“There is a tunnel beneath the storeroom which leads through the ground to an entrance outside. Knorri showed us where it was. Then he went after the hacksilver. I thought he was behind us, but when we reached the outside opening, he was gone.”
Sorli gripped the arm of one of the stouter thralls. “Show me.”
As Sorli and the woman disappeared into the night, Fiona embraced Mina. “Thank God you are safe.”
Mina stared at the longhouse. “If it were not for the old jarl, we would all be dead. Everyone was asleep when he came and pounded on the bedcloset door. He led us right to the tunnel. Said he’d had it built in case of a raid. We all grabbed something and went down into darkness. We begged the jarl to come with us, but he would not listen. He wanted to go back for the treasure.” She took a gulp of air. “We had to feel our way along the stone walls. The smoke followed us. I’m afraid it caught Knorri.” A sob broke from her throat.
“You must not think of it,” Fiona soothed. “You are alive, and you saved the children. If Knorri dies, at least he died bravely, like a warrior.”
It seemed only moments before Sorli and Brodir came from behind the longhouse, bearing the limp form of the jarl. When Sorli shook his head, indicating that Knorri was dead, Mina fell to her knees and began to tear at her hair in grief. The other women joined her.
Fiona stared at the dead man and grieving women, reliving her own loss. Then she heard a panicked shout and turned to see a half-dozen men running toward them. By the firelight, she recognized them as freeholders and craftsmen who lived in their own dwellings outside the longhouse. They had finally smelled the smoke and come to help. The first word on their lips was “raid.”
Brodir answered them, his voice thick with hatred. “ ‘Twas not a raid. The Irish witch...” He pointed at Fiona. “She did this!”
Chapter 28
Fiona backed away from the wild-eyed men encircling her. “Nei, I did nothing! I was asleep in the slaves’ dwelling—ask any of the thralls!”
“And why should they not lie for her?” Brodir taunted. “They are slaves like her, and she has put them under her spell. I tell you, I arrived at the fire to see her cursing in her foul tongue and waving her hands. She caused the fire with her evil sorcery.”
“I was grieving!” Fiona cried, half hysterical. If these men believed Brodir, they were like to throw her into the fire now and think about it later. “I wept for the children, the women. I feared them all dead!”
“And where were you, Brodir?” Sorli asked sharply. “Sigurd left you to guard the steading, and you failed. The jarl is dead, our longhouse destroyed. I think you cast blame on the Irish thrall to save your own skin.”
Brodir’s face contorted. “I cannot fight sorcery! No warrior can!” He moved toward Fiona as if he would grab her.
Veland, stepped between them. “On the morrow, there will time to settle this. For now, we must tend to the jarl’s body and find shelter for the women and children.”
At his reasonable words, the other men came forward to aid Mina and the others. Within a short time, the survivors of the fire were led off to temporary beds in the dwellings of the freemen living near the steading. Breaca appeared out of the darkness and took Fiona’s arm. They began to walk toward the slaves’ dwelling.
“Seize the witch! She’s getting away!” Brodir shouted.
Fiona turned and met Sorli’s eyes, begging him to intervene for her. Sorli shook his head at Brodir. “You’ve lost your wits, man. Loki’s name, she’s only a woman. She couldn’t hurt anyone.” He gestured toward the eerie, orange-edged skeleton of the longhouse, still burning furiously. “That fire was set by men, by raiders. If I were you, Brodir, I’d think up a better excuse to explain to Sigurd why you failed to guard the long-house. These lame tales of sorcery and spells are unworthy of a Norse warrior.”
Fury flashed in Brodir’s eyes, and he took a step toward Sorli. Fiona held her breath. At last, Brodir turned and stalked off into the night.
“Thank you,” she whispered to Sorli.
The gnarled-faced man gave her a fierce look. “I spoke naught but the truth, but I would not vow to it if Sigurd sees things differently. You’d best hope they find evidence of raiders when they search on the morrow. Sigurd’s no fool, but he might not pass up this chance to rid himself of you. He’s sore grieved over his brother’s going away, and now he must face another loss.”
