Fiona tossed and turned restlessly in the box bed. Why did Dag not come? He had said he would. His eyes had promised hours of passion, and at this moment, her spirit craved passion, craved the fierce senselessness that filled her when Dag made love to her. His strong, powerful body reminded her of life, of potency and triumph. She needed something to take her mind from the two small bundles wrapped in rags. That was death and sadness and failure; she needed the warmth and vigor of Dag to replenish her spirit.
For a time she had dozed, but her dreams were unsettling, suffused with images of blood and fire. Her soul seemed filled with death. The two stillborn infants added intolerably to her burden of grief. If all died, she thought despairingly, what was the point of life?
She closed her eyes, wishing she could weep and let the blessed pain wash over her and cleanse her thoughts. Grieving purged her doubts and left her spirit bright with anger and determination. But the tears would not come. She felt empty inside, empty and cold. Oh, where was Dag?
She must have slept again. When she woke, Dag was beside the bed, calling her name. She sat up abruptly, aware of the serious timbre to his voice. What had happened?
“Mina?” she asked anxiously. “Has she need of me?”
“All is well with Mina,” Dag said. “But there is something else—something I must ask you.”
Fiona’s skin prickled. Dag and she seldom talked more than to share simple information about their days or to exchange endearments; that he woke her to have a conversation sounded ominous.
Dag sat on the side of the box bed, his voice low and thoughtful. “When I was a prisoner, you came to me. I do not understand why. I was your enemy. Why did you try to seduce me?”
Fiona swallowed. She had dreaded this moment. There was no honorable answer to give him, no answer which did not reveal her shame.
He softened his voice. “I am grateful that you did, else neither of us would be here now. But I cannot help wondering why.”
Fiona sighed. She might as well speak the words. Mayhap then, things between them would be finished. If he rejected her, it might be for the best. She could get on with her plan to return to Eire.
Her voice rang out clear and strong, revealing nothing of her regret—she would not let him see her humiliation. “I wanted you to couple with me, to take my maidenhead. That way my father could not wed me to a lewd, old chieftain I despised.”
Dag was silent for a time. Fiona waited impatiently. If he meant to condemn her, let him do it now, before she fell even more irretrievably in love with him.
“That does not really explain your actions,” he said. “When it became obvious that I was too wounded to be capable of what you wished, you could have pursued another plan to thwart your father. Instead, you came back. You tended my arm; you bathed me...”
Fiona sucked in her breath. “You were aware? You remember?”
Dag nodded. “I pretended to swoon because I did not understand what you wanted... and I feared you.”
She felt a deep blush creep up her face. What must he think of her—that she had handled him with such a lack of inhibition?
“I have to know.” Dag’s voice was harsh, agonized. “Why did you save my life?”
Fiona let herself be swept back in time to those fateful hours in the souterrain with the beguiling Viking prisoner. What had she felt, before the threat of a raid became real... when she was just an innocent, curious maiden alone with an enticing, and helpless, man?
“At first, I pitied you. ‘Twas no more than anyone kind- hearted might feel for a wounded creature. You were a living thing in pain, and a magnificent one at that.” She smiled faintly, remembering. “I knew it was witless, that I should be terrified of you. But when you looked at me... your suffering pulled at my heart. I suppose I was stubborn as well. Until I left you the last time, I maintained some hope that you would recover and take my maidenhead.”
Dag shook his head. “Was there no other way to avoid the marriage? Could you not reason with your father? If you despised the man...”
“It seems simple now, but it was not then.” Fiona sighed. “My father would not give me his reasons for wedding me to Sivney, and I assumed the worst. I never knew until too late that he hoped to gain warriors to fight off Viking raiders
Her voice broke. Dag fought the urge to reach out and comfort her. Nei, he had to think on what she had told him first. It shocked him that she admitted defying her father so audaciously. In his experience, honorable woman did not rebel against their sire’s wishes. But he had never known a woman like Fiona before. She was as bold as a man sometimes, as courageous, too. Was it not her fearlessness which he admired?
