Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  The two women looked up as Dag approached them, carrying his scythe. Perspiration streamed down his bare chest and his face was flushed with exertion. Mina had cut Dag’s hair recently, and it hung in reddish-gold waves to his shoulders. His coppery mustache had also been neatly trimmed, and his fair skin was glazed ruddy tan by the sun and wind, sharply defining the muscles of his shoulders, chest, and arms.

  Fiona watched him carefully place the scythe on top of the full cart, then wipe his hand over his sweat-soaked features. He looked at her and smiled, his teeth white against his bronzed skin. The sight of him made Fiona’s heart do a familiar flip-flop. As hard as she fought to keep her emotions aloof from the passion he aroused in her body, she was less than successful. Looking at him now, glorying in his masculine beauty, she wondered how she would ever leave him to return to Eire.

  “I vow I smell like a stallion under harness,” Dag said. “I must visit the bathing hut before I enter Mina’s newly cleaned longhouse. Would you like to join me, Fiona?” His smile widened.

  Fiona hesitated, guessing that bathing was only part of his plan. She both dreaded and reveled in their lovemaking. With each tender kiss and enticing caress, her resolve to leave him crumbled a little further. Did he plot to imprison her with love, to use affection to trap her in his northern homeland forever?

  “Fiona?”

  She looked at Dag and, unwillingly, returned his smile. “Ja,” she answered, using the Norse words.”I will come.”

  Before they bathed, Dag took her to the steam room, which Fiona had only discovered a few weeks before. In the small enclosed area, big enough for only two people to stand or sit, Dag poured water on the hot rocks and the soothing steam wafted over them. Fiona sat back on the bench and sighed. The heat and moisture relaxed her sore muscles while the vapory atmosphere reminded her of the mists of Eire.

  Sitting beside her, Dag leaned back and closed his eyes, apparently content to do nothing for a time. Fiona closed her own eyes and let her mind wander to thoughts of her homeland. What was Siobhan doing? And Duvessa and the other women? Did they still live? Had they fled Dunsheauna and made their home in another settlement? Had there been anything left to salvage after the fires died?

  Fiona frowned. In time, other chieftains would surely claim her father’s land and anything left of value. If it took too long for her to return to Eire, there would be nothing left. Dunsheauna, her surviving kin, even her father’s name might disappear and be forgotten.

  She felt Dag’s hand rubbing her shoulder, then his fingers moved to her nape as he eased the sore muscles there. Fiona sighed. She did not want to relax and be content.

  “Fiona.” Dag spoke her name in his deep, heavily accented voice. “What are you thinking?”

  She opened her eyes to meet his gaze. The hunger she felt for him made her want to melt into his arms. Instead, she said, “I was thinking of my homeland, of Eire.”

  His blue eyes grew bleak, and Fiona immediately felt guilty. Anger followed swiftly on regret. She couldn’t help that it hurt him to speak of her homeland. Her vow to her father had to come before her feelings for him—didn’t it?

  Ja, Dag thought grimly. It was well she reminded him that they both had responsibilities to others. So easily when he was with her he forgot she was a foreign slave, forgot everything except how beautiful she was, how desirable.

  He looked away; his fingers stilled on her neck. Bringing her to the bathing shed had been a mistake. They might join their bodies in splendid ecstasy, but it did nothing to resolve their problems.

  He stood. Beside him, he heard her slight intake of breath. He glanced down at her. She looked troubled, mayhap even disappointed. She had expected him to couple with her; she wanted him to couple with her. Dag struggled for control. His body ached for hers as well, but this time he wouldn’t give in to his need.

  He left the sauna area and went out into the main bathing room and sluiced cold water over his face and body. Wiping water from his eyes, he glanced over his shoulder. She had not followed him or tried to entice him into lovemaking. Resignation settled hard in his gut. She knew as well as he that the differences between them were too great, too irresolvable.

  There was a sharp rattling at the door. “Dag, Fiona, come quickly. ‘Tis Mina... the babe... it comes!”

