Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  Fiona could not meet his eyes. Dag thought she feared his countrymen. He had no idea her anxiety and dread came from the thought of leaving him. “I will not forget my promise,” she said. “I will be the most obedient thrall at the gathering.”

  They reached the Viking encampment, and Dag guided the horses to an area where there were several other horsecarts. Fiona helped him unharness the horses and put out feed for them, then he went off to meet the other men.

  Fiona gazed around, taking notice for the first time of the other people near their camp. Most of them were young warriors left to care for the animals while the older men held their meeting, but Fiona noticed with surprise a woman sitting in an ornate chair by one of the carts. Around her hovered two young thralls. As Fiona watched, the seated woman sent first one thrall, then the other, scrambling for something in the cart. They presented the items to their mistress with a bow, then backed away.

  Fiona stared as the woman took down her long braid and began to comb out her honey-colored hair, grooming herself as nonchalantly as if she sat in her own bedchamber.

  Shaking her head, Fiona turned away. When Dag returned, she would ask him about the woman. For now, she must see to preparing a meal.

  It took her a long time to find enough wood for a fire, then even longer to light it with a flintstone. Her back ached and sweat trickled between her breasts by the time she had fetched water from a spring that fed the lake and gathered foodstuffs from the cart to make a stew. Despite her fatigue, a sense of satisfaction filled her when the men of Engvakkirsed returned and she was able to offer them something hot and tasty to eat. She had fulfilled her role as a dutiful thrall.

  The men talked animatedly as Fiona cleaned and put away the cooking utensils. They obviously considered the Thing an exciting event. In between discussions of political alliances, she heard mention of goods being traded and contests of skill that would be held before the assembly was over. She decided that the Thing was indeed much like the fairs of her homeland, although women played a more important part in the activities there. When the clans gathered in the summer at Cashel, tents were set aside for the women, competitions held for weaving and embroidery skills, and many merchants catered almost exclusively to women’s tastes.

  With surprise, Fiona realized that the exotic woman and her attendants appeared to be the only other females at the gathering. Her curiosity about the woman returned. Who was she, some wealthy jarl’s wife?

  Abandoning her tasks for the moment, Fiona sought out Dag, who was helping Rorig set up the tents. “When we arrived, there was a woman over there.” She pointed to where she had observed the female grooming her hair. “She sat in a carved chair, and there were thralls waiting on her. Do you know who she is, Dag?”

  He looked up. “What did she look like?”

  “She has beautiful hair—the color of well-aged mead. I saw her combing it, acting as haughty as a queen.”

  “Ah, that is Lygni’s bed thrall.”

  “She is a thrall?” Fiona asked in astonishment.

  “Lygni’s first wife died last winter. I’m sure he means to wed the woman as soon as she bears him a son.”

  “Why did he bring her? I’ve seen no other women here, excepting those who serve her.” Fiona said.

  “Mayhap she wanted to come or Lygni thought to impress the other jarls that he possessed such a beautiful concubine.”

  “You think she is beautiful?” Fiona felt a sudden stab of jealousy.

  Dag turned toward her, and in the fading light she could just barely make out his teasing grin. “Ja, she is beautiful—and a sharp-tongued shrew. Believe me when I tell you that I don’t envy Lygni his woman.”

  Fiona was silent, wondering how often Dag’s countrymen had referred to her with similar words.

  When the tents were finally arranged, Dag led Fiona inside the one they shared. He leaned down and kissed her. “I must keep company with the other men this night. Sleep well, Fiona.”

  She reached for his tunic, pulling him down for another kiss. “Do you have to go?”

  “Ja. Much of the business of the Thing will be settled by men talking in small groups around the fire. This is my opportunity to find a crew for our journey.”

  Fiona released him and sat back with a sigh. He left the tent and she heard him talking to the other men. Gradually the sound of male voices receded in the distance. Fiona removed her outer tunic and snuggled under the bed furs.

  Without Dag’s warmth, the bed was chilly. She wriggled, trying to generate some heat. She felt restless and edgy, torn by her conflicting emotions. For the thousandth time, she reminded herself of her responsibility to her people. She was a princess, and heir to Donall Mac Frachnan. She had a duty to return to her homeland.

