Slowly, the sensation faded. The sun rose, and the world became ordinary again. Fiona turned—expecting to see Dag beside her. She saw only Sorli standing there. Yet, she knew. Dag had not abandoned her. His love was with her still.
“Fiona?” Sorli’s voice was awed, uneasy. She met his gaze. His hand quickly went to the Thor’s hammer amulet he wore around his neck as a charm against evil. “Thor, save us,” he whispered. “Dag was right. You are a wise woman—a volva!”
“A what?”
Sorli swallowed. “A volva, a seer, someone who can see the future. For a moment there, when I looked in your face, I knew...”
“Knew what?”
The old warrior shook his head. “Sigurd is a fool if he does not see it. Your death will bring the wrath of the gods down upon us. Dag is right; we should return you to your homeland before it is too late.”
“What’s happening, Sorli? Why are you afraid of me?”
Sorli shook his head again and would not answer.
They waited on the outcrop for a time, then slowly made their way back to the steading. The calm and strength she had found as she’d gazed out at the sunrise remained with Fiona. Even knowing what was to come, she felt peace. Dag had not forsaken her; he loved her. Their spirits would be together, even if she no longer walked the world of the living.
At midday, the Angel of Death came for Fiona. She was an old crone, broad and immense of body, with blackened teeth and gnarled features. The sight of her should be enough to frighten her victims to death, Fiona thought wryly. The wise woman was accompanied by two younger, less repulsive assistants. It was the younger women who took Fiona to the bathhouse and bathed her and washed her hair. They fussed over her as if she were a bride, as she supposed she was in a way—the bride of a dead man. They oiled her skin until it gleamed, arranged her hair in an elaborate coiffure of braids around her head, then helped her into a snow-white linen shift and an exquisite overtunic of scarlet silk trimmed with fur. The tunic was not fashioned in the normal style for a woman, and Fiona suspected it had been made over from a man’s garment.
When Fiona tried to put on her fur boots, one of the women snatched them away and told her that she would not need them. Indeed, she had scarcely stepped out of the bathing hut when she was picked up by the warrior Kalf. As he carried her through the steading, Fiona was surprised to find the place near-deserted. Then, they reached the end of the path that led to the harbor, and Fiona realized that the Norsemen, their families, and even the thralls were already gathered around the grounded ship. Huge piles of timber and brushwood surrounded the graceful hull. Fiona inhaled sharply, thinking of bright flames consuming the abundant kindling and then racing upwards to devour the ship.
Do not think of it, she told herself. You will be dead or insensible by then.
The crowd was silent as Kalf strode up. Then Sigurd and old Ranveig lifted their burden, and those gathered began to wail and cry out in grief. Old Knorri lay on a plank of wood, wearing a long tunic that nearly matched the one Fiona wore. After five days of death, his corpse appeared gray and shrunken, the more so because of the bright attire.
Fiona shivered. She did not want to be placed in a tent with a dead man. She looked around frantically. Kalf still held her tightly, and they were surrounded by grieving warriors. She closed her eyes, searching for the peace which had eased her spirit earlier.
There was a rancid smell. Fiona opened her eyes to see the
Angel of Death standing before her. She held out a beaker. “Drink,” she said, her eyes glittering. “ ‘Twill ease your passage to the otherworld.”
Fiona stared at the woman, then knocked the beaker from her hand. The woman cursed her, her mouth gaping open in a toothless sneer. Fiona gathered saliva in her mouth to spit, but before she could, Kalf began moving again. He carried her to the ship as Sigurd and Ranveig had done with Knorri. Kalf’s booted feet trod heavily on the plank leading up to the ship, then Fiona heard the creak of the ship’s timbers. She gritted her teeth.
Kalf jostled her roughly as he entered the tent, then bent down and deposited her on a soft surface. Fiona turned her head and supressed a scream at the sight of Knorri’s corpse a mere arm’s length away.