  Breaca sounded breathless from running. Dag moved toward the sauna, but Fiona had already heard and come out into the bathing room. She gave him a worried look and began fumbling for her clothes. Dag grabbed his own garments. Fiona finished dressing first and dashed from the bathing hut. He caught up with her and asked, “Do you know what to do?”

  “I hope so.”

  Dag’s stomach twisted at Fiona’s words. If something happened to the babe or Mina, Brodir would use the tragedy to turn the others against Fiona.

  When they reached the longhouse, Fiona stopped to catch her breath. Dag gave her arm a gentle squeeze, then watched her go into Mina and Sigurd’s bedcloset. Sigurd stood by the doorway, his face stony and expressionless.

  Dag found it hard to meet his brother’s eyes. Women often died in childbirth or during miscarriage. What would he say if Sigurd lost his wife?

  * * *

  Gazing at the pale, exhausted-looking woman in the bed, Fiona’s mind raced. It was too soon for the babe to be born. If possible, she must halt Mina’s labor.

  “Fetch Mina’s herbs,” she told Breaca. When she had left, Fiona approached the bed. “Has your water broken?” she asked.

  Mina shook her head. “Nei, but the pains come often.”

  Fiona could read the fear in the Norsewoman’s eyes. She pulled down the bedrobes and quickly examined her. Her heart sank. Labor was well along. As intense as Mina’s contractions were, the birth sack could break at any moment. The babe meant to be born this day.

  To Ingeborg, the smith’s wife, standing beside the bed, Fiona said, “Bring me some goose fat.” Ingeborg nodded and went to do Fiona’s bidding. Breaca hurried in with the herbs; Fiona shook her head, indicating that it was too late to use them. Then she sat by the bed and waited.

  Mina labored silently. Fiona watched her, wondering if the Norsewoman knew how little hope there was. Ingeborg returned. She stood by the bed and spoke in a soft, reassuring voice and wiped at Mina’s sweaty face.

  A smothered cry from Mina brought Fiona instantly to her feet. She swept back the bedrobes and helped Ingeborg prop Mina up so she could push.

  It was an easy delivery, the babe being so small. Holding the wet, fragile infant, Fiona tried every trick she had seen Siobhan use. She rubbed the babe’s body with goose grease, breathed into its mouth, even slapped it gently. Nothing worked. The tiny body remained still and lifeless.

  Fiona handed the little corpse to Breaca, then turned to Mina, prepared to give her the tragic news. The Norsewoman’s face was flushed and distorted, and Fiona quickly realized that she strained to give birth again. In moments, Mina gave another hard push and a second small infant slid into Fiona’s hands. This babe took a feeble breath and went limp. Fiona massaged it frantically, struggling to make it breath again. Tears seeped into her eyes when she realized the little spark of life was permanently quenched.

  Fiona forced the tears away and returned to her duties. After wrapping the dead infant in rags and placing it on the storage chest with the other, she went to aid Mina as she strained to deliver the afterbirth. When the afterbirth came, Fiona placed the bloody mass on a rag and carefully examined it. She breathed a sigh of relief when she found it intact; if a part of it remained inside the woman, further bleeding was likely, endangering the woman’s life.

  She disposed of the afterbirth while Ingeborg and Breaca cleaned the bed and made Mina comfortable. When Breaca offered to get Sigurd, Fiona shook her head. “I want to speak to Mina alone before Sigurd comes.” Breaca moved to go. Fiona stopped her. “Nay, you must stay. I may need you to translate.” Ingeborg also remained in the room. Fiona had grown used to the smith’s wife’s calm, capable
presence, and she didn’t think it would hurt for the Norsewman to hear her words to Mina.

  Fiona sat beside the bed and spoke in Norse. “You will recover, Mina, but it would be unwise for you to get with child again too soon.” When Mina gave her a puzzled look, Fiona grew insecure with her command of the Norse language and had Breaca repeat her words. Mina still looked puzzled. Frustrated, Fiona said, “If Sigurd will not leave you alone, you must take something to prevent conception.”

  Breaca repeated the words in Norse. Mina’s eyes grew wide. “She wants to know how that is done,” Breaca reported.

