Grabbing the clean shift and a bone comb, Fiona walked cautiously toward the bathhouse. She breathed a sigh of relief when she found the slave portion of the dwelling empty. Slipping inside, she firmly latched the door, then stoked the fire. While she waited for the hut to heat, she undid the plaits of her hair and undressed. Memories crowded her mind. What pleasure Dag had given her in this place. What awe-inspiring lovemaking they had shared.
She shivered at the thought then began to wash. As soon as she was clean, she dressed and sat down on one of the benches to work the snarls from her hair. Her hands stilled in her damp tresses as her gaze rested on the wooden bench she sat on. Never would she forget the feel of Dag’s skin against hers, the glow of his blue eyes in the firelight. He was her golden god—impaling her body with his own until they were joined in ecstasy.
She closed her eyes. How could she leave Dag? He was her soul, as dear to her as her own self. If she gave him up to do her duty, she would live the rest of her life as a ruined, empty shell.
Resolution filled her as she opened her eyes and gazed at her surroundings. She could not leave Dag. It would be better to suffer the humiliation of remaining a Norse thrall than to give up her lover. Better to forget her heritage than to destroy this chance for happiness. Her parents had married for love. So would she. She would follow the instincts of her heart.
She sighed deeply. If Dag returned and the gods blessed her, she would soon conceive. And once she bore Dag’s child, nothing else would matter. She would find happiness, even in this grim, lonely land.
She smiled as she looked around the bathing hut. She could scarcely wait for Dag to return to tell him of her decision. He need not struggle to put together this expedition to Ireland. She would stay with him, by his side, until the last breath left her body.
She got up slowly, picking up her dirty clothes, and went out of the bathing hut. The cold, raw air assaulted her damp hair and skin, and some of her euphoric mood faded. When would Dag return? He had made no mention of how long his mission would take. Would he be gone days, or weeks?
She quickened her pace, abruptly realizing how alone and helpless she was. She was nearly to the thrallhouse when something caught at her hair, drawing her up short. Fiona twisted around to free herself and met Brodir’s mocking face.
She stared at him wildly, her mind sifting through the possibilities for escape. There were none. Brodir had hold of a thick strand of her hair. If she tried to pull away, he would be on her in seconds. His slit-like eyes glittered with triumph. His thin lips stretched into a mirthless smile.
“I could have you now,” he said, his voice low and disturbingly soft. “I could take you into the woods or to one of the byres and use you until you begged for death.”
Fiona forced herself to take a shaky breath. She must remember to breath normally or she would never be able to run if she had a chance.
“But I’ve thought of a better way.” He smiled again, his ugly face like a death’s mask. “You won’t escape, witch woman. I will see you die a horrible death.”
He released her hair. Fiona stared at him, unable to believe he meant to let her go. Then she whirled away.
By the time she reached the slave dwelling, her teeth rattled in her head with cold and fear. She sank down before the fire, close to weeping.
“Fiona?”
She looked up to see the boy, Aeddan, the one whom Dag had assigned to care for the horses.
“Where is Dag?” Aeddan asked. “Why didn’t he come back with you?”
Another bolt of fear shot through her. “He’s visiting another steading. You’ll have to see to the horses by yourself.”
“When is he coming back?”
In the boy’s stark, anxious gaze, Fiona saw her own dread. “Soon,” she said firmly. “Soon.”
** *
“The jarl would like to hear of your raid of the Irish coast.” Ellisil gestured to an older man whose pale hair and eyes mirrored his own coloring.
Dag settled himself politely on a bench across from his host. “Of course, Skirnir, I would be pleased to tell you of our adventures. ‘Twas my brother’s idea to sail so far. A few years ago, he wintered at the Norse garrison called Dublin. He became convinced that much of Ireland is ripe for the taking. The chieftains are forever making war with each other. They have as yet not learned to stand together to repel invaders...”
As Dag related his story, Ellisil, Skinir, and the other men listened raptly. With every eye on him and the crowded long- house quiet except for a fussy child and the click of a loom in the corner, Dag felt almost like a skald spinning a tale of adventure and heroism. The men shook their heads and grimaced in sympathy when he told how he had been wounded and thrown into the souterrain, then edged their benches closer when he described Sigurd leading the Norsemen in an ambush of Donall MacFrachnan and his guard.
