Storm Maiden
Page 39
Looking at her proud, regal husband, Fiona did not doubt that he could accomplish anything he wished. They had been wed as soon as he was recovered enough from his wound to stand, both in a traditional Norse ceremony and then by a Christian priest who happened to pass by in early spring. Siobhan had protested the Christian ceremony, but Fiona felt better afterwards. She wanted her bond to this man to be recognized by every god—Norse, ancient Irish, and the Christ God as well. Her instincts told her that Siobhan’s prejudice against the Christian priests was as limiting as Dermot’s implacable hatred of the Norse.
Thinking of her foster brother, Fiona tore her eyes from Dag and looked around the gathering. Many of the widowed Irish women had found companionship with Dag’s oathmen. Fiona did not doubt that during the next full turn of the seasons there would be a whole crop of Norse-Irish babies born at Dunsheauna. Such a thing would have horrified Dermot.
Poor Dermot, Fiona thought sadly. He hadn’t lived long enough to learn the truth. Between a man and a woman, blood and traditions didn’t matter as much as that their spirits touched. Why, there was Rorig, a broad smile on his face as he looked down at Breaca and their auburn-haired babe. And farther down the table, Ellisil bent his silvery head to whisper to Duvessa and make her laugh. Who was to say that they should not be together because their peoples had once been enemies?
Realizing that everyone waited, Fiona again sought Dag, and she walked to take her place beside him. He smiled at her, his blue eyes soft and melting, then cleared his throat to speak to those assembled. Fiona stopped him with her hand on his arm. “Wait, Dag,” she whispered. “I forgot something.”
She took an object from the folds of her kirtle, then stood on tiptoe to place it around Dag’s neck. An excited whisper passed through the crowd as the sun caught the gold of the massive torc encircling Dag’s neck.
“ ‘Twas my father’s,” Fiona told Dag shyly. “Now you truly look an Irish chieftain.”
As if expressing his approval, Tully sat back on his haunches at Dag’s feet and began to bark.
The sun shone bright on the timber-ringed fort perched upon the vivid green hillside, and the sound of laughter floated into the moist, enchanted air.
The End
Mary Gillgannon
I am fascinated by history, as well as Celtic myth and legend. These interests inspire and enrich most of my books, both historical romance and historical fantasy. Raised in the Midwest, I currently live in Wyoming with my husband, four cats and a dog. Besides writing and working (I'm employed in a public library) I enjoy gardening, travel and reading, of course!
For more about my books and me, visit my website www.marygillgannon.com.