time?”
“Breaca said that the boy choked on a piece of apple. There is no witchcraft in that. I’ve seen grown men felled by a lump of gristle in their craw.” Dag sought to sound as reasonable as possible. He didn’t fear that his brother would rule against the woman. Nei, Sigurd was too relieved to have his son alive to question the means by which it was accomplished. But Brodir’s constant mention of witchcraft concerned Dag. His fellow warriors were a superstitious lot, and the Irishwoman was so unusual-looking, so fierce and strange in her manner. It didn’t take much imagination to ascribe supernatural powers to someone like her. Had not even he, in his delirium, thought her a fairy?
“I don’t like it,” the jarl pronounced bluntly. “Since she has been in our midst, the foreign wench has caused two serious disturbances.” Knorri raised a gnarled hand to ward off Sigurd’s protest. “Though she may have saved the life of a child of my own blood, that doesn’t dissolve my distrust of her. I must think of the good of the steading.” He turned to Dag. “Can’t you control the woman? In my day, women thralls didn’t roam the orchard like lazy geese. We kept them busy in the workhouses or naked and compliant in bed.” He fixed Dag with a commanding look. “Beat her, shackle her ankles, deprive her of clothing—do something to keep the wench out of trouble.”
“Ja, uncle.” Dag nodded dutifully, but in his heart he knew he wanted to do none of those things.
“What about her evil powers?” Brodir demanded. “If she were merely an unruly thrall, that would easily be remedied by thrashing. But we speak of a foreigner, and one who obviously knows sorcery. I say she is a volva, and a dangerous one at that. As long as she lives, all our lives are at risk. Your wife—” Brodir faced Sigurd accusingly. “—has given the Irishwoman access to her herbs. How do we know the witch will not slip something into the ale and poison all of us?”
Knorri sighed and wiped a withered hand across his brow. “I tire of this conversation. ‘Twas Sigurd’s son she treated; let him be the judge of the woman’s intent.” The jarl closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and ordered peevishly, “Have one of the hushjelps bring me a horn of ale, a cold one this time!”
Rorig, seated at the end of the table, rushed to do the jarl’s bidding. The young warrior had been the first man to reach Fiona and the boys in the orchard, but no one had asked him for his report and he had not volunteered it. Dag suspected he was still amazed by what he had seen. It had been an odd sight—the small, dark-haired woman rocking the sturdy Norse boy in her arms while the other child clung to her, weeping even as she did. Who would not be touched by such a sight?
Brodir, he thought grimly. He had turned the woman’s rescue of the child into an accusation of witchcraft. Calling her a volva was certain to unsettle most of the men. Volvas were soothsayers, and not so much honored by the Norse as feared. Dag wondered if Brodir really believed his own words or had merely seized upon this clever plan to destroy Fiona.
Sigurd rose from the table. The slowness with which he moved revealed to Dag how drained his brother was. “I will not condemn the woman who saved my son’s life,” Sigurd announced. “There is no clear proof of her treachery. I would have the whole matter dropped.” He paused. “If that is satisfactory with you, Jarl, of course.”
Knorri weakly gestured his assent. Dag thought the old man well on his way to falling asleep and that someone should help him to his bed. Sigurd apparently shared his thoughts, for he called out sharply to the blank-faced thrall who brought the ale. “Wench, come and aid the jarl. The warm ale you served him before has given him a bellyache. Help him to bed! Now!”
Fortunately, the thrall was as stoutly built as she was obedient and she had little trouble supporting the jarl as he moved sluggishly to his bedcloset.
The men drifted away from the table after the jarl departed. Sigurd joined his wife and children in their bedcloset; Brodir left the longhouse with Balder and Kalf, still muttering angrily. Dag went to the hearth and stared at the glowing embers of the fire that burned there summer and winter, day and night.
“Do you think the Irishwoman knows magic?” Rorig’s tentative voice interrupted Dag’s musings.
“Nei, not the kind Brodir speaks of.” Dag turned to regard the younger man. “She is quick-witted and resourceful, and I suspect she has trained with a wise woman, but that is all.”
Rorig exhaled his breath slowly. “ ‘Tis a relief. Breaca is so much in her company, and I should not like to bed a woman who is a volva’s assistant.”
“Breaca?” Dag raised a brow.
Rorig grinned sheepishly. “I had not noticed before we left on the Irish raid, but the thrall is comely.”
“You’ve bedded her?”