Chapter 30
The dead jarl was propped up on cushions, and his flesh had sunk into his bones until he looked more like a skeleton than a man. Despite the spices used to preserve his body, the putrid odor of decay filled the tent. Fiona edged away from the corpse and examined her surroundings. Beside the pile of rugs and furs she lay upon was a large beaker of ale. She lifted the beaker, examining the frothy dark contents, then replaced the beaker on the ship deck and crawled to the tent entrance to search for the poison.
She found it neatly sewn into the edge of the tent flap. Carefully she took it out, then opened the leather packet and stared at the white powder within. This, then, was her means to an easy and painless death.
The light of day was still visible at the tent entrance, and in the distance, she could hear the voice of the skald, clear and true, celebrating Knorri’s bravery and wisdom in life. She glanced toward the shrunken corpse sharing the tent and sighed. Poor old Knorri. Was a part of him aware of how his people honored him? She did not think so. Knorri’s spirit was gone; the ceremony outside was for the living, to ease their grief and validate Sigurd’s authority as the new jarl.
The poison is slow acting. You must not delay in taking it. Breaca’s words filled Fiona’s mind, and she looked again at the packet clutched in her hands. It would be so easy to mix it in the ale and drink it down. By the time the first of the men came for her, she would be beyond caring.
Dag dug his boots into the horse’s side, urging his tired mount faster. Sigurd means to burn the Irishwoman with the dead jarl. The young thrall’s words rang in his head, igniting a panic so intense Dag could scarcely breath. Thor’s fury! What madness had come over his brother? Dag knew of the ancient rite of burning a deceased man’s concubine or wife with him so she might serve the warrior in the underworld, but he had not known it done in his lifetime. Nor did men of his era ordinarily burn perfectly sound ships with their dead jarls. Sigurd must be mad, so beside himself with grief and anger that he wanted to destroy everything around him.
“Slow down,” Ellisil remonstrated from behind Dag. “We won’t get there any sooner if you kill your mount with your breathless pace.”
Reluctantly, Dag eased up on the reins. His friend was right. The horses represented their only chance of reaching Engvakkirsted in time. Gratitude filled him as he glanced back at Ellisil. Aeddan had arrived at Skirnir’s steading just as they’d returned from the trip to Hedeby, and Ellisil had not wasted time asking questions or wondering at the oddness of a young thrall serving as messenger. Instead, hearing of the crisis, he had immediately secured one of his father’s fine horses for Dag to ride, then compounded his generosity by offering to accompany Dag and show him the fastest route home.
Dag took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He would not let his impatience cause harm to the horse he rode. Unlike the plodding beasts he and Sigurd had purchased from Ottar, Skirnir’s horses were sleek and beautiful, with deep chests and long legs. If he were not so worried about Fiona, he would greatly enjoy the thrill of riding such a magnificant animal. It was like gliding on the wind.
But the stallion was only a flesh-and-blood creature, Dag reminded himself. They could not drive the beasts endlessly. At some point they must stop and rest. He jerked his head around to call out to Ellisil, “How much farther?”
Ellisil scanned the rugged terrain before them. “I believe Engvakkirsted lies over the next range of hills. We should reach it by nightfall.”
His friend’s words struck a chill in Dag’s heart. By custom, funeral pyres were lit at sunset so the glow of the flames could be seen clearly in the gathering darkness carrying the dead man’s soul to Valhalla. If they arrived by nightfall, they might be in time, or hopelessly late. Once the flames of the pyre reache
d the pitch-soaked ship, there would be no chance of rescuing anyone caught in the inferno.
The rocky, narrow pathway forced them to walk the animals for a time, then they set off again at a steady, ground-eating pace. Dag scanned the sky impatiently. On such an overcast, gloomy day, it was difficult to guess how soon twilight would creep over the land.
“The boy slave who came with the message—did you teach him to ride, Dag?” Ellisil asked.
“Nei. He must have learned on his own.”
“I’m amazed he was able to coax that old nag such a distance,” Ellisil continued. “And how he found his way to my father’s steading—he’s little more than a boy. The woman must mean a great deal to him that he would venture so far alone. Is she kin of his?”
