Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  But now there was a new difficulty to overcome. As soon as Dag entered the bedcloset, he told her of the jarl’s harsh, unfair pronouncement. She was to be driven from the long- house, banished from contact with the women of Engvakkirsted, excepting the female thralls. She was not only a slave, but an outcast. Angry curses against the Norse race sprang to her lips; but seeing Dag’s troubled face, she had not spoken them. She would not blame him for the ignorance of his kinfolk.

  “ ‘Twas not Mina who let slip your advice to her, but Ingeborg,” Dag said. “She does not always think before she speaks.

  She thought it would be wonderful to be able to plan when her next child would be born; Velund thought otherwise.”

  Fiona nodded. She should have heeded the warning voice which had reminded her that some knowledge was dangerous to share. At least she knew Mina had not betrayed her. It would have grieved her deeply to think Sigurd’s wife wished her ill.

  “I will take you to the slaves’ dwelling and speak to old Sorli myself,” Dag said. “The slavemaster is not heartless. He is something of an outcast himself; he treats the field thralls with decency, knowing what it is like to be regarded as less than a man.”

  Fiona’s ears pricked up. “Why is he an outcast?”

  “The code of a warrior is a harsh one. To die in battle is considered the only worthy fate. Sorli is crippled; his shattered sword arm never healed. Some men consider him less than a man because he can no longer fight.”

  Fiona pondered this, thinking it likely that Brodir was one of those who condemned the slavemaster. The thought of another disabled warrior came to her mind. “What of the jarl?” she asked. “He is scarce fit to do battle, yet his word is law at Engvakkirsted.”

  “That is Sigurd’s doing. All the warriors know that it is really my brother who rules the steading. But he honors Knorri and will not see the old jarl’s authority usurped.”

  It was strange to think of forbidding Sigurd as being protective of a feeble old man. “Why does Sigurd care so much for Knorri?” Fiona asked.

  “Our sire died in a raid when we were boys. There were those who would have murdered us for Engvakkirsted’s wealth. Knorri protected us until we grew to men.” Dag shook his head. “You cannot know my brother as I do. Like everyone else, you see only the harsh, rational warrior. But I suspect when Knorri dies, Sigurd will weep like a brokenhearted boy.”

  “You brother loves you, too,” Fiona said softly. “I think he would do anything to protect you.”

  “That is why we must do everything we can to convince him that you are good for me rather than ill. We need Sigurd on our side.”

  Dag’s intensity when he spoke of his brother worried Fiona. The two Norsemen were obviously close. She did not like to think that she had come between them. Ties with your close kin were important. She, who had lost so many of her loved ones, knew that truth.

  When she had gathered her few possessions, they set out for the slave dwelling. “It pains me to think of you dwelling here,” Dag said as entered the crowded, poorly built structure. “If I had my way, I would dress you in jewels and silks from Mikel- gard and have body thralls wait upon you from dawn to dusk.” He smiled at her ruefully. “But all is not hopeless. While the weather is warm, I will find a place for us to bed down together. You are still my thrall; the jarl has no authority to keep me from enjoying one of my possessions.”

  Fiona smiled back at him. It no longer angered her to hear him speak of her as his slave. If she remained his captive, she was a willing one.

  “Dag, what word do you have of the Agirsson-Thorvald feud? I trow I am too busy to learn the latest news.” A vigorous man with skin aged to leather grabbed Dag’s arm with his healthy left one. “I heard that Sigurd set a watch. Is there real danger?”

  “I don’t know,” Dag answered. “A watch seems a wise precaution. It has been quiet in the valley for years; I fear the peace cannot last.”

  The man—who Fiona assumed to be Sorli—nodded emphatically. “Too many men would rather play coward and burn out their neighbors in the stealth of night than meet a foe in battle.” Seeing Fiona, the man paused in his philosophizing. “Is this the Irish wench? I heard she was a volvcu.”

  “Nei, not a volva,” Dag assured him. “I have bedded her; I would know if she knew witchcraft.”

  Sorli nodded. “Spooky-looking though, she is. Never have I seen such black hair, nor eyes so green.”

  “Well, you’d best get used to her. She’s to live in the thrall- house.”