“Hold, Dag, there seems to be a piece of the story missing,” Ellisil interrupted when Dag began to tell about the booty found within the Irish chieftain’s private chambers. “You tell of the torching of the fortress as if you were there, but you have yet to explain how you escaped the chieftain’s prison.”
“The chieftain’s daughter aided me.” Dag stared at the startled faces of the men around him and felt a twinge of worry over telling Fiona’s part in his rescue. Would they think her a traitor to her people, as he had at first?
“Ah, the black-haired thrall.” Ellisil smiled with sudden comprehension. “She is a princess of her people,” he told the gathering. “And one of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Hair as black as night, flashing green eyes, and a slim, supple body like a cat’s. She carries herself like a queen, too.
“What made this woman aid you, her father’s enemy?” Tongstan, Ellisil’s brother, asked.
“Mayhap she fell in love with his handsome face,” Ellisil jibed.
Dag gave his friend an irritated look before answering. “The woman was angry with her father and desired to thwart his marriage plans for her.”
Skirnir nodded. “And now you mean to take this woman to wife and claim her lands?”
“Ja. As her husband I will have the right to her inheritance.”
“And if her people resist, you will enforce your claim by might.” Skirnir nodded again and pushed away the platter of pork before him. “It seems a worthy expedition, with much potential profit. I would be willing to lend one of my ships to such a venture. But you would have to raise your own crew. ‘Tis a pity that most of the warriors who might join you have already agreed to travel to Hedeby with Tongstan.”
“Why could Dag not come with us?” Ellisil suggested eagerly. “We could obtain supplies in Hedeby, then return to Ferjeshold and outfit the ship for the Irish voyage.”
Dag repressed a sigh of protest. He didn’t want to go to Hedeby. Every moment away from Fiona, he felt sick with worry.
* * *
“The warriors gather at the longhouse.”
Fiona nodded at Breaca’s words and went on with her spinning.
“If only the Agirssons had agreed to abide by the decision of the Thing,” Breaca complained. “ ‘Twas a fair decision, Rorig says. They broke the law, and they should pay. Instead, they commit worse atrocities, until even Sigurd believes they must be stopped.”
“And how does he plan to do that?” Fiona asked.
“Sigurd has met with Ottar, jarl of the closest steading. They intend to join their men and go out looking for the Agirsson brothers. When they have found them, they will take them to the Thorvald family for justice.”
Fiona stood up, carrying the spindle with her. The slave dwelling felt small and closed in, like a prison. She paced the length of it, then returned to the hearth where Breaca sat patting dough into loaves. “If Rorig sees fit to share the men’s plans with you, he must trust you,” she told the younger woman.
“But he hasn’t spoken of going to the jarl about purchasing me.”
“Mayhap he doesn’t have the hacksilver to me
et your price.”
Breaca nodded. “When they go to the Agirsson steading to capture them, they might search for the family’s treasure trove. If they find it, Rorig would have a share. Then, he might have enough to buy me.” She frowned. “But I can’t help worrying. What if he is hurt or killed? Who will care for me and the babe?”
“Babe!” Fiona exclaimed. “You have conceived? Why did you not tell me?”
“You have been so anxious over Dag, I feared to worry you with my own troubles.”
Fiona sighed guiltily. She had been selfish, moping over her problems and thinking of no one else’s. Without Breaca’s company, she would have gone mad long ago. “How do you feel?” she asked the younger woman. “Does your belly churn?”
Breaca nodded. “I have lost my meal these past three mornings.”
“Go to Mina and ask if she has any willow leaves so I can make you a brew to ease your discomfort.”
“I’m afraid she will not know willow from the other dried plants. Mina has little knowledge of herbs.”
Fiona frowned. “Mayhap after the men leave on the raid, I could dare to go to the longhouse and find what we need in Mina’s herb basket.”
Breaca’s eyes widened. “You would do that for me?”