“Nei. They did not even know each other until Fiona went to stay in the slaves’ quarters.”
“Sigurd vows to kill her.... You and the boy risk your lives for her. I wonder that the Irish wench is not some supernatural being after all that she arouses such strong feelings in those who know her.” Dag gave Ellisil a helpless look, and the Norseman continued. “Mayhap this desperate journey is unnecessary. Such a powerful creature may be impossible to kill. They say witches don’t burn.”
Dag tried to find comfort in his companion’s words, but could not. The wrenching fear in his gut told him that Fiona was naught but flesh and blood like him. Fire would reduce her beauty to ashes, just it would destroy Knorri’s proud drag- onship. Another pang of anguish swept through him. Would that he were in time to save the Storm Maiden as well! That proud vessel did not deserve a fiery fate any more than Fiona did. He shook his head at Sigurd’s madness. Knorri would not have wished for a funeral that beggared his people. Without the Storm Maiden, Sigurd would not have the means to go trading, nor raiding either. His brother’s extravagant expression of grief could doom the Thorsson clan to poverty for years to come.
As if echoing his thoughts, Ellisil asked, “Was Sigurd so fond of your uncle that he must make such a display of mourning on his behalf?”
“Knorri was like a father to us. But Nei, that does not explain Sigurd’s actions. I’ve never known him to lose his reason before. It was always he who restrained me from impetu- ousness....” Dag broke off, the sick feeling in his gut deepening. His world seemed turned upside down. Was there anything he could be sure of? The Irishwoman, his mind answered. His love for her felt clear and strong—if only he could keep her safe.
They reached a familiar rise, and Dag urged his horse faster. They slowed as they moved down the incline and saw the valley spread out before them. Dag drew rein and stared. The sight of the burned-out longhouse struck him like a blow to the belly. The dwelling he had been bom in, then passed from boyhood to manhood in, had been reduced to blackened ruins. He had the sense of the solid ground shifting beneath his feet.
“I see the ship, but no fire yet. I trow we have arrived in time, sword brother.”
Eliisil’s words took a moment to register. Finally, Dag shook off his shock and answered, “I would like to arrive unnoticed, if possible.” He met Eliisil’s questioning gaze. “I’m not certain I can dissuade Sigurd from his senseless plan. We may have to rescue Fiona by stealth.”
Eliisil made a motion of assent, then smiled grimly. “ ‘Twill be like a raid, with the woman as plunder.”
Dag nodded and gazed down at the steading—his home, now utterly changed. He considered several plans, discarding each one in turn. They could not wait until dark and sneak into the steading; it would be too late by then. They would have to lead their horses down the slope and leave them behind the main cattle byre. They would circle around behind those gathered for the skald’s final tribute to Knorri. Ellisil would go and speak to Sigurd, bringing Skirnir’s respects to the dead jarl and greeting the new, thereby creating a diversion so Dag could make his way unseen to the other side of the ship. He would climb the planks and have Fiona out of Sigurd’s murderous clutches before anyone was the wiser.
He quickly explained his plan to Ellisil. “After the fire is set, slip away and meet me again behind the cattle byre. We’ll leave at once. I don’t want to linger.”
“I could stay with the woman while you spoke to Sigurd,” Ellisil offered.
Dag shook his head. “It might be difficult for me to get away if Sigurd knew of my presence. Besides, I have no desire to see my brother.” He sighed. “I’m not certain I know the man any longer.”
“There is nothing else you wish to rescue from your home?”
“ ‘Tis my home no longer. What possessions I had burned in the fire. All I want now is the woman.” He gazed intently at his companion. “Now that I am near destitute, are you still willing to join me in the expedition to Ireland?”
Ellisil shrugged. “You have convinced me that it is a risk worth taking, and we will have supplies and support from my father. I will go with you, Dag.”
Dag smiled and reached out his sword hand to grasp Ellisil’s. “Thank you, brother. You make me proud to be a Norseman.” Releasing Ellisil, Dag gazed again toward the valley. “As my brother has made me ashamed,” he added softly.
