Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  Dag snorted. Ignorant pup! How soon he forgot the one who had aided him! “ ‘Tis not you I seek out, but the girl. Mina is not well this morning. Breaca must see to her.”

  The slave girl jerked her kirtle over her head, gave Rorig a solemn, unfathomable look, then left the byre without a word.

  “You owe me a boon, sword brother,” Dag told Rorig.

  “Ja, I do.” Rorig’s voice was rich with satisfaction.

  “I’m amazed that affection took root so quickly between you.”

  Rorig’s smug look turned to puzzlement. “In truth, so am I. I spoke a few words to her in the longhouse last night. A moment later, she followed me outside. What did you say to her, Dag?”

  “I told her that you found her fair to look upon. Then she asked me what kind of man you were, whether you were a valiant warrior, if you had won much booty in the Irish raid.”

  “Your answers must have pleased her.”

  “Indeed.” Dag regarded the younger man searchingly. “A woman who values a man only for his wealth and battle skill is not one worth having.”

  “I care not why she agreed to share my bed, only that she was willing and eager.”

  “Someday, mayhap you will care. I warn you, sword brother, I’ve known women like that, and they’re not worth the pleasure they give you.”

  Rorig smiled. “You worry overmuch.”

  The younger man began to dress. Dag hesitated, wondering if he should press his point. Nay. Rorig was obviously too young to realize he didn’t know everything about women yet.

  Dag left the byre and walked across the bare, hard-packed yard, thinking of Fiona, sleeping in his bedcloset. He knew she didn’t value him for his prowess with a battle axe or the plundered riches filling his sea chest. But what did she feel for him? Was it gratitude that he spared her life and continued to defend her? Hunger for his body and his skill in bed?

  He wanted more from her. He wanted her to care for him, to prize his spirit as well as his body. To take pleasure in the sight of him, in the words he spoke. In short, he wanted her to feel for him as he did for her. How had it come to this—that the Irishwoman had grown so important to him?

  It wasn’t a thing a man admitted to anyone. Some warriors, like Sigurd, dared to show fondness for their children in front of all. But to admit love for a woman, and a foreign, captive one—it was unthinkable. And every day she meant more to him. Every time he lay with her, her hold upon him intensified.

  Dag frowned. Because of her, the world he’d grown up in had begun to seem oppressive, its laws rigid and unfair. To his people, Fiona would always be a foreigner, an outcast. Even if he freed her and made her his wife, there would be those, like Brodir, who would never accept her. They would wait for a chance to destroy her. Even if she ceased her defiant, independent behavior—which Dag’s instincts told him was impossible—even then, she would eventually break some Norse law by accident and face punishment.

  Frustration rose inside him. He hadn’t wanted to care for this woman. He had fought his feelings as fiercely as he could, but the battle was for naught. The woman had captured him. She made him see things through her eyes, suborned his loyalty to his kin and sword brothers, confused his sense of who he was. Worst of all, a nagging voice warned him that there might come a day when he would have to choose between his people and her.

  Dag shook off the tormenting thought. He would go mad if he didn’t stop thinking about Fiona. He needed to find some backbreaking labor that would numb his mind and chase away his worries.

  Seeing Ranveig, the shipwright, cross the yard with a chopping axe over his shoulder, Dag called out, “Ho, Ranveig. Remember that tall pine you saw in the west forest—the one you thought might make a good mast? Let’s go look at it again.”

  * * *

  “What next?” Fiona asked, reaching up to wipe her sweaty face. “The butter is churned, the bread made, the ale brewing—what else does Mina wish us to do?”

  “She suggested we might go berrying.”

  Fiona regarded Breaca with amazement. “Berrying? Truly?”

  A smug smile curled Breaca’s lips. “That is what she said. There is a patch of ripe whortleberries up the hillside and some blueberries at the edge of the meadow beyond.”

  Fiona swiped again at her brow. “You mean she doesn’t want us to wear out our fingers spinning or go blind weaving? That she gives us leave to walk out in the sunshine, to feel the cool mountain breeze upon our faces?”

  “Berrying can be arduous. There are brambles and thorns to avoid, and your fair skin will get baked in the sun.”

