Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  Chapter 23

  “A messenger from Ottar’s steading just arrived,” Sigurd said. “They’ve called a meeting of the Thing.”

  Dag put down the barrel of salted fish he was carrying to the storage shed and faced his brother. “Because of the raids?”

  “Ja. Like you, other men think the Agirssons should pay wergeid for the attack on the Thorvald steading. They hope to end the feud before it involves more families and causes more deaths.”

  “Where will the meeting be held?” Dag took off his sealskin gloves and flexed his fingers.

  “At Skogkrasse, a sennight hence.”

  Dag nodded in satisfaction. He would see warriors from other steadings and feast and drink with them. He would have a chance to discuss his plans with other landless sons. Not only did he need a ship, but men willing to sail with him. The thought of Ireland reminded him to ask, “Who will go?”

  “You and myself, of course. The jarl does not feel well enough for the journey, so we will represent him. We will also take a full complement of warriors to watch our backs. In times like these, you cannot be too cautious.”

  “Brodir?” Dag asked.

  “Nei. He is exactly what we do not need at a peaceful gathering. The man is always stirring up trouble. He enjoys raiding and bloodshed; he would probably encourage the Thor- vald clan to break the truce as soon it was made.” Sigurd regarded his brother warily. “Why would you want him along?”

  “I fear that Brodir might harm Fiona while we are gone. He has threatened her already. I have asked Sorli to look to her safety, but without my presence to discourage him, I fear Brodir will grow bold,”

  “You asked the slavemaster to look after Fiona?”

  Dag met his brother’s eyes with defiance. “Ja, I did. She is my property, after all. Why should I not seek to protect her?”

  “Brodir would not dare hurt the woman. He knows you would return and exact vengeance.”

  Dag shook his head. Sigurd did not understand how deep Brodir’s hatred of Fiona ran. His passion to destroy her had twisted his mind and made his reasoning dangerously warped. Dag felt certain the warrior was capable of anything.

  Anxiety over Fiona plagued Dag as he finished stacking the casks of dried fish in the storehouse. By the time he completed the task, his anxiety had grown until he could not stand it. He must see Fiona and reassure himself that she was well.

  Finding the thrallhouse empty, Dag decided Sorli must have set Fiona to work outside after all. He walked down the pathway toward the grainery.

  In the area in front of the storage building, slaves busied themselves cleaning out the baskets of rotted grain and debris from the last harvest so the new crop could be stored for the winter. Seeing no sign of Fiona, Dag turned, intending to look elsewhere. He nearly stumbled over a small black-and-white cat carrying a mouse flushed from the grainery. A smile came to his lips as he righted himself and met the feline’s wary, amber eyes. WHiile most Norsemen considered cats as bothersome and disgusting as the rodents they preyed upon, Dag admired the lithe creatures. They were such clever hunters, and their knowing, mysterious eyes always made him feel as if their spirit spoke to his.

  Dag left the steading complex and headed toward the stubbly fields behind the longhouse. He grimaced as a pungent smell met his nostrils. So, that was where the rest of the thralls were—rendering fat for soapmaking. Although important to a prosperous steading, soapmaking was a disgusting process and always done as far from the living area as possible. Thinking of Fiona working amid such a mess made him angry. He had asked Sorli to look after the Irishwoman, to keep her from the more odious tasks. What if she were burned? The thought of her smooth skin being scarred made Dag walk faster.

  Reaching the work area, he waved aside the billowing smoke and scanned the half-dozen grubby thralls overseeing the work. No Fiona.

  Torn between relief and aggravation at not finding her, Dag whirled and strode back toward the longhouse. Where could she be? He did not like the idea of her working by herself any more than he favored the thought of her doing the crude tasks the other thralls did. If she were alone, it would be too easy for Brodir to accost and threaten her.

  By the time he finally cornered Sorli by the water trough, Dag’s temper was running hot. “Where’s Fiona?” he demanded of the older man.