The slow journey down the hillside was agonizing. But as much as Dag longed to hurry, they could not risk discovery yet. They reached the cattle byre and left their horses there, then went on toward the beach. They crept to the very edge of the underbrush and paused to listen to the sounds coming from the funeral gathering.
The skald had finished now, and there was the soft keen of women weeping. As Dag heard men arguing, a chill ran through him. If Sigurd observed the ancient ritual, Knorri’s closest oathmen would take turns lying with Fiona before the fire was set. The thought of it made Dag’s blood run cold. Fiona would be drugged and near insensible, but still, what would it do to her to endure one man after another rutting upon her body? Nei, he must rescue her before that happened!
He put his hand on Ellisil’s arm. “Go, announce yourself to Sigurd.” Ellisil moved out of the woods, and Dag listened for the men’s reaction to his arrival. Sigurd would surely halt the proceedings to greet a representative from another steading.
Hearing Sigurd welcome Ellisil, Dag inched to an opening between the trees and tried to determine his route to the ship. The Storm Maiden was beached crosswise to the shoreline, with the funeral gathering on the starboard side. If he could make it safely across the open area between the forest and the vessel, he could board the ship on the port side without being seen.
He crept forward. No one seemed to notice him as he moved past the mourners; the men were gathered around Ellisil and Sigurd, the women too intent in their weeping to observe him. He wondered if the women wept for Knorri or for Fiona. Near- ing the ship, he dashed behind it, and almost cried out in surprise when he saw Breaca. She knelt on the ground behind the ship, her eyes red from weeping. As her gaze focused on him, her despair turned to horror.
He was too late! The frantic thought beat in his brain, but he refused to accept it. “I’ve come for Fiona,” he told Breaca. “Is she on the boat?”
Breaca nodded mutely, her eyes miserable. Sick with fear himself, Dag asked, “What is it?”
“Poison...” she croaked out. “Mina gave Fiona poison so she would not have to endure rape and violent death. I told Fiona to take it as soon as she was placed on the ship. That was hours ago....”
Breaca’s voice trailed off in a whispered sob. Dag closed his eyes. Poison! Fiona had taken poison! He stood, stunned, despairing. Then he opened his eyes and glanced toward the ship. Even now, Fiona might be dead or dying. Could he bear to see her thus?
If only they would get it over with. Fiona clenched her hands into fists, listening. The skald’s tale was finished, but still, nothing happened. She gripped the dagger more tightly in her right hand. Stupid fools, to have left a ceremonial weapon strapped to Knorri’s belt. Did they think that she, a woman, would not have the courage to use it? Let the Viking bastards come for her—they would see!
A grim smile touched
her lips as she adjusted her sweaty fingers on the dagger hilt. The first man would be easy. She would wait for him to free his member and climb on top of her, then she would slash his throat. When the second man came, she would be waiting inside the tent entrance. He, too, would be sent to the crude Viking underworld with a swift stab of the blade.
Of course, sooner or later, the other Vikings would come looking for their companions. Then they would kill her, but she would die vindicated. If luck were with her, Brodir would be the first one to the tent, and the first one to fall. How gratifying it would be to send that arrogant swine back to the foul hel from whence he came!
There was a rustling noise at the entrance of the tent. Fiona regarded the tent opening through slitted eyes and adjusted her body on the cushiony furs.
A man thrust through the tent opening. In the dim light, Fiona could only make out broad shoulders and hair too light to be Brodir’s. Disappointment swept through her as she realized her nemesis would not be the first to die. Then the man approached her, and Fiona’s nerveless fingers dropped the dagger among the furs and rugs.
“Dag!” His name was torn from her throat in a gasp of surprise and incredulous relief. Her gaze drank in her lover’s blue eyes, his handsome features, the reassuring bulk of his shoulders and chest. He leaned over her, and his hand reached out to touch her cheek.
“Fiona,” he whispered. “Am I too late? Does the poison already stir in your veins?”
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