Fiona swallowed. Sigurd would return to find his home burned and much of his wealth destroyed. Would he blame her for his misfortune? If naught else, he might have her put to death to silence Brodir.
Panic beat through her veins. She could run away, but where? As Breaca once pointed out, she was certain to perish if she fled outside the steading. Besides, if she ran, she would appear guilty of Brodir’s accusations. She could not allow Mina and the others to believe she had set the blaze. And Dag—she thought desperately. If he believed her guilty of burning out his kin, he would be beside himself with remorse. He would grieve over his mistake for the rest of his life.
She shuddered. Even if it meant her life, she would not flee. Never would she allow Dag to suffer the damnable torture she had known the last few months.
She reached for Breaca’s arm. “Come, let’s go back to the slave dwelling.”
Breaca spoke glumly as they walked. “I didn’t realize what it was like, how horrible a raid could be. I never considered that innocent children might perish.”
“It could have been much worse. No one died but the jarl, and I imagine he was proud to go to his death defending his home rather than dying quietly in his bed. The Norse prize death in battle as the height of glory. The jarl’s struggle to get the women and children out and his wealth to safety was a battle of sorts.”
“I’m not thinking of this raid,” Breaca said. “I am thinking of what Rorig and Sigurd and the others meant to do to the Agirsson steading. I was... so greedy. I thought only of myself, of Rorig’s securing hacksilver so we could be wed. I didn’t think of how others might suffer.”
Breaca began to cry, and Fiona drew the weeping woman to her breast. The bitterness of Breaca’s guilt reminded her of her own. But was it not merely human to think of one’s own interests and forget the price that must be paid by others? “Pray, Breaca, do not carry on so.”
She led Breaca to the slave dwelling and helped her lie down. Two thralls rescued from the longhouse had squeezed in among the rows of pallets, and the small building was more crowded than ever. Finding her own pallet occupied, Fiona snuggled up to Breaca and tried to sleep.
Although her body felt drained and exhausted, sleep eluded Fiona. The images of the fire and the jarl’s scrawny body lying still on the ground would not leave her. What if it were Dag who had been caught in the poisonous smoke? How could she bear to go on living if Dag no longer walked the earth? A sharp pain caught her in the chest. Oh, how she loved that fierce, stubborn Viking!
A sudden thought struck her, and she jerked upright. Surely Sigurd would send word to Dag of the jarl’s death. Close kin as they were, Dag was certain to come home for Knorri’s funeral. Hope suffused Fiona’s weary body. To be held in Dag’s strong arms again, to hear the thud of his brave heart beneath her ear, to smell the enthralling musk of his skin—the thought of it nearly stole Fiona’s breath away. She clutched herself tightly and tears stung her eyelids. Blessed Bridget, please let me live long enough to tell him I love him!
The day dawned gruesomely cold. Despite the many bodies huddled together, the chill sweeping through the cracks in the daub-and-wattle structure woke everyone early. Sitting up stiffly, Fiona surveyed the crowded dwelling. The other thralls were quiet as they went about their personal tasks this morning. They were clearly shocked by the news of the fire and apprehensive about what the disaster meant for them. Fiona sought to shut out their anxiety and concentrate on her slim hope. To see Dag again... to speak to him...
A groan from Breaca brought Fiona back to gloomy reality. “Oh, Fiona, find
me a pot.... I’m going to be sick!”
Fiona hurried to the storage area by the hearth, stumbling over several thralls as she did so. By the time she reached Breaca, it was too late; the young woman was bent over, retching onto the dirt floor between the pallets.
“Ohhhhh,” she moaned as she straightened. “Now there is no more willow to make a soothing draught for my stomach. All Mina’s herbs burned in the fire.” Realizing how much else had been lost, Breaca began to weep again.
Fiona planted her feet and decided that the time for coddling Breaca was past. “Nay, Breaca, you must not cry any more. ‘Twill make the babe sickly and weak.” She turned her glance to the rest of the thralls. “It is grim, aye,” she said. “But no lives were lost, save the jarl’s, and he would not have lived many more years anyway. Rebuilding the longhouse will take a great deal of work, but at least the foodstores are safe. We will not starve this winter.”
“Well spoken, Irish.”