  “You jest!” Fiona accused.

  “Aye,” Breaca answered, her smile broadening. “I look forward to the freedom and fresh air as much you do.”

  Fiona wrinkled her brow. “You’re certain this is Mina’s order, that it isn’t some trap of Brodir’s? I don’t want to be accused of trying to escape again.”

  “Of course, it’s Mina’s order. I think she wishes us to enjoy a pleasant afternoon.”

  “What of her? Does she promise to leave off working and rest herself?”

  “Aye. Sigurd has the boys with him, and she said she would try to sleep.”

  Fiona smoothed her soiled kirtle. “I would fetch a head wrap first; I don’t want to sunburn my face.”

  “And baskets,” Breaca reminded her. “We must at least pretend to work.”

  Fiona giggled and raced Breaca to the longhouse to gather the things they would need.

  As they left the forest and climbed up the hillside, Fiona leaned her head back and sighed as the sunlight warmed her face. “ ‘Tis a beautiful day. ‘Twas kind of Mina to suggest we go berrying. I have not done it much since I was a child.”

  “She’s fond of you.”

  Fiona looked to her companion. “Because of Gunnar?”

  Breaca nodded. “Although she can’t openly show her gratitude to a slave, I know she feels beholden.”

  A twinge of irritation threatened to ruin Fiona’s tranquil mood. A slave. No matter what she did, she would always be less than human to the Norse.

  “Even Sigurd admits he owes you. He loves his firstborn deeply. If Gunnar had died, Sigurd would have been devastated.”

  Fiona nodded, wondering how far Sigurd’s gratitude extended. Would he take her side the next time Brodir threatened her?

  “You’ve done well, Fiona.” Breaca paused on the pathway to remove a stone from her shoe. “I would not have thought it possible a fortnight ago when you first came to Engvakkirsted, but you have managed to earn the goodwill of the most powerful men of the steading.”

  Fiona, pausing beside her companion, poked at the dirt with her shoe. She wasn’t certain the idea of winning the Norsemen’s goodwill reassured her. Were they not still her enemies? Should she not be fighting them rather than earning their favor? A part of her felt guilt at Breaca’s words.

  “Sigurd owes you a boon, and Dag—why the man is clearly besotted with you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to give you your freedom and make you his wife.”

  Breaca’s words jarred Fiona even more. “My freedom I might well wish for,” she answered. “But not marriage to a Norseman. I would never agree to that.”

  “But Dag is kind to you; he cares for you. And you—’tis clear you hold him in affection.”

  Fiona opened her mouth to protest, then realized she could not. It was all true. Dag treated her well, and she did care for him. Fiona swallowed. How had it happened? How had she fallen in love with her enemy?

  “I would be grateful if you could tell me how you won his favor.” Breaca cleared her throat. “I’m certain much of your appeal for him is your beauty, but there must be other things. Are you bold with him in your loving? Do you merely agree to do as he wishes or do you offer to pleasure him before he asks?”

  Fiona regarded the woman beside her. “Why do you ask?”

  Breaca flushed. “ ‘Tis not something any other woman will share with me. The other thralls h
aven’t had the opportunity to know loveplay with a warrior. ‘Tis different from rape. More subtle... more complicated...”

  “Jesu! Breaca, what are you asking? What have you done?”

  Breaca’s fair skin flushed vividly.

  “Who is he?” Fiona demanded. “Did some Viking ravish you?”

  “Nay, I was willing.”

  “Who?”

  Breaca’s auburn-lashed eyelids drooped demurely. “Rorig,” she answered.

  For a moment, Fiona did not know how to respond. Rorig was handsome, and Dag spent enough time in his company to suggest the young man might be honorable and kind. But Breaca was so young, so vulnerable. “What you do is dangerous,” Fiona pointed out in a shaken voice. “He could use you and throw you aside, and no one would protest or think anything wrong in it.”

  “But he won’t,” Breaca insisted. “Not if you tell me how to please him. You’ve won Dag’s heart. ‘Tis unfair of you to refuse to share your secrets!”

  “My secrets?”

  “Aye. All know you have bewitched Dag. How did you do it? Is it mere skill in bed or did you use some potion to weaken his wits and make him love you?”