  Turning onto her back, she stared glumly into the darkness.

  * * *

  Dag walked back to camp, tense with frustration. Thor’s fury! He had not thought it would be so difficult. Ja, other young Norsemen were eager to go to Ireland—to raid and burn! He’d gotten nowhere when he mentioned settling there. Why could not other men see the real wealth of Ireland wasn’t in the gold and jewels that could be plundered from her monasteries and settlements, but in the isle’s rich green fields and gentle climate, her good harbors and favorable sea currents? His countrymen were fools if they could not imagine the possibilities.

  Mayhap he would have had better luck if he had approached one of the wealthy jarls. A man with several ships might be more willing to risk one on an unknown venture. But he dared not go to most of the older men for fear they would betray his plan to Sigurd. He didn’t want to share his dream with his brother until all was settled. He dreaded the thought of Sigurd’s disappointment and hurt.

  Dag sighed as he reached the group of tents which marked their campsite. Tomorrow, he would try again. After the games and contests and an afternoon drinking ale, men would be zealous and primed for adventure. He would seek out the warriors with the most to gain and the least to lose—younger men, landless men—and convince them of the merit of his plan. He would find the crew he needed, and the use of a ship.

  Quietly, he crept into the tent he shared with Fiona. He had no desire to wake her when he had no good news to give her.

  * * *

  When Fiona opened her eyes, it was morning and Dag was struggling into his clothes.

  “You’re leaving again?” she asked sleepily.

  “The formal meeting of the jarls is today. Both Sigurd and I will attend.”

  “Why can’t Sigurd go alone? He will be jarl after Knorri, not you.” Fiona knew she sounded peevish, but she couldn’t help herself. If Dag succeeded in his plan, they would have very little time together.

  “Sigurd wishes for me to accompany him,” Dag answered. “Two men can better represent Knorri’s interests than one could.” He leaned over and kissed her warmly. “After this meeting, the gathering will turn to fun and entertainment. There will be contests between warriors this afternoon, then feasting and competition between skalds tonight. We will be together then.”

  Fiona nodded, still dissatisfied. They had so little time. She wanted to spend every moment with Dag.

  With the men gone, Fiona had few duties this morning, and she took advantage of the fact, lying in the tent until the sun was well up, then dressing lazily. After washing in the spring, she went to the cart and found some bread in one of the packs. She nibbled on a piece and surveyed the nearby campsite.

  Lygni’s thrall sat on her carved oaken chair, grooming her gleaming hair in the sunshine. Fiona watched her for a while, then decided to approach. She could not help being curious about this thrall who conducted herself like a queen.

  Reaching the woman, Fiona cleared her throat and greeted her in Norse. The woman did not pause in her task, although her topaz-colored eyes flickered briefly to Fiona’s face.

  “My name is Fiona,” she continued. “I am here with Dag Thorsson of Engvakkirsted.” The woman remained silent. In exasperation
, Fiona said, “Since it appears we are among the only women at this gathering, I thought it might be pleasant to become acquainted.”

  The woman finally focused her gaze on Fiona. “Dag Thors- son—is he a jarl?”

  “Nei,” Fiona answered.

  The woman sniffed disdainfully. “Then you are a common thrall and it is beneath me to have speech with you.”

  Fiona went rigid. She would not stand for this sort of treatment. “I was a princess back in Eire!” she retorted hotly. There was a glint of interest in the woman’s smoky-gold eyes. Fiona continued. “I intend to return to my homeland as soon as Dag finds a shipowner willing to transport me there.”

  The woman laughed. “Is that what your master told you? How amusing.” A hard look came over her face. “I would wager my best jeweled comb that by the time your generous master finds a willing shipowner, your belly will be swelled with his babe and he will never agree to let you go.”

  Fiona’s indignation intensified. “Dag brought me here to the Thing for the purpose of arranging my transport. I expect to leave within a fortnight.”

  “A fortnight!” The woman threw back her head and laughed uproariously. “Stupid Irish wench! Do you really think your master will let you go?”

