Ice Maiden

by Debra Lee Brown

  He grabbed her arm, and she froze.

  “Bargain?” he said. “I had better. For if ye’ve lied to me…”

  Blood heated her face. “Then what?” She jerked out of his grasp. “What will you do?”

  She tipped her chin at him and stood statue-still as he traced the line of her scar from ear to throat with his fingertip. A shiver snaked up her spine.

  “Ye dinna wish to know.”

  Before she could come back with some smart retort, he turned and left. She slammed the door after him and slid the bolt.

  Think he to threaten her? She ran her hand over the hilt of her brother’s sword.

  Let him think again.

  Chapter Nine

  Their departure was surprisingly uneventful.

  George stood aft and watched until the dark shadow of Fair Isle melted into the blackness. He drew a breath and could no longer smell the sheep, the fermenting grain of the brew house, or peat fires smoldering in longhouse braziers.

  All that remained was the brackish sea air, and a whiff of pickled herring wafting from the barrels stacked amidships. Their cargo was precious. Preserved fish, cheese and kegs of mead, dozens of yards of homespun cloth.

  Erik and Leif had secretly stashed the goods in an unused cave along the rocky bluff, a few barrels at a time over the past week, in the wee hours before dawn when all were abed. It had been dead easy to roll them down the hard packed beach the last few yards to the ship.

  Lawmaker thought to trade it all for horses once they reached the mainland. George didn’t have the heart to tell him that for the lot they’d be damn lucky to get a nag or two—not enough mounts to carry them all.

  He was surprised how few men it took, after all, to sail the byrthing. ’Twas a small ship, meant for trading in coastal waters, and sported but a single square-rigged sail. Save for the massive keel, which extended high out of the water both fore and aft and was carved into the shape of some mythical sea creature, the vessel little resembled the Viking ships he’d seen at harbor on the mainland.

  Because their cargo took up so much space, only four sets of oars were used on the byrthing, and only then, Erik had told him, for specialized tasks such as docking or steering the bow into the wind during a storm.

  They were only six in the end. He and Rika and Lawmaker; Erik, Leif and the ever-present Ottar. George had expected more hands for such a voyage. As he gazed south at the midnight expanse of sea that lay before them, a chill washed over him. Gooseflesh rose on his skin.

  He pulled his fur-lined cloak tight about him and recalled his last sea journey. It had been what…a fortnight? Three weeks since the wreck? It seemed months since that ill-fated voyage. A lifetime since he stood on the deck of the coastal frigate with Sommerled and drank of the salt air.

  Once they made the mainland, if he never saw another ship again, ’twould be too soon.

  Lawmaker huddled with Rika ahead of the sail. Every few moments he’d point skyward, and Rika would nod her head. Everyone knew that Norsemen were excellent navigators. George had heard tell of their strange instruments and wondered if any were useful by night. He had naught better to do. Mayhap he’d join them and learn something.

  Erik, Leif and Ottar were busy trimming the sail to best catch the wind. George had already asked them once if they needed his help. Ottar had made it clear they did not. ’Twas fine with him.

  He skirted the cargo and joined the navigators.

  Lawmaker clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Ah, here you are. Do you read the stars?”

  “Only those spinning above his head when he’s in his cups,” Rika said.

  He smirked at her in the dark. “Verra funny.” She’d been avoiding him since their confrontation in the cottage that afternoon. The moon was not yet risen. He could not read her expression, but felt her chill demeanor.

  “Well, I shall leave you two to it,” Lawmaker said. “There are things I must discuss with the lads.” He nodded behind them where the others worked, then joined them.

  George stood silent for a time, gazing at the brilliant map overhead. As a boy he’d thrived on pagan legends describing the constellations, but his parents had forbid such tales as they kept a devoutly Christian household.

  “So,” Rika said abruptly. “Do you read them?”

  “What, the stars? Aye, certainly.”

  “Tell me, then, what is that?” She pointed overhead to a familiar grouping.

  “Och, that’s easy. ’Tis the Plough.”