  “Blessed Saint Bridget!” Fiona cursed. “ ‘Tis not like that! I never intended Dag to care for me, at least not more than was necessary to gain his protection. What happened between us is not based on magic or spells! It’s just... there.”

  “Rorig said I was comely. Do you think he begins to care for me?”

  “Mayhap, mayhap. I don’t know!” Fiona took a deep breath, trying to think what to say to Breaca. Why was the girl obsessed with making Rorig fall in love her? Did she truly desire the man, or did she follow what she saw as Fiona’s example in gaining the protection of a warrior? She rounded on the young woman. “Do you care for Rorig? Not because he is a good warrior, but because you take pleasure in his company.”

  Breaca shrugged. “He’s pleasing to look upon, and he won treasure in the last raid. Most of all, I decided to bed him because he sought me out. I thought it would be easier to win the favor of a man who already seemed to desire me.”

  “But what of your feelings? Do you care for Rorig?”

  “I don’t know.” Breaca sighed. “If I thought about what I felt, I would have perished long ago. Life is harsh. I do what is necessary to survive. I don’t think about it.”

  Once again, Fiona was struck by the grimness of a thrall’s lot. Would that be hers in a few years? Would she lose her sense of honor, of herself, of her dreams? Would she live from day to day, doing whatever was necessary to endure?

  “Will you help me?” Breaca’s voice was pleading. “If nothing else, Dag is friends with Rorig. You could find out from him whether Rorig craves me.”

  Briefly, Fiona considered discussing the matter with Dag. If Rorig did care for Breaca and she sought him merely as a protector... Fiona shook her head. This was witless. Why should she care what happened to Rorig? Let Breaca break his heart.

  “Men like you to touch them,” she told Breaca. “To caress their private parts, to put your mouth on them.”

  Breaca’s eyes widened.

  “If the man is clean, ‘tis not unpleasant,” Fiona added. “Take him to the bathing shed. It makes a good place for a midday tryst.”

  Breaca’s startled look faded, and she nodded calculatingly. A stab of guilt went through Fiona. Had she ever plotted to win Dag’s favor by pleasuring his body? Nay, she had always wanted to do it. From the first time she had beheld the man, she could not resist touching him. As she had told Breaca, things between her and Dag had never been planned. They had merely happened.

  But where could her passion for the Viking lead her? She had vowed to return to Eire, and her feelings for Dag only complicated her plan. Even if he cared enough for her to free her as his thrall, he would seek to bind her to him with marriage. And there was the matter of children. As often as they lay together, his seed would surely take hold in her womb. What would she do then? She could scarcely travel to Eire with a child, nor could she bear to leave behind a babe of her body. She might end up trapped at Engvakkirsted forever.

  Fiona sighed. She should never have lain with Dag. It was that irrevocable act that had bound her to the Norseman. “Your plan is faulty,” she told Breaca as they neared the first stand of berry bushes, lush with gleaming purple fruits. “When you entice a Viking man, you risk becoming entrapped yourself. ‘Tis better to endure hardship and retain the freedom of your will.”

  Breaca’s blue eyes met Fiona’s with a look of incredulity, and she shook her head. “Fiona of the Deasunachta—you are ever a fool.”

  Chapter 20

  “We will eat bread this winter even if it’s a long one,” Breaca said as she loaded another sheaf of rye in the cart at the edge of the field. Seeing Fiona’s weary look, she added, “Here the snow piles higher and stays on the ground much longer than in Eire. Steadings that don’t have adequate provisions have been known to starve.”

  “If bringing in the grain harvest is so important, why don’t all the men work in the fields?” Fiona cast a hostile glance toward the nearby grove of trees where Brodir and several of the other men lounged on the ground, drinking ale and doing nothing more strenuous than polishing weapons and exchanging stories.

  “Many warriors think it demeaning to work in the fields. They believe such tasks should be done only by slaves and women.”

  “Why does Sigurd allow such laziness?”

  “ ‘Tis not Sigurd who condones it, but the jarl,” Breaca answered. “He’s a man of old ideas. To his mind, being a warrior is enough. He would like the men to go aviking and capture more slaves to do the work. But he couldn’t convince Sigurd to take the Storm Maiden out again this season.”