  Sorli’s pale-blue eyes narrowed. Remembering what Fiona had told him about Sorli’s defending her from Brodir, Dag softened his voice. “Your pardon, Sorli, I did not mean to shout at you. I’m only concerned for my thrall’s welfare.”

  The bitter look in Sorli’s eyes eased. “She should be in the slaves’ dwelling. I’ve set her to cooking meals for the other thralls. She has a fair hand with a cooking pot, for all that she says she has not prepared food much before. Her bread is better than most; her porridge actually quite savory...”

  “I just looked there,” Dag interrupted. “I did not see her.

  Sorli shrugged. “She asked for access to the forest to gather herbs. Mayhap she went there.”

  Dag’s heartbeat quickened at the thought of Fiona alone outside the steading, collecting the last of the season’s plants. He strode off toward the woods, his stomach tight.

  An hour later, he gave up and returned to the steading, sick with helpless worry. He would check the thrallhouse one more time, then go to his brother and demand men to search for her.

  A fragrant odor assailed Dag’s nose as he entered the low doorway of the building. Fiona kneeled by the cooking fire, stirring something in a cauldron. Dag went weak with relief. He wanted to rush over and crush her slim body to his chest. Instead, he barked, “Where were you?”

  Fiona glanced up, her eyes wide with surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “I came looking for you some time ago, and you weren’t here.”

  “I went to gather some wild garlic. It makes a nice flavoring with pork.”

  Dag stood over her. “I was beside myself with worry. You should not go anywhere alone!”

  Fiona’s eyes lit with resentment. “Am I a prisoner in this place? Dare I even leave to use the privy by myself... master?

  The sarcasm in her voice enraged him. He had spent nearly the whole afternoon searching for her. He was simply trying to protect her. “Always you defy me! I tire of your independence and your stubbornness! Mayhap I should beat you. Then you might learn to mind me!”

  Fiona stood. Her head reached barely to his shoulders. “Beat me then, if it soothes your pride, Viking,” she taunted. “Act a brute like the rest of your race!”

  He raised his hand to give her what she demanded. At the last moment his fingers stalled in midair. He sighed and turned away. “You provoke me, wench. But I get more pleasure bedding you than I would beating you.” He turned to face her again. “I have only your welfare in mind. I would not see you hurt.”

  Her anger appeared to fade as quickly as his had. “I beg pardon, Dag. I know you care for my safety.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief at her compliance, but could not disregard his worries. “I came to tell you that Sigurd and I

  must make a journey to attend a meeting of the Thing—an assembly of men from different steadings who gather to make and enforce the laws of our people. I fear for your safety while we are gone.”

  Fiona nodded. “Brodir...”

  “He will try to hurt you, I know it.” Dag took a deep breath, struggling for a solution. Sigurd was right; Brodir could not go with them. He was exactly the sort who caused problems at a peaceful gathering. But left behind, he was a hazard to Fiona. Unless she came with them. He wrinkled his forehead, considering. Although women were welcome at the Allthing in the spring, this was not that sort of meeting. The jarls met to forestall war, and few men would bring their wives or families to such a potentially volatile event. If he took her, Fiona would have to remain alone at their camp much of the time. She’d dare not act defiant or haughty.

  He gazed at the woman before him. Short of temper, long on pride—she w
as a volatile creature. But she was sharp-witted, too, and reasonable, for the most part. Dared he trust her to behave herself if explained the circumstances?

  He had no choice. Better the dangers they might encounter at the Thing than the inevitable disaster of Fiona alone with Brodir at Engvakkirsted.

  Fixing her with a stern look, he said, “I am taking you to the Thing. I can’t leave you alone with Brodir, but I need your promise that you will behave on the journey. You must agree to act the part of a docile, compliant thrall every moment we are away from Engvakkirsted.”

  Fiona nodded slowly, but Dag still felt anxiety. She could not guess how important this journey was to their future—unless he told her. Mayhap it was time he shared a little of his plans. He took a deep breath. “While we are at the Thing, I mean to find a man with a ship who will sail to Ireland. I intend to take you back to your homeland.”