Rorig’s smile vanished. “Nei, she is always busy, like a little bee buzzing around the longhouse, one that never lights long in one place. I vow she d
oes not even know I exist.”
Dag considered his companion’s confession. What words of advice did he have for a fellow warrior smitten with a foreign thrall’s charms? His relationship with Fiona was rife with misunderstanding and tension. He could hardly pretend to give sound counsel. “I could speak to Breaca,” he offered. “I cannot yet converse well with Fiona, but Breaca and I are quite comfortable with each other.”
Rorig flushed. “What would you say, that I would like to lie with her?”
Dag grimaced at the other man’s obtuseness. “Nei, I would tell her that the color of her hair reminds you of the sunset. That you have never seen such beautiful tablet weaving as she does.” Poor Rorig, Dag thought. Even he knew enough of wooing to realize a man must ply a woman with compliments about her looks and womanly skills before he attempted bedding her.
“You promise to speak for me?”
Dag nodded, touched by the yearning in the other man’s voice. Had he ever been so blindly lovesick over a woman? Ja, his mind answered, when you met Kira, you were just like Rorig. “I will aid you, but you will owe me a boon because of it.”
Rorig nodded. “When will you speak to Breaca? I vow I am so hungry for her, I can’t sleep at night.”
“Loki help you! Don’t be so impatient. I will speak to her this night, but you can’t expect her to offer herself to you on the morrow. These things take time. Women like to think they have chosen you, and they don’t always make up their minds quickly!”
Rorig sighed and walked off, obviously mooning over his beloved. Dag turned back to the fire, sifting his own words in his mind. In his disillusionment over Kira, he had hardened his heart against all women, and it seemed to him now that he had been overly harsh with Fiona. Her treachery toward her father still worried him, but less these days. He’d seen enough of her consideration for others to know she wasn’t heartless. Surely she must have had some good reason for what she did. Someday he would ask her.
In the meantime, he found himself caring more and more for her. Even the catastrophes she involved him in had not sapped his passion but, instead, had sharpened his admiration. She was proud, courageous, clever. Who would not admire such attributes? His own people, Dag reminded himself grimly. They feared her spirit and willfulness and sought to crush it. To them she was a thrall, to be subdued and used. To him, she would always be a princess.
He shook off his melancholy mood as Breaca approached the hearth carrying a large platter of fresh loaves. “Breaca,” he called. “Put your burden down and come speak with me.”
Quickly, the slave girl obeyed. “What is it?” she whispered as she neared him. “What have they decided to do to Fiona?”
“Nothing, for now at least.”
Breaca looked toward his bedcloset. “Why don’t you go to her and tell her what the jarl has decided?”
Dag shook his head. “I have not the words—remember? You must tell me a few things to say, in Irish.”
Breaca nodded. “Of course. What words do you wish to learn?”
Dag furrowed his brow as he repeated the phrases Breaca gave him. When he had learned them to Breaca’s satisfaction, the slave girl went to pick up her load of bread. Dag stopped her. “There is another thing. You know the young warrior Rorig? I would have you tell me what you think of him. Later, after I have reassured Fiona.”
Breaca looked surprised, but nodded as she left.
Fiona waited quietly in Dag’s bedcloset while the jarl decided her fate. She knew no fear. Indeed, she was so filled with exultation, she could not worry that they might decide to execute her. The child lived. That was what mattered. That she had been able to save Gunnar at least partly made up for her failure to protect Dermot and the other boys.
She looked down at her hands, no longer fair and smooth but roughened by the days of work she had endured on the ship and in the steading workhouses. Siobhan had been right when she’d promised Fiona had the healing gift. And it was a gift, too, the gift of life. Someday she would use these hands to bring babes in the world, to soothe the brows of those who passed on to the next one.
If she lived. She glanced toward the bedcloset door, wondering when word would come. Rorig had scarce handed Gunnar to Sigurd before Brodir had begun his ugly accusations. She hadn’t needed to know the Norse words to tell that he had accused her of hurting the child. It was unfair, vicious, but what could she expect from one such as Brodir?
At least Sigurd had not believed the ugly warrior. After Mina came to get Gunnar, Sigurd had squatted down and questioned Ingolf himself, listening intently to his childish voice. When Sigurd had looked at Fiona, there had been gratitude in his expression. He might never say a word of the matter, but she knew he acknowledged that he owed her a debt.
She stood, growing restless. She had not heard men’s voices raised in anger for some time. Surely they had decided her fate by now. Had Sigurd and Dag prevailed, or Brodir? For the second time in a sennight, she faced death.