  “Why not?”

  Breaca shrugged. “Sigurd said the ship needed some repairs to the hull. In truth, I think he is loathe to leave Mina.”

  Fiona nodded. Mina’s situation had not improved. All feared that she would not make it the last two months until the babe was due to be born.

  “If Brodir and the other warriors refuse to do their share of the work, Dag more than makes up for them,” Breaca commented. “He toils from morn to eve, doing the work of two men at least. I vow, if I were the jarl’s nephew, I would find ways to shirk the more difficult jobs. Dag seeks them out. Chopping firewood, cutting grain, replacing the rushes in the longhouse—he seems to favor the most backbreaking, miserable sort of labor.”

  Fiona shaded her eyes to look out at the stubble-filled field, easily picking out Dag’s tall figure from among the crew of thralls who worked their way across the field, harvesting the last of the rye with huge, curved scythes. She, too, had marked the way Dag drove himself. There was something desperate in it, something restless and frustrated. He was clearly troubled, although Fiona wasn’t certain about the source of his discontent. She’d learned enough of his language to communicate simple things, but they still did not talk much. For all that she surrendered each night to the evocative language of his lovemaking, she had little idea of what went on in his mind. Did he fear the future as she did?

  Sighing, Fiona looked down and examined her work-roughened hands. She understood some of Dag’s need to work. It made the time go faster and kept her from thinking about how trapped she was, how far from fulfilling her vow.

  “How late in the year is it possible to sail?” she asked Breaca.

  ‘ “Til a month after butchering. Then the seas become stormy and treacherous.” She gave Fiona a probing look. “I told you Sigurd will not take the ship out again this season.”

  Fiona sighed. Summer hastened by. In two months it would be Samhain, what the priests called All Hallows’ Eve. A wave of homesickness passed through her. In the Old Ways, that night was considered the end of the year, when the spirits walked the earth and the barrier between the spirit world and the physical world grew weak. Most of the Irish counted it among the major festivals of the year.

  “When you lived in Eir
e, did your people celebrate Sam- hain?” she asked Breaca.

  “I remember them building bonfires to ward away the spirits.”

  Fiona nodded. “When I was little, my mother always dressed my brothers and me in costumes so the spirits would not recognize us and steal our souls.”

  “You had brothers?” Breaca asked. “What happened to them?”

  “My two older brothers both died of a fever when I was five winters.”

  “Your father must have been sorely grieved to lose his heirs.”

  “Aye, he was... but not enough to take a concubine. Although my mother could bear no children after me, my father still kept to her bed. He loved her dearly.” Pain lanced through Fiona.

  “How else did you celebrate Samhain?” Breaca asked.

  “We also built bonfires high in the hills. Late at night, the more daring youths would sneak out of the palisade to dance and make revelry in the firelight.”

  “Did you go?”

  “Never. My father wouldn’t let us. Last year, Duvessa and I tried to join the celebration. My father caught us leaving the women’s house and had an older woman keep watch over us for the rest of the night. We vowed that next year we would go if we had to hide in the forest the day before.” Fiona sighed, thinking of how rebellious and irresponsible she’d been.

  “The Vikings don’t really have an autumn festival,” Breaca said. “Some steadings hold a sacrifice to Thor or Odin, but Knorri doesn’t believe in it. He thinks the only way to honor the gods is through valor in battle. There will be a special feast, though, when the butchering is done. The men will gorge themselves on fresh meat and the skald, Tyrker, will arouse their blood lust with tales of battle and heroes. Then they start planning raids.” Breaca grimaced. “It begins harmlessly—a few cattle or horses stolen, a byre or shed burned. But inevitably someone is killed or a woman raped. Then the injured clan swears vengeance and what was once a cattle raid turns to murder and destruction.”

  Fiona nodded. The tradition of raiding, of blood feuds and vengeance, sounded uncomfortably familiar. The Irish practiced a similar sort of warfare. The priests and holy men tried to teach tolerance and reason, but when Irish tempers ran hot, innocent blood was still shed for the sake of warriors’ glory. It was an unpleasant similarity between the Irish and Norse way of life, Fiona thought grimly.