  With the area outside the slave dwelling lit only by moonlight, Fiona could scarcely see Dag, and it took a moment for his words to sink in. When they did, her mind reeled. Return to her homeland, see her kinfolk, be free...

  Dag spoke again, his voice impatient. “You still want to go, don’t you?”

  “Ja,” she breathed. Of course she did. This was the dream which had kept her alive. Why, then, did she feel so disappointed, so empty? “I am very grateful,” she told Dag. “When will we leave?”

  “I’m not certain. I hope to sail yet this season, but I must find a man willing to provide a ship for the journey, as well as a crew. At the Thing, I will be busy talking to other warriors, finding out if they are willing to join me. I will not have time to keep you out of trouble—that is why your cooperation is so important.”

  Fiona could hardly focus on what Dag was asking. She forced herself to answer. “Of course, Dag. I promise to do your bidding in all things.”

  She heard him exhale the breath he had been holding, and his hands came up to stroke her arms. “You are cold, Fiona. We must see about getting you some warmer garments.” He leaned over and kissed her. Fiona closed her eyes as the familiar fire burned through her. How could she bear to give this up?

  The kiss deepened. Suddenly, Dag pulled away. “Ah, Sorli,” he said. “I needed to speak with you. The woman will be going with Sigurd and me when we journey to the Thing. I trust that you can do without her for the several days we will be gone.”

  After Dag and Sorli left, Fiona lay down on her hard pallet and stared up at the thrallhouse roof. Dag meant to return her to Eire, to give her back all she had lost. It was everything she had wished for. She would return to her home and resume her role as princess of the Deasunachta. Her life as a thrall among the Norse would be over, banished as if she awoke from a bad dream.

  Why, then, was she so unhappy? Why did she feel as if she had been stabbed in the heart? She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears. The thought of leaving Dag made her feel empty inside. He had come to fill the void within her that her father’s death had left; now she was to lose him as well. Could she bear to give him up?

  The great, yawning emptiness inside her grew. What would life be like without Dag, without his beautiful, strong body; his warm smile; his courageous, proud spirit? Without him, she would be only a shell of herself, living and breathing, but no longer really alive. It sounded unendurable, but then, so had being a Viking thrall.

  Fiona took a deep breath, struggling for control. She had made a vow, and she would keep it. Dag had offered her the chance to be a princess again. It was her duty to accept his gift.

  Dag walked back to the longhouse. His plan was taking shape. At the Thing, he would surely find men willing to sail with him to Ireland. He savored his dream, fleshing it out. Each time he imagined it, the feasthall on the hill grew larger. Now it had carved timber supports and the defending walls of the fort were of stone instead of wood. Beautiful, swift horses grazed in his fields, and his hall was crowded with strong warriors and fair maids. Fairest of all was Fiona, dressed in a vivid green gown and gleaming gold.

  He frowned. She had not seemed as pleased as he had hoped, tonight when he’d announced his intentions. He had expected her to embrace him, her face to light up with gratitude. Why had she been so quiet, so thoughtful? Could it be that she did not feel for him what he felt for her?

  He tensed at the thought. Never had they spoken of the future, trying instead to deny the oppression and worries of the present. In his mind, it was natural to see her as his wife, but he could not know if she wished him for a husband. Mayhap she meant to return to her people and wed an Irish chieftain. Anger rose in him. He would not give her up to another man. She was his, and he would have the lands she was heir to as well. If necessary, he would fight for them.

  He entered the longhouse. Sigurd and the other men still sat up drinking, talking, playing dice and board games. Dag ignored them. Already, he felt distant from his sword brothers. If things went well, he was to embark on an adventure more daring than all the raids and trading journeys any man of his clan had ever taken part in.

  He slipped into his bedcloset, his mind still racing. There was so much to plan, so many details to arrange. He needed a crew of at least thirty men and a light, durable sailing vessel. And then there were weapons, foodstores...

  Chapter 24

  Dag reached out and patted the horse’s shaggy forelock. He stared into the animal’s dark eyes, seeking to communicate with its spirit.