Fiona gathered Breaca’s slim form in her arms. “Of course, Breaca. I would not see you suffer.”
* * *
“By the saints, not again!” Breaca moaned.
Before Fiona could reach her, Breaca stumbled to the hearth and falling to her knees, began retching into a cooking vessel. Fiona found a rag and took it to Breaca. “Are you fevered?”
Breaca shook her head as she wiped her mouth. “Nay, ‘tis the babe.”
Fiona regarded Breaca with concern. Sickness in the morning was common for a woman with child, yet it worried her. She knew how dangerous pregnancy could be, especially for one as young as Breaca. Quickly, Fiona decided. “We must go to Mina and seek the aid of her herbs. With the men gone after the Agirssons, there is no one here to prevent me from seeing her.”
Breaca nodded. “Let us dress and then we’ll go.”
As they walked to the longhouse, Fiona noticed Breaca’s gloomy, preoccupied mood. “You are worried about Rorig, aren’t you?”
Breaca sighed. “ ‘Tis not all fear for my babe’s future. I have come to care for Rorig. I would miss him if he didn’t return.”
Fiona smiled. “I am pleased. I had hoped the two of you would come to share a little of what Dag and I have.”
“But it hurts,” Breaca complained. “I didn’t want to fall in love, to care!”
Fiona patted her arm. “You said the men would not be gone long, only a few days. And if Rorig succeeds, he will be able to purchase you. You’ll be a free woman.”
A tremulous smile broke through Breaca’s gloom. Fiona felt an answering warmth inside her. For all the anxiety it could bring, love was what made life worth living.
When they reached the longhouse yard, Fiona spied Brodir practicing with his weapons. She froze and watched uneasily as the warrior flung his battle-ax blade into the dirt. He retrieved the weapon and repeated the motion. Taking a deep breath, Fiona turned to Breaca. “What is he doing here? I thought you said all the warriors had gone with Rorig.”
“Someone had to stay behind and guard the steading. Apparently, Sigurd chose Brodir for the task.”
Fiona cursed softly. “I’ll wager Sigurd hopes Brodir kills me while he’s gone. That way he would be rid of me without having it on his conscience.”
“What do we do?” Breaca asked. “Do you wish to return to the thrallhouse.”
“Nay.” Fiona squared her shoulders. “We have come to see Mina, and so we shall. I’ll not let that ugly Viking rule my life.” She turned to Breaca. “Is there another man at the steading who could watch as we spoke to Mina?”
“There is Veland. The smith didn’t go on the raid either.”
“Run and find him,” Fiona said. “He can verify that I didn’t speak of anything unseemly to Mina.”
Breaca returned with Veland. He gave Fiona a wary look when she explained what she wanted, then accompanied them inside the longhouse. Fiona squinted in the dim light and saw Mina at the loom in the corner. Nearby, two house thralls busied themselves spinning while young Gunnar and Ingolf shelled hazelnuts near the hearth.
Mina left her weaving as they approached. “Breaca, are you well?” were the first words from her lips.
Fiona answered, “Nothing appears amiss, but her belly is queasy in the forenoon. If you have some willow, I would like to make her a soothing draught.”
Mina nodded. “I’ll get my herbs.” She gave Fiona a searching glance before turning and heading toward the back of the dwelling.
She returned shortly with the basket of dried herbs for Fiona to inspect.
“I need a lamp,” Fiona said, bending over the basket. “So many plants look alike when they are dried.” Breaca lit a lamp, and Fiona searched until she found what she desired. “Your supply of dragonwort is almost gone,” she warned Mina as she closed the lid.
“I know. We are short of medicines,” Mina answered. “I meant to remind Sigurd to ask Ottar’s wife if they had any to spare. They are fortunate to have a wise woman living at their steading.”
Fiona met the other woman’s gaze. There were so many things she wanted to ask Mina, but she could not speak freely with Veland watchng.
“Have a care,” Mina said to Fiona, her gaze flickering toward the entrance of the longhouse. It was clear she also feared what Brodir might do.
Fiona nodded. “And you as well.”