The door to the bedcloset opened. Fiona went still, expecting Breaca to come rushing in with the men’s verdict. Instead, Dag’s tall form loomed on the threshold. He looked so somber, Fiona decided the worst had come to pass. She swallowed, fighting tears. How could she say goodbye to this man? They had had so little time to understand one another, to make the long journey from enemy to friend. Somewhere in between, they had met as lovers. It was not enough; her spirit yearned for more.
Dag stepped into the chamber, and Fiona sought to memorize his graceful features, the way his hair shone gold-red even in the dim light. She would remember him thus.
“Thank you,” he said in Irish. Fiona stared at him. The words were so unexpected, she didn’t know what to think. He must be thanking her for saving his nephew’s life.
He reached out and lifted a strand of her hair, smoothing it between his fingers. “Fiona,” he said. His deep voice caressed the word.
His eyes were smoky-blue, intent, but they spoke nothing of death or punishment. Fiona realized she’d been again reprieved from the Vikings’ wrath. Once more, she owed Dag her gratitude for saving her life.
“Fiona,” he said again. He moved close and bent his mouth to hers. After the kiss, he again spoke haltingly in Irish. “They do not understand.” He motioned toward the main room of the longhouse. His gaze was helpless, but expressive with meaning.
Fiona closed her eyes, struggling with tears once more.
“Storm Maiden,” he whispered in Irish, calling her by the name of his brother’s ship. “You fight for what you believe in—my fierce, lovely storm maiden.”
For once, Fiona didn’t fight the tenderness Dag aroused in her. She wrapped her arms around his broad chest, clinging to him. It did not matter that she did not yet speak his language. There were no words for this, for this moment.
Chapter 19
Dag slipped out of his bedcloset into the early morning gloom of the longhouse. The place was quiet, save for the jarl’s oathmen snoring on benches around the hall. But he wasn’t the first one up. Mina leaned over the hearth, poking the fire into life again.
He crossed to where she stood. “Mina, can that not wait? Surely it is too early to begin cooking.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She turned, and Dag saw the shadows under her eyes, the pinched look of her features. “I didn’t want to wake Sigurd.”
“Don’t be a fool, woman! That man can sleep through fierce sea squalls! Take yourself back to bed.”
Mina shook her head. “Nei, the boys will wake soon.” She reached unconsciously to rub her lower back, and Dag watched a spasm of pain cross her face.
“ ‘Tis the babe, isn’t it? All is not well.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve never felt so uncomfortable this early on.”
“You should speak of it with Fiona.”
“She examined me some days ago.”
“What did she say?”
Mina sighed. “Nothing helpful, only that I should rest more, as if I could sleep when I
feel as if a band of trolls does battle inside me. I don’t mean to criticize her,” Mina added quickly. “ ‘Tis clear there is nothing she can do.”
“I could wake her, and she could feed Gunnar and Ingolf their morning porridge.”
“Nei, let her sleep. Since you keep her up most of the night with loveplay, I vow she needs her rest.”
“I do no such thing!”
A twinge of a smile curled Mina’s lips. “Explain then those screams and moans which come from your bedcloset.”
Dag allowed himself to return Mina’s half-smile. Fiona was an exuberant and noisy bedpartner.
“ ‘Tis no harm done,” Mina added. “Because of her outcrys, half the warriors are convinced you beat her nightly. They are pleased you show her discipline.”
“Brodir?”
Mina shook her head. “Nothing but rivers of blood would satisfy that one.”
Dag sighed. “He’ll never cease in his efforts to have Fiona put to death. Knorri has always said a woman shouldn’t come between sword brothers. But if I had to choose between Fiona and Brodir, I wouldn’t hesitate.”
“She is kindhearted,” Mina said. Her voice trembled with emotion. “I owe her much.”
“I’m pleased she has won your concern.”
Mina straightened and returned to the fire. “If you wish to help, find Breaca for me. She wasn’t in the thralls’ dwelling, and I fear she spent the night with one of the men. Please make certain she hasn’t been hurt.”
Dag smiled again as he left the longhouse. Nei, Rorig was not like to hurt Breaca—lest you called the rending of her maidenhead an injury!
He easily located Breaca, curled up with Rorig in a corner of one of the byres, a favorite trysting place during the summer. Breaca hastily grabbed for her clothes, but Rorig merely sat up, fully naked, and regarded Dag with lazy contentment. “Do you not have enough to handle in your own bed that you must interrupt the pleasure of others?”
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