He rose to leave the bedcloset. “Go back to sleep,” he said. She made a sound, half-sigh, half-sob. Pity pulled at his heart, but he did not waver. He would not go to her until he had decided.
He moved past the benches full of snoring warriors and into the half-darkness of the late summer night. The scent of newly cut hay drifted on the breeze, melding with the ever-present reminder of the sea. He breathed deeply, trying to clear his head. At this moment, he wished he were on the Storm Maiden. There was nothing like sailing under a clear, star-studded sky—no passion that compared with the dangerous freedom of going aviking.
Nei, that was not true. The Irishwoman made his veins throb with a fever as fierce as the thrill of riding a well-made ship over the waves. For her, he was willing to do almost anything. Even return with her to Ireland.
The idea had come to him a few days before when he was talking with Ranveig. The old shipwright loved to tell about journeys he had made, places he had seen before his swollen joints had made cold, damp days on a ship pure hei. He had mentioned raids made on the northern shores of Albion, the land of the Picts. They had gone back several years, stripping the land of all its portable treasure. Then, finally, a ship of Norsemen had settled there. There was good land they said, and pretty, foreign women.
Ranveig had nodded approvingly, remembering his sea companions’ foresight. Most men had to give up aviking someday, he said, if they wanted to settle down and breed sons. The wise ones found a choice bit of land in an area exhausted by raids and made their home there.
That was when the image had first come to Dag—he and Fiona presiding over a feasthall built upon one of those strange rounded hills of Ireland. Sometimes it seemed preposterous, an addlepated fancy from one of his fever dreams. Other times, it captivated his thoughts, making his mind whirl with ideas of how to make it come about. He had discussed the matter with no one; he had not dared. He needed Fiona’s knowledge of her homeland to have any hope of succeeding, and he did not know if he could trust her yet.
That was the decision he had to make. Could he risk depending on her to aid him? By all rights he was her enemy, but it had never felt that way. From the first time he had seen her, he had been drawn to her. Tonight she had admitted that she knew something of the same. Their spirits, Norse and Irish, seemed bound together more tightly than the affinity they felt toward their own kin. Dag wondered—could ties of the spirit be stronger than those of blood?
“Who goes there?”
Dag jumped as a voice jarred him from his thoughts. “ ‘Tis I, Dag.”
“Thor’s balls, but you scared me,” Rorig complained, rising up from the shadow of the turf wall. “I had half dozed off when I heard your footfalls.
“What are you doing out here so late?”
Rorig sighed. “Word came yesterday that the Agirssons are raiding. Sigurd believes we should keep watch at night.”
Dag felt a twinge of guilt. He had been so preoccupied with his dilemma over the Irishwoman, he had scarce paid attention to anything else. Raids were an ever-present danger to a prosperous steading. Sigurd was wise to set a watch, although a dozing guard was scarcely better than none.
“You should take your responsibility more seriously,” Dag chided. “We could have all been burned in our beds before you noticed anything amiss.”
; “You think the danger is real?”
“ ‘Tis hard to say. Sigurd reminded me recently that we are distantly related to the Thorvalds. That might be enough to set the Agirsson clan against us.”
“Tiresome feuds.” Rorig sighed. “ ‘Twere not for the Agrissons’ foolishness, I would be snuggled in a haystack with Breaca.”
“It goes well between you?”
“Ja. Better than I’d hoped. The little thrall is... ummm... more inventive than I’d imagined.”
“Have you thought of asking the jarl if you might purchase her for a wife?”
“Why would I do that? I am well pleased with things between us as they are.”
“What if she gets with child?”
“I would claim the babe, of course.”
“What if the jarl decides to sell her? If you don’t own her, you have no say in what happens to her.”
“Knorri would not do that.”
“Knorri will not be jarl forever,” Dag reminded the younger man. “If you care for Breaca, you should do something to secure your future with her.”
“Mayhap I am not certain if I care for her that much. There is a whole wide world of women out there. I might fancy to sample a dark one next time, or one with a rounder bottom and bigger breasts.”