When they left the longhouse, Brodir was gone. Breaca and Fiona looked around uneasily, then raced back to the slaves’ dwelling, heads bent against the wind.
No escape. Fiona ran, desperate, terrified. Flames were everywhere, licking furiously, vicious tongues of gold and orange. Smoke billowed up and smudged the night sky. At every turn, the massive silhouettes of Viking warriors stalked the blaze-filled corridors of the palisade.
She turned back, running into the wild strobe of fire. Smoke sucked into her lungs, a burning beast that tore at her insides. She breathed in deeply. Once. Twice. The gasp that woke her turned into a scream....
Sweat dripped down her face as Fiona stared around the quiet dwelling. Beside her, thralls stirred. One of the women lifted her head and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Mutely, Fiona shook her head. It had been a dream, only a dream. She lay back down again and tried to slow her frantic breathing. The uneasiness would not leave her. She could not shake the terror.
Again, she rose to a sitting position. Swiping at her damp brow, she shivered as drafts of air swirled through the openings in the flimsy structure sheltering her. A windy night, mayhap blowing in another storm.
Restless, she crawled from her bedsack and went to the doorway. The hide covering trembled and shook in the wind. She pushed it aside and peered out. Nay, not a storm. The air did not smell damp. It smelled like... smoke.
Fiona’s nostrils flared in recognition. She had dreamed of her father’s palisade burning, but that was thousands of leagues away and a dozen sennights. Now she dwelt in the land of the Norse. The scent of death-tinged smoke could not follow her here. And yet, it had. The odor was unmistakable.
She took a deep breath and ran outside.
The longhouse was heavily ablaze when she reached it. Fire ringed the oblong dwelling, trapping those inside. Fiona stared in horror. Mina, the children—oh dear God, it could not be happening again!
She began to scream, although her plaintative cries scarcely rose above the roar of the flames. She cried out for Mina, for Sigurd’s sons, for her father and kinsmen. Beating her chest, she shrieked her agony to the pitiless wind.
“Witch! Irish witch!”
Fiona whirled at the low snarl beside her and met Brodir’s hate-filled gaze.
“I hear how you curse them,” he said. “It is because of you they die!”
&n
bsp; Fiona bared her teeth at her enemy, but he approached her, his boar-like eyes wild. “You made the fire. You are evil. Knorri should not have let you live!”
“Odin have pity!” Sorli limped up, his seamed face grotesque in the firelight. “The murdering bastards have fired the longhouse!”
“Who, Sorli?” Fiona demanded. “Who?”
“Raiders, of course,” the slavemaster answered. “Who else would do such a wicked thing?”
“Who else, indeed?” Brodir sneered. “ ‘Twas this witch. I heard her screaming her incantation. She brought down this calamity upon our heads. She is guilty!”
To Fiona’s eyes Brodir appeared as mad as a slavering dog, but her hatred was too strong to hold back. She lunged at him, aiming for his face, clawing at his skin.
Strong arms dragged her away. “Cease your struggles, wench,” Sorli hissed in her ear. “Do you want to be put to death for attacking a warrior?”
Fiona forced herself to go limp, her breathing to calm.
“Why weren’t you at your post, Brodir?” Sorli snarled. “And where is Utgard? Did the raiders get him?”
“Nei, not raiders. It was she who caused the fire.” Brodir grabbed Fiona’s arm and shook her until her teeth rattled. Fiona jerked away. Mayhap she should run and hide. Sorli seemed to believe in her innocence, but there was no reason others would.
Brodir cursed her, low and fierce. Sorli gazed in dismay at the flaming longhouse while Fiona looked into the darkness behind the ruined dwelling and considered her escape. Her eyes widened as she saw figures moving through the haze of smoke.
“Blessed Jesu! They’re alive.”
They all stared in disbelief at the dozen women staggering toward them. Mina and a house thrall clutched Sigurd’s sons to their chests. The others carried children or heavy casks.
Fiona rushed to Mina and took the child from her arms. “The jarl,” Mina breathed. She bent over, coughing, then turned stricken eyes to Sorli. “Please, go after the jarl.”
Sorli glanced at the inferno of the longhouse. “How?”
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