  “What do you think, brother?” Sigurd asked impatiently. “Are they worth the price? I’m no judge of horseflesh, but we need some draft animals to pull the supply cart when we journey to the Thing. Will these beasts do?”

  Dag nodded absently. The horse seemed wary, fearful; it appeared likely it had been abused. “The animals are sound. If properly fed and cared for, they will serve.”

  Sigurd gestured to the fierce-visaged man standing next to him. “My brother says they will serve. We’ll take the pair.” His eyes narrowed. “But Thor strike you down, Ottar, if you have cheated us.”

  Ottar Jokulsson, jari of the steading, smiled, the movement causing his battle-scarred mien to grow even uglier. “You say your brother can judge a beast’s temperament? What a queer skill for a warrior to possess. Can he also predict the weather and which way a battle will turn?”

  “Nei,” Sigurd answered sharply. “My brother is no wizard; he simply has a way with animals.”

  Ottar greeted this remark with a grunt, then said, “Bring the gold to the longhouse when you are ready to depart. I’ll have my thrall hitch the horses to the cart.”

  Ottar left, and Dag and Sigurd watched a dark, wraithlike slave harness the horses. The horses acted weary and resigned. Dag frowned. He observed no lashmarks on the animals’ hides, but they had been poorly fed and neglected.

  “You are certain, Dag?” Sigurd asked as the slave moved out of hearing. “The jarl will be angered if I have spent his wealth on beasts too sickly to survive the winter.”

  “There is nothing wrong with them that a few days of good feed would not set aright,” Dag announced confidently. “Indeed, I think they are a bargain at the price. Their spirits are low now, but with proper care, they will be eager to serve their new master.”

  “Spirits?” Sigurd shook his head. “How could such mute, stupid creatures have spirits?”

  “Some animals don’t, but these do. It is the wild part of them that speaks in their eyes. They were not always draft animals; once they thundered over the ground with beauty and freedom. That memory is still with them.”

  Sigurd shook his head again. The slave finished harnessing the animals and began to lead them toward the gate of the turf wall surrounding Ottar Jokulsson’s steading. Dag and Sigurd followed. After stepping into the longhouse to pay Ottar his gold, Sigurd departed through the gate with Dag and the horsecart, Dag urging the horses along with a firm hand on the darker animal’s harness.

  “If we did not take Fiona, we could get along without any cart and we would not have had to make this trip t
o purchase horses,” Sigurd pointed out.

  “The animals will be useful for other journeys and tasks. Besides, if I go, Fiona goes,” Dag said. “I dare not leave her behind lest Brodir hurt her.”

  “And I have your vow that she will not act defiantly and shame us before our countrymen?” Sigurd’s blue eyes bored into Dag.

  “Ja, I swear it,” Dag answered.

  Sigurd gave him another searching look. “By what means do you intend to make certain of the woman’s obedience?”

  Dag smiled. “I trow she will mind me in all things.”

  Sigurd’s dark brows rose. “You would only promise that if you were very sure of her. What have you done? Have you offered to wed her?”

  Dag shook his head, but Sigurd ranted on. “How could you be so foolish! By offering her hope for a life beyond what you have already given her, you increase her dissatisfaction and encourage her to rebel against her lot. Dissatisfied thralls are dangerous, especially ones as clever and determined as the Irishwoman.”

  “Dangerous? How is she dangerous?” Dag scoffed.

  “Can you deny that she considers us her enemies? Why should she not harbor plans for vengeance against us?”

  “You have been listening to Brodir!”

  “Nei,” Sigurd answered, “merely observing the woman. I underestimated her at first, thinking she was like the rest of her sex, conniving for comfort and luxury and the petty power of a pampered concubine. Now, I see that there is more to her. She still fancies herself a princess and clings to her past life in Ireland. She has not accepted her lot as slave, and now you encourage her to think of herself as equal to a freewoman.”

  “She is equal.”

  “Nei! Never! She is a conquered slave; she has no rights!”

  “Unless I choose to give them to her!”