Fiona looked around to see Sorli standing in the doorway. His expression was dour, as always, but Fiona thought she recognized the glint of admiration in his eyes.
He stepped into the room and spoke brusquely. “There is much to be done. Food must be prepared for the jarl’s household, and Mistress Mina wants the men to go through the ruin of the longhouse and search for anything that can be salvaged. The larger timbers still smoke, but some areas can be cleared.”
At Sorli’s words, the thralls quickly dispersed, the woman to find food stores, the men to begin the filthy task of scavaging among the rubble.
“I can cook for Mina and the children,” Fiona suggested.
Sorli shook his head. “Until Brodir’s accusations are disproved, you will not go near the new jarl’s family.”
Jarl. Sigurd was jarl now. The thought banished Fiona’s optimistic mood. When Dag returned, would Sigurd even allow her to see his brother? “Was there any sign of raiders?” she asked.
“Some,” Sorli grunted. “The fire was clearly started by human hands, not sorcery. We found an empty cask of fish oil near one of the turf walls. I believe someone doused the outer timbers of the longhouse and set them ablaze.”
“Are you convinced now that Brodir is mad?”
Sorli shook his head. “I tell you the facts as I see them, but I will not contradict Sigurd if he decides otherwise. ‘Tis for the jarl to decide your fate, not I.”
Fiona shivered. What if Dag did not come back in time? “When will Sigurd return?” she asked.
“I’ve sent one of the freemen to Ottar’s steading to seek out the jarl. Unless Sigurd and his warriors are still chasing after the Agirsson brothers, the message should reach them in a day. I would look for the jarl to arrive by dusk tomorrow.”
“And Dag?” Fiona asked breathlessly. “Have you sent word to him? Knorri was his uncle. He should know of his kinsman’s passing.”
“Do you hope that the jarl’s brother comes and speaks for you?” Sorli shook his head sadly. “That Dag cares for you does not reduce Sigurd’s hatred, but increases it.”
“What should I do?” Fiona asked. “How can I prove my innocence?”
“If you appear a dutiful thrall, that might sway Sigurd in your favor. You must keep busy. Cook for the other thralls, as you have been doing. And spin. Except for what is on our backs, there is scarce a scrap of cloth left at Engvakkirsted.”
“Is there another loom?”
“I’m sure one of the freeholder’s women has one. Can you weave?”
“I was taught to weave as a small child,” Fiona answered tartly.
“You never know about princesses. I’ll fetch the loom for you.” Sorli gave her a wry smile and left the dwelling.
Fiona turned to her domestic tasks with a sigh. A tremor of grief ran through her as she thought of the piles of woven linen and wool stored in Mina’s supply closet. It would take a household of women nearly a generation of spinning and weaving to replace such a wealth of fabric. Now it was reduced to ashes, not by an unchancy spark from a cooking fire, but by the destructive hands of raiders.
Damn men for thinking up war!
Sigurd arrived the next day. Fiona was alerted by the eager shouts that carried through the thin walls of the slave dwelling. She went out and watched as Sigurd and his oathmen entered the steading yard. Women and children, slaves and freeholders all gathered to welcome their new jarl, their cheers desperate with relief.
Fiona watched stonily as Sigurd greeted his wife with a solemn nod, then swept his children up into his arms. For a moment, her animosity lessened as she saw intense emotion sweep across Sigurd’s broad face. The man obviously loved his children; she felt sure he prayed his thanks to Odin for sparing them.
Then Sigurd’s expression once more grew harsh and stoic.
He dismissed the women, children, and thralls and began to question the men he had left behind to guard his home. Half- hidden behind one of the storehouses, Fiona watched intently. She heard Brodir voice his vicious accusations. Sigurd listened briefly, then silenced him with an abrupt gesture. The jarl turned to Utgard and questioned him.
Fiona strained her ears to hear what he said. Utgard had been the other warrior guarding the longhouse on the night of the fire. He could not be found that night, but the next day he had stumbled into the courtyard with a story of being struck over the head, tied up, and left in the woods. Fiona was not certain she believed him, although she had seen the raw places on his wrists. It seemed very odd to her that the raiders had not killed him, but had merely shackled him out of the way.