  Sorli’s eyes widened. “What nonsense is this? I don’t need some cunning-faced vixen distracting the field thralls from their work.”

  “She speaks Norse and still enjoys my favor, so you’d best take care in how you talk about her.”

  “If she enjoys your favor, why are you bringing her to me?”

  Dag’s face grew grim. “The jarl has banished her from the longhouse. The warriors mislike her foreign ways and fear their wives being exposed to her.”

  Sorli frowned and looked Fiona up and down, as if expecting to find she had two heads instead of one. “The jarl suspects her of witchery, so he burdens me with the wench,” he said sourly. “As if I did not have enough to worry about with the harvest not yet in and the butchering ahead of us.”

  “She is not a witch,” Dag repeated. “Give her a chance, Sorli. She is clever and hardworking, although I would not have her do strenuous outdoor work. Her value lies not in brawn or endurance, but in her quick mind. Find some tasks for her that will not damage her beauty.”

  Sorli gaped at him. “You want me to protect her? To pamper her like a house thrall?”

  “Not only that, but keep her away from the warriors. I fear they might threaten her if they find her alone.”

  “And why should I do these things for you, Dag Thorsson? What payment will you make me?”

  “Whatever you like. Surely there is some comfort or luxury I could provide to sweeten your existence.”

  Old Sorli frowned and scratched his stubbled jaw. “I would like a new bed. Not merely a soft pallet, but a real box bed with rope supports and a straw mattress.”

  “Done,” Dag answered. Fiona gaped at him, wondering where he meant to procur a bed for the slavemaster. Only Dag, Sigurd, and Knorri slept on box beds; the rest of the steading made do with sleeping sacks on benches or pallets on the floor.

  “You may return to your work, Sorli. I will help the woman with her things.”

  The old man nodded and strode off. Fiona let Dag lead her into the dark, smoky thrallhouse. “Where will you get a bed?” she asked.

  “I hope to make an arrangement with Ranveig. He can build other things than ships. If all else fails, I will give Sorli my bed.”

  “You would do that for me?” Fiona asked softly.

  Dag leaned over to kiss her. “Ja. That and much more. You are precious to me, Fiona.”

  Fiona sighed as she stored her belongings under the pallet she had been assigned in the thrallhouse. Things between her and Dag had never been better, but the future still appeared grim. She was an outcast among the Norse, and that would never change. Could she live this harsh, lonely life, even knowing she had Dag? And what of her plan to return to Eire? How could she forsake her vow?

  She brought her hands to her temples, trying to ward off the headache her mental turmoil caused. A low, ugly laugh behind her brought her sharply back to her reality. Fiona whirled.

  Brodir stood in the low doorway, his brutal countenance livid with hatred. “Murdering wench,” he growled.

  Fiona went rigid. Where was Sorli when she needed him?

  Brodir’s thin lips contorted. “You killed Sigurd’s babes with poison. I know it, and soon everyone at Engvakkirsted will learn the truth. Then the jarl will order you killed. Before you die...” Brodir moved closer, his hot, foul breath scalding Fiona. “I will have you, Ja, have you for my pleasure.”

  Her heart had fair stopped. Fiona took a deep breath, then stepped back and tri
ed to get a grip upon her nerves. “I did nothing of the sort. The babes came too early; there was no hope they would live. Mina or any of the other women will tell you that.”

  “But why did she go to childbed so soon?” Brodir taunted. “Was it not because you have been giving Mina poison for weeks?”

  “Nei!”

  The Viking smiled a hideous smile. “The women tell me that you made Mina a special mixture to drink each morning. Of course it was poison.”

  “Nei, it was dragonwort, an herb meant to strengthen her body and prevent the babe from coming. It did not work; but with some pregnancies, there is nothing that does.”

  “Do you expect anyone to believe you?” Brodir sneered. “You are a witch—a devious, corrupt Irish witch. And soon the jarl will know it.”

  Fiona found herself shaking. There was no way to argue with this man. He twisted the truth into a lie. She could only hope he did not succeed in convincing the others.

  “Sigurd does not believe I harmed Mina, and he has told the jarl so. Your threats are for naught.”