“ ‘Tis your decision, Rorig. I only suggest these things because I know what it is like to have a woman I cared for decide that she would fare better with another man.
“Breaca would not choose another man over me!”
“She might—if he offered to buy her.”
“Has she told Fiona that?” Rorig demanded.
“Nei, not Fiona. ‘Twas to me Breaca suggested it. She is keen to be under some warrior’s protection. If you do not offer her that...” Dag let his voice trail off meaningfully.
“Trolls’ ears! How could she? What other man at Engvak- kirsted is as fine to look upon as me?”
“I do not think your attractiveness is at question, but rather, your willingness to secure her future. Women set great store by the comforts and protection a man can give them.”
Rorig swore some more and kicked viciously at the turf wall, complaining bitterly of fickle, greedy women. Dag walked off, pleased that he had at least given the young warrior cause to stay awake this night. A sleeping guard was worthless, after all.
The night air was wet with dew as Dag returned to the longhouse. He had been awake half the night, weighing his decision. His conversation with Rorig had decided him. If a man waited until he was completely sure of a woman, he might wait forever. There came a time when he must reach out and seize his dreams with both hands. If they crumbled to dust in his fingers, he would still die knowing that he had chosen the courageous path.
He crept into the longhouse on tiptoe, fearing to wake the other warriors and alarm the household. Quiet filled his bedcloset; Fiona must have slept at last.
He crawled into the box bed and drew the furs over himself. “Dag?” Fiona’s sleepy voice whispered through the darkness and wrapped around his heart.
“Ja,” he answered.
She said nothing more, but moved close to lay her head on his chest. Her silky hair blanketed him like the warm, soothing waters of a dark river.
“Dag!”
Dag sat up abruptly at the sound of his brother’s voice. Instinctively, he reached for a weapon, sensing warning in Sigurd’s tone.
“Ja, brother, what is it?” He rose and moved to the doorway, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Fiona.
“The jarl would speak with you.”
Dag dressed hastily, wondering what had happened. From the sounds in the longhouse, he guessed it to be late morning. He should not have slept so long.
When Dag left his bedcloset, he saw the jarl sitting in his carved chair at the front of the longhouse, surrounded by his oathmen. Dag approached them slowly, his heartbeat quickening. From the serious expression on the men’s faces, he feared something ominous. Had there been an attempted raid or other threat to the steading?
He took his place next to Sigurd. The jarl turned toward him and said, “I am banishing the Irishwoman from the longhouse.”
When his shock had worn off, Dag looked at his brother accusingly. “Are you blaming her for Mina’s loss? All knew the babes came too soon—ask any woman in the steading!”
“Nei.” Sigurd’s voice was cold. “I do not blame her for what cannot be helped. Indeed, I have argued for mercy for your thrall.” He nodded toward Brodir. “There are those who would have her put to death or sold outside the steading. I argued that the matter could be settled by keeping her away from the free women.”
“Why? What has happened?”
Veland, the brawny smithy, spoke. “Your thrall suggested to Mina that she take some potion to keep a babe from starting in her womb too soon.”
Dag was hardly surprised by Veland’s words—it sounded exactly like the sort of thing Fiona would do. But he was a little awed by Fiona’s knowledge of such things. Glancing around at the other men, he realized that they, too, were astonished, and fearful. Brodir’s accusation of witchcraft had already tainted Fiona; this latest situation lended substance to the charge.
“I’m certain Fiona meant only to aid Mina,” Dag said, hoping to win at least Sigurd to his side. “She fears that conceiving too soon might endanger Mina’s life.”
The jarl shook his head. “ ‘Tis appalling magic—a potion that kills a man’s seed. I fear what Brodir says is true. The woman is a volva, a sorceress.”
“ ‘Twould be disastrous if a woman could control what man she conceived with,” Utgard agreed. “When a man lay with a woman, how could he know that her body was not full of poison meant to kill his offspring?”
“I don’t see why this is grounds to banish Fiona from the longhouse,” Dag insisted. “She was only trying to protect Mina.”