  “Ha! You’re wrong, Scotsman. It’s called Woden’s Wagon.”

  “’Tis not.” He frowned at her. “’Tis the Plough.”

  “And the Lady’s Wagon is there—” she pointed again “—with Tir, the Nail, at its tip.”

  “Tir?” The woman knew nothing, just as he’d suspected. “Nay, ye’re wrong. That’s the pole star.”

  She clucked her tongue.

  “She’s right,” Lawmaker called out as he coiled a length of walrus-skin rope atop a barrel behind them.

  “Of course I’m right,” she snapped.

  “But—”

  “And Grant is right, as well.”

  “What?” Rika turned to George, and he shot her a nasty glance he was certain she could not see in the starlight.

  “You’re both right,” Lawmaker said. “There are as many names for the stars as there are peoples on the earth. Each race conjures its own tales of the night sky.”

  The old man had a point, though George had never thought of such a thing before. He’d always assumed that his view of the world was the right one. The only one. By God, it ought to be. He was a Christian, after all.

  Rika stared rapt at the sky as if she waited for it to reveal something promised yet long in the coming. Aboard ship, away from the island, she seemed more of a mystery to him than before.

  Never had he known a woman to take to ship—for any reason. The sea was a man’s domain, fraught with adventure and unexpected peril. Ulrika, daughter of Fritha, likely did not see it that way at all.

  Her strange beliefs and unconventional behavior flew in the face of the very foundation on which he was reared. His fascination with her was dangerous. She corrupted his sense of what was right and wrong, of what a woman should be.

  The only woman he had ever known well was his mother. She was a quiet thing, so fragile in body and spirit that, after his father died, George had taken it upon himself to protect her from the world outside their home.

  A blast of wind rushed over them, and he heard the chattering of Rika’s teeth. The urge to put an arm around her and shelter her from the elements was nearly too strong to resist.

  But resist it he did.

  She had made it plain to him, time and again, that she sought not a man’s protection. Nay, not even his kindness. Mayhap she’d ne’er known such comforts, save for the friendship bestowed on her by an old man and a boy.

  He stared at her in the dark and willed her meet his gaze. After a moment he felt her eyes on him and he smiled.

  What kind of a woman was she, to venture forth on such a journey? A fool’s mission.

  A woman of intellect, of courage.

  A woman of character.

  He turned away from her and shaded his eyes against the salt spray blowing over the bow. Vega rose in chilling brilliance on the southern horizon.

  The shores of Scotland seemed far, indeed.

  Dawn ushered in a fog so dense Rika could barely make out the water beneath their low drafting vessel. She squinted ahead into the diffuse light, pulling her cloak tight about her, and tried in vain to discern the position of the sun.

  “We’re lost.” Grant’s voice sounded behind her.

  “We are not lost.” She didn’t bother turning around.

  He moved up beside her, shrouded in mist, the waxing wind ruffling his damp hair. “How d’ye know? I for one canna see a bloody thing.”

  “I don’t need to see.”

  “Then how d’ye know where—”

&nb
sp; “I know.” She cast him a sideways glance, dismissing his concern. The Scot knew less about sailing than even the simplest child. She supposed she should remedy that. Although why she should bother…

  “Oh, all right.” She drew the braided sealskin cord from around her neck and thrust it toward him. Few were allowed to handle the precious stone dangling from the cord’s end, but she’d make an exception this once. “Here. This is how I know.”

  Grant’s eyes widened as she dropped the stone into his palm. “What’s this? Some heathen magic?”

  She smirked at him. “It’s a sunstone. You led me to believe you were skilled in the ways of navigation.”

  “Nay. I said I knew the stars.”

  “Ja, well, one cannot use the stars by day. Mayhap you were searching for the Plough when your ship was scuttled.” As soon as the words slid from her lips she was sorry she’d said them.

  His expression hardened, but in his eyes she read pain. The loss of his brother weighed heavy on his mind. As did the loss of her own. “Grant, I—”

  “Show me how this works,” he said abruptly, and held the sunstone aloft.