  At the mention of Sigurd, Brodir’s face grew even more menacing. “Sometimes Sigurd is a fool, but he will see I am right, in the end. Then he will urge the jarl to condemn you.” He moved closer. “You will burn; but before that, I will have you. Your pale, perfect skin will be covered with bruises and welts ere you leave this life.”

  “What happens here?” a man’s voice called out. Fiona jerked away from Brodir as Sorli poked his head into the dwelling.

  “What are you doing, Brodir?” Sorli asked. “You know Sigurd has ordered you to keep away from the women slaves. He won’t see the jarl’s good thralls ruined by your viciousness. And this one...” He moved beside Fiona protectively. “She has the jarl’s nephew’s favor. You will answer to Dag if you touch her.”

  “Dag is not here,” Brodir taunted. “What would you do to me, old man. Would you hurt me with that?” He pointed to Sorli’s withered arm, eyeing it with repugnance. “You’re not even half a man!”

  “I serve my jarl well,” Sorli answered evenly. “I put food on his table and fill his carts with goods for trade. He remembers that. He also recalls that I fought beside him in a dozen battles. Leave us.” Sorli gestured with his good hand.

  To Fiona’s surprise, Brodir gave her a vicious look, then abruptly left the slave’s dwelling. She looked at Sorli, regarding him with new respect. She had seen few men stand up to Brodir as he had done.

  “What are you looking at, wench?” Sorli demanded. “The next time you see your master, tell him that I want posts carved with dragons’ heads for my bed. I trow, I have earned them.”

  “Fiona.”

  She looked up from the tunic she was mending for Aeddan, the youngest of the field thralls. Smiling, she put the garment aside and rose to greet Dag. His impassive expression warned her to refrain from embracing him, but she could not resist moving close, drinking in the sight of him. In the firelight of the thrallhouse, he reminded her again of a sun god—so big and strong and golden.

  “Come, walk with me,” he said.

  Fiona obeyed with delight. Outside in the twilight, she inhaled deeply, then made a face. The thrallhouse was much too close to the cattle byre and the privy for her taste.

  “How do you fare?” Dag took her arm and began to lead her toward the turf wall.

  “Well enough. For the last two days, my lot has almost been easier than it was in the longhouse. Sorli does not know what to do with me, so he set me to mending. I have repaired all his work tunics and trews, and now he has me sewing for the other thralls. I don’t know what he’ll have me do when I finish.”

  “Good, I would not have your skin and hands ruined by field work. I’m pleased that Sorli has kept his part of the bargain.”

  “And what of your part?” Fiona asked. “Have you made any progress toward securing a bed for the slavemaster?”

  “ ‘Tis complicated, but I am close. Ranveig will make the bed, but only if he can have a new sail for the mast he is making for the Storm Maiden. I have bartered with Ingeborg to sew it. She cannot do it unless she has a woman to watch the two youngest of her three girls. Mina had agreed to keep them with her in the longhouse, but only if she does not have the boys underfoot as well. I am taking the boys out hunting and fishing with me. That is why I did not come last night; we did not get back to the steading until late. Then the jarl called a meeting to talk about the raids.” Dag sighed.

  “Jesu!” Fiona exclaimed. “You should have been a merchant. All that bargaining and negotiating to obtain one bed!”

  “There have been some other things involved as well. Ingeborg wanted some silk for a girdle she is weaving. I gave her the blue garment you wore on the ship and said she could unravel it and use the thread.” Seeing Fiona’s dismayed look, he added, “I promise to buy you a new gown, even finer, as soon as Sigurd agrees to make a trading voyage to Hedeby.”

  “ ‘Tis no matter. Much of the skirt was stained by salt water on the journey.”

  “I see that it grieves you, though.”

  Fiona sighed. “The gown belonged to Duvessa, my foster sister.”

  Dag nodded. “I will see Ingeborg tomorrow and ask for it back.”

  “Nei! You have worked too hard on this arrangement for me to ruin it with my selfishness. I know you do all this to protect me, and I am grateful.”

  “Has anyone bothered you?” Dag asked, pausing on the pathway leading up into the hills beyond the steading.