  Fiona glared at the woman. “Of course he will let me go. Dag is a man of honor. He would not make a promise he didn’t intend to keep.”

  The woman leaned over the side of the chair. “Obviously, you have lost favor with your master and he means to sell you off.” She tsked sadly. “The life of a bed thrall is harder than it looks. You must keep your wits about you if you want to keep your master interested and accommodating. Some women make the mistake of appearing too eager and subservient, but men soon tire of that. ‘Tis better to be scornful and difficult.”

  Fiona blinked, startled by the woman’s unasked-for advice. The woman continued, “Forget your notion of returning to your homeland. You will never be a princess again. But you can be treated like a princess if you are clever. Get with child, if at all possible. If you bear a girl, don’t even bother to let your master see it. Strangle it or give it to one of your women. Your milk must dry up so you can get pregnant as soon as possible. Bearing your master a son is the only certain way to secure a comfortable life.”

  “I have no need for your counsel on how to ensorcel my master,” Fiona said firmly.

  “ ‘Tis clear you know nothing about men, Princess Fiona. Your master no more thinks to return you to Ireland than mine plans to take me back to Brittany. More like he has tired of your whining about your homeland and means to sell you off to another master. Mayhap that is where he is now—arranging for a buyer.”

  “Nei,” Fiona said stubbornly. “Dag would not lie.”

  The woman shrugged, and a faint smile played over her lips. “I have found that it is when you are most sure of a man, your hold over him is in the most danger of slipping away. Heed my advice. Secure his affections with a babe before it is too late.”

  Fiona turned away from the woman, keeping her expression controlled. She would not listen to this. The woman did not know Dag.

  She walked back to their camp and went to the cart. Searching in a pack, she found her comb and began to redo her braid. She would ignore Lygni’s thrall, who was obviously a manipulative, conniving person and not to be trusted. Indeed, she should never have let the woman goad her into losing her temper.

  Suddenly, Fiona realized how unwise she’d been to reveal Dag’s intentions. Although he had never told her so, she understood implicitly that Dag didn’t want Sigurd to be aware of his plan. It was easy to guess Sigurd might try to prevent Dag from returning her to Eire.

  Anxiety began to gnaw at Fiona’s insides. She would have to tell Dag of her indiscretion. He would know if Lygni was friendly enough with Sigurd to pose a threat. She glanced again at the haughty, exotic thrall. She could only hope the woman would say nothing to her master.

  It was past midday when Dag returned to camp. Fiona sought to speak with him alone, but he dismissed her request impatiently. “The contests have begun. I would not miss them.”

  He took her arm and led her rapidly through the disorderly camp. They finally reached an open area in the center of the encampment where a pair of huge, bare-chested Vikings grappled. “This is the final wrestling match,” Dag announced. “Then come the footraces and the axe-throwing contest.”

  Fiona glanced at Dag, noting his heightened color and the intense look in his eyes. He obviously took a great interest in the games. With a sigh, she turned her gaze toward the contest of agility and strength before them.

  The two Viking athletes circled, assessing each other with taut alertness. One was tall, with brown, curling hair, reminding Fiona of Sigurd. The other, a fair-haired man, was slightly shorter, but his body was as broad and sturdy as a bull’s, his arms like gnarled branches. Observing the man’s enormous size and watching his massive muscles flex, she wondered if even the strongest of Irish warriors would be able to best him.

  The tension built; the crowd shouted encouragement. At last, the taller of the two men lunged forward. So quickly it was difficult to see, he grabbed the other man’s leg and jerked him off balance so he tumbled to the ground. Then, again using the advantage of speed, he whirled behind his fallen opponent and grabbed his shoulders. The shorter man strained in his grasp, grunting fiercely, using sheer muscle power to resist.

  The two men writhed and struggled, stirring up the dust. Sweat shone on their fair skin and darkened their hair. Those watching erupted with cheers and shouts, and even Fiona felt a tingling exhilaration.

  Unconsciously, she chose the taller man as the one she wished to win. She bit her lip and tensed as the fair, broad man suddenly broke free, then rolled to knock his opponent into the dirt. The tall man’s shoulders hovered perilously close to the ground, then he regained control and, with a stunning reversal, pinned the other man beneath his body.