Velund thumped his meaty fist on the table. “We don’t want our womenfolk exposed to such subversive, evil practices. If my wife had not convinced me that the Irishwoman had other useful skills, I would argue for her death myself!”
Sigurd spoke in a controlled, quiet voice, “The jarl has made his decision. He expects you to remove the woman from the longhouse as soon as she rises. From now on, she will sleep in the slaves’ dwelling and fulfill the duties of a field thrall. She will be allowed to use her healing abilities on members of the steading, but only under close supervision. And she is not to have contact with Mina or any of the other free woman unless the woman’s husband is present.”
Dag sighed with resignation. Poor Fiona. Now she was not only a thrall, but a field thrall. He thought of her satiny skin turned dark and coarse by the sun and wind, her regal posture twisted to the weary stoop of a field hand, her delicate fingers gnarled and roughened by constant toil. He had to protect her from such hardship, to keep his countrymen from ruining her beauty as Brodir had smashed her enameled gold girdle when they were on the ship.
He looked up and met Brodir’s gaze. The crude Norseman had said naught during the discussion of Fiona’s future, but the satisfaction on his face was evident. He meant to destroy Fiona; he would not rest until she was dead.
Dag rose quickly, intending to rouse Fiona and hasten her from the longhouse before she could see the hatred and fear in his sword brothers’ eyes. He had to shield her from their misguided loathing.
“Dag.” Sigurd stood and motioned his brother away from the group of men. “I would have told you the news myself, but I was busy convincing the jarl that the Irishwoman intended no harm. ‘Twas not easy arguing that she be spared. In doing so, I have paid my debt to her for Gunnar’s life. From now on, the woman is your responsibility, not mine.”
“I thank you for your aid,” Dag responded stiffly. “Tell me, though, who carried the tale of Fiona’s advice to the jarl? Was it you?”
“Nei. Mina did not mention the matter to me. She counts Fiona as friend; she would never have betrayed her.” He shook his head. “At this moment, my wife lies
in bed weeping for the injustice done to Fiona, as if she did not have enough to grieve for.”
“Who, then?”
“Ingeborg. She meant no harm either, but she can be simple- minded at times. She went to her husband with this plan to wait two more years before conceiving again. After three babes in three years, she is keen to have a rest from childbearing. Since they have not yet had a son to train in his profession, Velund found the idea unacceptable—and Fiona’s advice dangerous.”
Dag thought of Ingeborg with her yellow braids and her calm, round face. Why should she be forced to carry another child when she was already so busy with her three girls? It was the women who took the risk in childbearing—why should they not have what control they could over their future? Obviously, he did not share the concerns of his sword brothers. He would not want Fiona to bear him a child unless she wanted to.
He thought of that now, wondering suddenly if Fiona had used such a potion to kill his seed. The idea made him slightly uncomfortable, but he knew he could not condemn her if she had made such a choice. It seemed heartless to try for a babe when their own lives were so unsettled and uncertain.
“I’d better go to Fiona,” Dag told his brother. “I do not want her to wander out into the longhouse and unwittingly incur the men’s wrath.
Sigurd nodded and left him. Dag went to his bedcloset, pausing before the door. He had made up his mind, and the jarl’s recent decree only reaffirmed the inevitability of his choice. He must get the Irishwoman away from Engvakkirsted. He would take her back to Ireland, and if possible, start a new life with her there.
Dare he tell her his decision yet? He had no ship to make the journey, no means to make his plan come to pass. Nei, better not to arouse her hopes. He might yet fail in his scheme.
Chapter 22
“I would have you hurry,” Dag urged. “The men have all left the longhouse. ‘Tis better if they do not see you in the vicinity of their womenfolk.”
Fiona sighed and began to collect her belongings. When she had woken to find Dag gone, she had not been alarmed. She had dressed leisurely, humming as she did so. For the first time in weeks, she had felt at peace, part of her grief and shame lifted. She had told Dag the truth of their first meeting, and he had not turned from her. Instead, he had held her tenderly much of the night and loved her with a thoroughness that left her body deliciously replete.
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