  Fiona hesitated. Should she tell him about Brodir? Sorli had handled the situation successfully, and she did not want to worry Dag. Then she remembered the slavemaster’s request for a carved bed. “Brodir did come once, but Sorli sent him away. I’m afraid the slavemaster has upped his payment for protecting me. He said to tell you that the bedposts must be carved with dragons’ heads.”

  Dag’s eyes darkened with rage. “Brodir dared to threaten you? I will kill him!” He jerked away as if he meant to return to the steading and do the deed that moment. Fiona ran after him and grabbed his arm.

  “Nei, Dag! Do not fight Brodir! I would not see you hurt, and the jarl will blame me for coming between his oathmen. It will only make things worse!”

  Dag took a deep breath. “You are right, although it scarce tempers my anger.” He turned toward her. “I cannot stand this—to see you harassed and intimidated.”

  “I am well, Dag, truly.” Fiona pressed her face against his chest. “When you hold me in your arms, I forget all else.”

  Dag’s hands came up to stroke her neck. “Ah, Fiona, what will become of us?”

  Fiona buried her face deeper against Dag’s warm strength as tears filled her eyes. What, indeed? Although she struggled to avoid thinking of the threatening future, it remained like a cloud over their lives. Brodir would never leave her in peace, and sooner or later, Dag would be forced into a confrontation with his sword brother.

  “I would forget, too.” Dag’s fingers moved lower, from her neck to her breasts. His stroking grew urgent, provocative rather than soothing. Fiona’s nipples tingled in response, and a low, fervent heat spread through her lower body. She gasped at the intensity of her desire and swayed against him.

  Dag melded his mouth to hers, kissing her with long, deep tongue strokes that left them both shaking. When he began pulling at her clothes, Fiona found the presence of mind to remove his hands. “Let me undress,” she whispered. “I’m tired of mending things.”

  Dag nodded, his face intent in the half-darkness. Shivering in the evening air, Fiona pulled her kirtle over her head and bared herself to her lover. Dag groaned. “A bed—what I would not give for a bed. I would lay you down and...”

  “I know of a bed.” A mischievious notion took hold of Fiona. “There is a meadow just beyond this rise. Meet me there!”

  She dashed off, naked, giggling with exhilaration, a girl again, playing games in the magic hours after sunset. But this time it was not Duvessa who chased her, but Dag. She could he
ar him behind her, following with long, ground-eating strides. Fiona shrieked and quickened her pace. She reached the meadow, breathless with exertion and anticipation. Dag moved toward her and struggled out of his clothes. Fiona watched him bare his long, muscular, breathtaking body in the fading twilight.

  She waited, helpless with desire for this beautiful Viking.

  “Elusive, bedeviling wench.” Dag reached for her, drawing her against him. His jutting erection pressed against her belly. Boldly, Fiona moved her fingers to enclose him. Her breathing quickened. Such a fascinating plaything men possessed. So eager and enthralling, beguilingly silky and rigid. She wanted to kiss him there, to bury her face against him.

  Dag had other ideas. He grabbed her hips and lifted her up, then slid her body slowly down his until her thighs met his belly. Fiona moaned and parted her thighs so his shaft slid into her wet, slippery sheath.

  Neither moved. “I want you,” Dag said. “I cannot be gentle the way I feel.”

  Fiona nodded against his chest. Somehow he manuevered them both to the ground. She closed her eyes and surrendered.

  He loved her with fury, as strong as the wind tearing at a ship’s sails or the waves lashing against the shore. He was her Viking god, thundering amid the heavens. She accepted him, loved him, melded into him.

  Afterwards, Dag rolled on his back, feeling the grass cold and wet against him. With his sword hand he reached out to touch Fiona’s face. The warm wetness on her cheeks alarmed him. “I hurt you?” he whispered.

  “Nei.”

  “You weep!”

  “Not with sadness.”

  “Ah.” He felt it, too. Some emotion so powerful it was like a bird taking flight within his breast. “I will love you slow next time. I will be gentle.”

  “Nei. ‘Twas perfect. I will never forget.”

  Dag stared up at the stars. How far he had travelled to reach this place. He lay naked in a mountain meadow watching the moonrise with an Irishwoman. At this moment he could not even remember what it meant to be Norse. There was only himself... and Fiona.