  She swallowed her apology and launched into an explanation of how the crystal worked.

  “Andalusite. Hmm.” Grant fingered the crystal in wonder. “It catches the light then, and shows the position of the sun, even in a fog?”

  “Ja, but…” Rika peered at the crystal and frowned. “It tells us little today, so dim is the light.” She fished a small homespun pouch from the pocket of her cloak. “Here, we shall try the lodestone.”

  “Lodestone?” For lack of a better place to put it, Grant hung the crystal around his neck and opened his palm in time for her to spill the contents of the pouch into his hand.

  “I will show you,” she said, and knelt. A few seconds later, she’d pried the lid off a small keg of mead resting at the edge of their cargo.

  “What, are ye thirsty?”

  “Nay.” She arched a brow at him. “Open your hand.”

  Grant did as she instructed, and she plucked the iron needle and the dark heavy stone from his palm. “Watch.” She stroked the needle across the stone three times in the same direction. “All right, now hand me the straw.”

  Grant proffered the short length of straw, watching her every move with an interest that surprised her. She inserted the needle into the hollow straw and set it to float on the sloshing surface of the mead.

  “There. You see?”

  Grant’s eyes widened as the straw aligned itself with the prow of the byrthing. He snatched it out of the mead, turned it around, and set it to float again. As she knew it would, the straw again aligned itself with the prow of their vessel.

  “Bloody hell,” he breathed.

  Rika smiled. “The needle points north-south every time.”

  “I have heard of such a thing, but never thought to see it.” He looked at her, and she was drawn in by the warmth of his eyes. “Ye were right, then. We are in no danger of losing our way.”

  Oh, but they were. She felt it as surely as she felt the familiar heat spread from her center. His eyes lingered on her lips overlong, and her mouth went dry.

  “What’s this?” Lawmaker’s voice boomed from behind them.

  Rika snapped from her momentary stupor.

  “Get that out of there! It will taint the cargo.” Lawmaker leaned down and snatched the floating straw from the mead.

  Grant pressed the lid back onto the keg, while she slipped the lodestone, the needle, and straw back into their pouch.

  “Well then, is our bearing sound?” Lawmaker asked her.

  “Ja, dead on south.”

  “Good.” The old man nodded satisfaction, then clapped a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Take heed, son. There is much you might learn from Ulrika, should you wish to.”

  Grant flashed her a look that spoke new understanding. “Aye, it seems that there is.”

  She felt the warmth of his admiration, and her own heat spread, despite the chill weather.

  “Come,” Lawmaker said to Grant. “Ottar needs help trimming the sail—though he won’t admit it.”

  Grant smiled at her, and she felt the edges of her own mouth turn upward. She watched as he followed the old man aft and disappeared into the fog.

  Hunkering down between a couple of kegs of cargo, she pulled her cloak tight about her, eluding the frigid wind. A thunk sounded from one of the kegs. Rats? Surely not. Then again, God knows what Lawmaker had packed inside some of them.

  With luck, two days hence she’d catch her first glimpse of the mainland. Rika drew a breath of salt air and held it in her lungs. She’d sailed before—lots of times, in fact—but only to the Shetlands. Never south.

  South was where her father lived, and in all the years since he’d abandoned her and Gunnar, never once had she ventured in that direction. Until now.

  She exhaled slowly. All had gone according to her plan. Soon, God willing, she’d be reunited with her brother. The trials yet to endure she ignored for now. It was enough to know that at the end of it, Gunnar would be freed.

  Oh, how he’d chastise her and Lawmaker for daring such a scheme. Rika smiled inwardly. She suspected she’d changed much over the year, since Gunnar’s abduction. Mayhap he’d see her with new eyes.

  As Grant had seen her this morn.

  She peered aft into the mist and could just make him out, working with Ottar to secure the vathmal sail with ropes of oiled walrus skin.