  Fiona hesitated. Siobhan always said that preventing unwanted babes was as important a skill as birthing those which were heartily desired. Still, Fiona knew the priests frowned on the practice, as did most men. Was it wise to share her knowledge of such things with this foreign woman? One look at Mina’s wan face decided her.

  “There are several decoctions you can take to prevent conception,” she told Mina. “You drink them every day until your bleeding time comes. They work by preventing a man’s seed from taking root in your womb.”

  Breaca translated. Mina gazed at Fiona and shook her head. “She would not do such a thing,” Breaca said. “Sigurd wouldn’t like it.”

  Fiona gritted her teeth, wondering if Sigurd would like it better if his wife died in childbirth because she had conceived too soon. If he were as arrogant and stupid about having sons as most men were, he probably didn’t care. He likely assumed he would simply wed another woman.

  She shrugged. “Tell Mina that it’s only a suggestion. If she doesn’t feel comfortable with the idea, then she should forget it. But I mean to talk to Sigurd myself, to be certain that he understands the risk.”

  Breaca bent over the bed to convey Fiona’s message, and Fiona left the room. She barely had a chance to take a deep breath of the fresher air in the main room before Sigurd grabbed her arm. “How is she?” he asked in Norse.

  Fiona turned toward him. “There were two boy babes; they were both born too small and weak to live.” Sigurd nodded, his face expressionless. Fiona guessed Mina had warned him of the likely outcome.

  “And Mina?” he asked.

  “Things went well for your wife. She should recover.” Fiona looked up at Sigurd, searching his massive countenance. For a moment, she thought she saw relief in his deep-set eyes then his features resumed their formidable outlook. “The important thing is that her body not be burdened with another babe too soon,” Fiona continued, switching to the more comfortable Irish. “Her womb must heal or there is a serious risk she will miscarry again.” She fixed Sigurd with a stern look. “With successive miscarriages, her body will grow less able to carry a child to term. There is risk to her life as well. If you must rut like an animal, whenever you will, find another partner for a time.”

  Anger flared in Sigurd’s face. “Mayhap my wife will be jealous if I stray from her bed.”

  “Better jealous than dead,” Fiona said coldly. She had half- expected Sigurd to act this way, mocking and defiant. No wonder Siobhan held men in such low regard. It was despicable that a man considered his own pleasure more important than his wife’s health. Would Dag refrain from bedding her if he knew pregnancy might harm her?

  As if her thoughts had called him, Dag suddenly loomed between her and Sigurd. “Fiona,” he said. “You look very tired. Let me get you something to drink.”

  Fiona smiled weakly at him, thinking of his concern for her, his kindness. Nay, she did not think Dag would chance starting a babe in her body if it put her life at risk.

  She let Dag lead her to the hearth and sat down wearily. She had been tired when they finished bundling up the grain; now she was half-dead with fatigue. She sat by the fire, drinking the ale Dag had brought her and half-dozing.

  Dag watched Fiona, frowning. She had not been able to save the babe, but Mina was well. Recalling the conversation between Fiona and his brother, Dag’s frown deepened. They had spoken in Irish, so he couldn’t tell what was said, only that Fiona had been angry. Had Sigurd lashed out at her for the loss of his offspring? He would have to confront Sigurd and find out what had passed between them.

  For now, he was reluctant to leave Fiona’s side. This day had reminded him how fragile life was, how precious. ‘Twas a wonder any boy survived to manhood, or girl to womanhood. Life began so perilously, so mysteriously. He glanced at Fiona again, imagining her pregnant, her narrow belly swelling with his child. It was a foolish, witless thought, but he could not resist it.

  He reached out and smoothed a strand of hair away from her face. If she still wanted him, he would make love with her tonight. He would not worry about the future, but content himself with the warmth of her flesh, the silk of her skin, the glow in her unfathomable eyes.

  He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Macushla,” he said. She turned and stared at him. He met her gaze knowingly. Breaca had taught him the word for ‘dear one’ in Irish, and he had been waiting for the right moment to use it.

  Despite the lack of privacy in the longhouse, he leaned over and kissed Fiona. “Macushla,” he said again.

  She smiled faintly. “I’m tired, Dag.”