  At the victory of the man she favored, an exuberant cry broke from Fiona’s throat, mingling with the roar of the other spectators. She flushed, realizing how easily she had become caught up in Viking ways, and turned to Dag, expecting him to be as excited as she was. To her surprise, he appeared distracted. Instead of watching the wrestlers, he perused the crowd around them as if searching for someone.”

  She pulled on his arm. “Dag...”

  He shook his head and walked away, striding toward a warrior with striking silvery-blond hair and light-gray eyes. In contrast, the man’s tanned skin appeared almost brown.

  When she caught up with Dag, the other man was thumping his shoulder heartily. “Dag Thorsson, you clever bastard, how did you know Einar would win? Anyone could see that Bjarni is bigger and stronger.”

  “Ah, but not as fast,” Dag answered, grinning at the man. “What say you—would you like to wager on the footrace as well?”

  The man surveyed the contestants thoughtfully. “A bunch of striplings!” he said derisively. “Nothing like what you and I were like when we ran races. I vow we could still beat these puny boys.”

  Dag laughed. “Not with your knee.”

  The man looked down ruefully at his leather-clad legs. “Nei, you are right. A few battles may harden shoulder and arm muscles and sharpen a man’s reflexes, but war plays havoc with legs. But what of you, Dag?” The man looked up expectantly. “Why aren’t you participating in the contests this year?”

  “I took a blade in my sword arm this summer; it still isn’t back to full strength.”

  Fiona looked at Dag in surprise. She had not guessed the wound still troubled him.

  The man nodded genially and turned away. “If you don’t mean to wager with me, I must find other quarry.”

  As the man disappeared into the crowd, Fiona moved closer to Dag. “Who was that?”

  “His name’s Ellisil. We used to compete in these contests together. At one time, he was unbeatable in the footrace, but an axe blow smashed his knee a few years ago. He’s fortunate he can stil
l walk, let alone run.”

  Fiona shivered at this reminder of war. “Is it true your arm still bothers you?” she asked accusingly. “You told me you were completely healed.”

  Dag shrugged. “I am healed, enough for battle anyway.” He again scanned the men around them, frowning. “I’m sorry, Fiona, but there is something I must do. Stay close to Sigurd. I will be back shortly.” Fiona stared after him as Dag disappeared into the mass of brawny warriors.

  Chapter 26

  Dag caught up with Ellisil and grabbed the pale-haired man by the arm. “Take a moment from your wagering to speak to me, sword brother. I haven’t seen you since the beginning of the sunseason. Did you go aviking this year?”

  Ellisil smiled. “Ja, we raided the coasts of Albion. The plunder was good and the women pleasing... though nothing like that black-haired thrall I saw you with. Irish, is she?”

  Dag nodded. “Ja, an Irishwoman. I captured her in a raid last spring. Indeed, that is what I meant to speak to you about. I would like to make another journey to Ireland, but my brother feels it too late in the season. I seek a ship and a crew to sail with me. What say you—does the thought of some autumn viking make your blood run hot?”

  Ellisil glanced back toward the contest area. “Are there more women there who look like that one?”

  “Ja, I suppose so,” Dag answered, thinking it was probably a lie. There could only be one Fiona. “Are you only interested in women, Ellisil? Would not the thought of land of your own also appeal to you?”

  “I suppose it’s costly to keep a woman like that,” Ellisil mused. “Such a delicate, soft-skinned creature can’t be expected to toil as a stout Norsewoman would.”

  “I fear the harsh climate of our land is damaging to such beauty,” Dag agreed. “The land of Eire has a gentle climate and a bounty of food and comforts. “ ‘Twould be a better place to settle if you wished to keep a woman like mine.”

  Ellisil frowned thoughtfully. “And you say you plan to go there now, not even waiting until spring?”

  “Why wait? Why spend a lonely winter in the longhouse with naught but smelly, rude warriors for company when you could bed down in a cozy hall with a comely Irishwoman?” Dag held his breath. Ellisil was near the first man he had found who had some interest in Ireland beyond a quick raid.