  An uneasy peace had settled between them, and it pleased her, though why she could not say. She told herself it was because she needed him to gain her coin, and that all would go smoother should they strive to get along. That was true enough, but there was more to it.

  She liked him.

  Her admiration had grown out of a begrudging respect she was compelled to afford him. He was a good man—for a Scot. Not that she had ever known any Scots. That day at the match, Lawmaker had said she was lucky. Mayhap she was.

  A blast of salt spray hit her full in the face. She scrambled to her feet, choking.

  “Are ye all right?” Grant called out to her. He started toward her, but she waved him off.

  Thor’s blood, she must stay focused. She’d gone soft in the head since the night Grant bedded her. His noble actions of the past weeks served only to befuddle her thinking further. She must hold fast to her convictions, rid herself of the tender feelings blooming inside her. Such feelings were dangerous. They weakened a woman’s resolve, left her open and vulnerable.

  Ja, they were as dangerous as succumbing to Grant’s feigned admiration. For that’s surely what it was. Feigned. He had his own motives, she must remember. Just as she had hers. The brief moments of intimacy they’d shared meant nothing—to him or to her. Once her dowry was secured, she’d rid herself of the Scot and be glad of it.

  The fog thinned, and she could see him clearly now. He worked closely with Ottar, though the youth’s sour expression told her Grant’s help was not appreciated.

  Dark clouds massed overhead. Rika glanced skyward and a premonition of something evil snaked through her. All the light went out of the sky.

  “The weather’s turning,” Lawmaker called to them.

  “We’d best secure the cargo.”

  Rika steadied herself on the gently pitching timbers and whispered a prayer for the weather to hold. A Christian prayer. One her father had taught her long ago.

  “Look to your head, man!”

  George ducked a split second before Erik dropped the sail; the vathmal sheet came crashing down. The byrthing pitched starboard and he lost his footing.

  “Bloody—unh!” He crashed backward into a row of kegs.

  “Grant!” Rika’s voice barely carried over the deafening roar of the wind. “Where are you? Are you hurt?”

  “Nay, I’m…” He pushed the heavy sailcloth aside and scrambled to his feet. “I’m fine.”

  Rika grasped the front of his soaking tunic and pulled him toward her, inspecting
him for signs of injury. She looked half-drowned herself with her gown soaked through—where was her cloak?—and her sopping hair plastered to her face.

  He almost laughed. “D’ye no believe me? I’m fine.”

  “Rika!”

  She let him go and turned toward Lawmaker’s voice. The old man worked to secure a couple of barrels rolling around near the front of the cargo.

  George sidestepped her and rushed to help him. “Och, these are heavy. What in God’s name have ye packed into them?” A blast of seawater hit him full in the face. Bloody hell! They were mad to continue in this weather. The storm had come upon them out of nowhere late that afternoon.

  “There, that’s it.” Lawmaker fastened a length of rope around the barrels and tied them to the rest of the cargo while George held them fast.

  The byrthing pitched again. He grabbed for something, anything, to steady himself. The wind raged like a madman, drowning out all other sound. As if she would devour him whole, the sea rose up on all sides like some living, breathing predator.

  Visions of the wreck that had cast him into this hell flashed across his mind in hideous bursts of color. The screams of his men, the terror in Sommerled’s young face. A thousand times over George felt his brother’s hand slip from his own and watched, helpless, in his mind’s eye as the sea claimed him.

  “Grant!” Lawmaker waved him toward Leif and Ottar and the others who huddled around the naked mast.

  He made his way toward them, stepping carefully between the barrels, hanging on to whatever he could as the byrthing rolled and pitched beneath his shaking legs.

  Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating for a second the grim faces of his companions. Rika was not among them. He wiped the icy salt water from his face and peered, slit eyed, toward the stern. “Where is she?”

  “She’s there.” Ottar pointed to the stacks of sopping homespun nestled between rows of kegs at the rear of the cargo.

  The woman was impossible. She should be here, with them, clutching the mast, where they could protect her from the storm. “What the devil is she doing?” George shook his head, amazed at her lack of regard for her own safety.