  “I know. Sleep.” He motioned toward his bedcloset. “I’ll join you later.”

  When Fiona had left, Dag rose and went outside. He took a deep breath of the evening air, filled with the sweet scent of fresh hay. The harvest was almost in, and the days grew shorter. Autumn would be upon them soon, and the whole long snow- season after that. Mayhap during the endless dark hours in the longhouse, his people might finally come to accept Fiona.

  A low sigh next to him interrupted his thoughts. Sigurd had come out of the longhouse and also stood looking out over the harvested fields around the steading.

  “You’ve seen Mina?” Dag asked. “She is well?”

  Sigurd nodded. “Weak, but recovering.”

  “Thank the gods,” Dag murmured. “I always fear for women in childbed, especially since our own mother died that way.” He turned to his brother. “I’m sorry for the babe, Sigurd. Fiona warned me she feared it would be born too soon.

  “There were two babes, both male.”

  Dag drew a sharp breath. What could he say to Sigurd, knowing that his sorrow must be doubled?

  “Mina said that’s likely the reason they came too soon,” Sigurd said. “Women aren’t meant to birth twins. ‘Tis unnatural.”

  “I’m sorry, brother.”

  Sigurd shrugged. “There will be other babes. Although Fiona did warn me that I should not lie with Mina too soon lest she conceive before her womb is healed.”

  Dag looked at his brother searchingly. “ ‘Tis good advice.”

  Sigurd nodded. “Although I did not much like the manner in which she gave it to me, suggesting I had as little control over my actions as a rutting beast.” He gave a snort of disgust. “The Irishwoman is so arrogant at times. She forgets that she is a slave.”

  Dag’s insides tightened. Fiona seemed incapable of learning the meekness necessary for her situation. How was he to protect her?

  “It might surprise the Irishwoman to know that I’ve practiced restraint before,” Sigurd continued irritably. “I didn’t take Mina’s maidenhead until after we were wed, and our courtship was one of several months.” There was a look of challenge in Sigurd’s eyes as Dag met his gaze. “It seems to me that the Irishwoman should look to her own situation before she chastises me. If anyone ruts like animals in this longhouse, it’s the two of you.”

  “She is my bed thrall,” Dag protested. “From the beginning, on the ship, you encouraged me to seek my pleasure with her.”

  “I wished you to master her, not fall in love with her,” Sigurd growled. “There is a difference.”

  “What has turned you against her this time?” Dag complained. “Do you hold her responsible for Mina’s loss? You admitted that the babes were born too soon to live.”

  “Nei, I don’t blame her. Nor have I forgotten that I owe
her for Gunnar’s life. I merely seek to warn you, as your brother and your future jarl, that I see what the woman does to you and I do not like it!”

  Dag faced his brother angrily. “Why must you meddle in something that doesn’t concern you? I have never told you how to manage things between you and Mina.”

  “Mina is Norse and behaves as a proper wife should. Fiona is a slave. Her independence and lack of meekness is shameful.

  “I find no shame in it!”

  “Ja, that’s the trouble.” Sigurd’s voice grew thoughtful. “I wonder more and more if she has not already corrupted your sense of Norse ways.”

  “That’s absurd!”

  “Is it?” Sigurd’s mouth quirked bitterly. “Can you swear that you would put the interests of the steading before your concern for the woman?”

  Dag opened his mouth to swear before Odin and the other gods, then stopped. Had he not once told Mina that if he had to choose between Brodir and Fiona, he wouldn’t hesitate?

  “She unmans you, brother,” Sigurd said. “I sensed it the first time I beheld you together on the ship. I should have drowned her then and saved us both this trouble.”

  Sigurd walked off into the twilight. Dag remained, staring after his brother. Was it true? Had the Irishwoman stolen his Norse soul? He had once thought her a fairy, a supernatural being. Had there been some wisdom in his instinctive fear of her?

  He turned, gazing toward the longhouse. Never in the few weeks since Fiona had learn to speak his tongue had he dared to ask her about the first time she had appeared to him in his damp, dark prison. His memory of the incident was blurry, fever-glazed. It was time he knew the truth.

  Chapter 21