But no more odd than the story Brodir had finally given Sorli. He claimed the ale he had drunk that evening was drugged and he had fallen into a deep sleep, not waking until he “heard the witch’s screams.” Fiona could not fathom Brodir’s mind. Did he imagine that casting the blame on her would save him from Sigurd’s wrath? Or did he really believe that she had drugged him and set the blaze with magical incantations?
Now Sigurd spoke to Sorli. Fiona held her breath, praying that the slavemaster would be able to sway the new jarl with his practical explanation for the source of the fire. She knew Sigurd respected the old warrior. Surely he would accept Sorli’s word over that of a raving, self-serving lunatic like Brodir.
Sigurd looked thoughtful as Sorli made his report, but his thick fists clenched and unclenched in an impatient rhythm. Fiona’s dread intensified. Finally, he spoke. Fiona could hear his deep voice boom across the courtyard. “Bring me the woman.”
She wanted to run and hide, but she would not. She had faced Sigurd before and survived. Of course, she reminded herself, those times Dag had intervened. Now he was not here, nor would he be, mayhap, until it was too late.
Trembling, she stepped out from behind the building and walked to face her fate.
Sigurd regarded her as she approached. His eyes were full of hatred. Fiona straightened her shoulders, standing tall, like a queen. She wished she wore something finer than the soiled tunic she had worn to the Thing, but there was no help for that now. Sigurd had never responded to her as an attractive female anyway, at least not since the first time he had seen her and tried to ravish her.
She reached him and bowed slightly. “Jarl.”
His eyes, darker and less blue than his brother’s, swept over her contemptuously. She guessed he noted how small she was, how frail. In a physical contest with him, she had as much chance as a lamb facing down a full-grown wolf.
“Fiona of the Deasunachta—you have been accused of treachery and murder.”
Fiona’s heart skipped a beat, and she watched Sigurd intently.
“Sorli argues for your innocence,” Sigurd continued. “And for all you have shamefully manipulated my brother, I have marked that you have a kindness for woman and children. I don’t believe you would murder my family while they slumbered in their beds.”
Fiona released her breath.
“But—” Sigurd eyes glittered suddenly. “—’twould be an easy way for me to be rid of you and I ca
nnot say that the thought of your death displeases me. You have cost me much by subverting my brother’s mind with your bedevilments. I must think on this matter. Even now, Utgard rides to deliver the tragic news of my uncle’s passing to Dag. I judge that I have less than two days to decide whether it would be wiser to greet my brother with your corpse or your living body.”
Fiona closed her eyes and swayed.
“No word of Dag’s arrival?”
Breaca entered the doorway and shook her head. Fiona cursed and began to pace the small building, her body as tense as a water-soaked skin left out to dry. Any moment she expected Sigurd to enter the tiny doorway of the dwelling and condemn her. That he had not only worsened her ordeal.
“What could be keeping Dag?” Fiona demanded. “It’s been two full days since Utgard left for Skirnir’s steading. Surely
Dag would not decline to come back for his uncle’s funeral. If he does refuse to return—sweet Jesu, save me—Sigurd will have me put to death for certain!”
“The weather has worsened,” Breaca reminded her. “That might have delayed him. Or it could be that Dag was not at Skirnir’s steading when Utgard arrived. They might have gone off on a journey.”
“Where?” Fiona whirled to confront Breaca. “If the weather is chancy, why would they travel? I fear the worst, that Dag has declined to come. He may not even know what danger I face.”
“This is foolishness. Of course, Dag will come. He would not do something so ignoble as missing Knorri’s funeral. The Norse gods willing, Dag will be here.”
“Even if he comes, I do not know if he can stop Sigurd from killing me.” Fiona chewed her lower lip furiously. “Sigurd does not understand what Dag and I share. He thinks that I have bewitched Dag and undermined his loyalty to the Norse. Sigurd especially hates me for making his brother plan a journey to Ireland.”
“Dag can convince his brother to spare you, I know it. He will return and set things right with Sigurd.”
Fiona sat down on a stool by the fire, exhausted. “I keep hoping you are right. Yet with each hour that passes, my hope grows fainter.”
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