Storm Maiden (31 page)

“All is well with Mina,” Dag said. “But
there is something else—something I must ask you.”

Fiona’s skin prickled. Dag and she seldom
talked more than to share simple information about their days or to
exchange endearments; that he woke her to have a conversation
sounded ominous.

Dag sat on the side of the box bed, his
voice low and thoughtful. “When I was a prisoner, you came to me. I
do not understand why. I was your enemy. Why did you try to seduce
me?”

Fiona swallowed. She had dreaded this
moment. There was no honorable answer to give him, no answer which
did not reveal her shame.

He softened his voice. “I am grateful that
you did, else neither of us would be here now. But I cannot help
wondering why.”

Fiona sighed. She might as well speak the
words. Mayhap then, things between them would be finished. If he
rejected her, it might be for the best. She could get on with her
plan to return to Eire.

Her voice rang out clear and strong,
revealing nothing of her regret—she would not let him see her
humiliation. “I wanted you to couple with me, to take my
maidenhead. That way my father could not wed me to a lewd, old
chieftain I despised.”

Dag was silent for a time. Fiona waited
impatiently. If he meant to condemn her, let him do it now, before
she fell even more irretrievably in love with him.

“That does not really explain your actions,”
he said. “When it became obvious that I was too wounded to be
capable of what you wished, you could have pursued another plan to
thwart your father. Instead, you came back. You tended my arm; you
bathed me...”

Fiona sucked in her breath. “You were aware?
You remember?”

Dag nodded. “I pretended to swoon because I
did not understand what you wanted... and I feared you.”

She felt a deep blush creep up her face.
What must he think of her—that she had handled him with such a lack
of inhibition?

“I have to know.” Dag’s voice was harsh,
agonized. “Why did you save my life?”

Fiona let herself be swept back in time to
those fateful hours in the souterrain with the beguiling Viking
prisoner. What had she felt, before the threat of a raid became
real... when she was just an innocent, curious maiden alone with an
enticing, and helpless, man?

“At first, I pitied you. ‘Twas no more than
anyone kind- hearted might feel for a wounded creature. You were a
living thing in pain, and a magnificent one at that.” She smiled
faintly, remembering. “I knew it was witless, that I should be
terrified of you. But when you looked at me... your suffering
pulled at my heart. I suppose I was stubborn as well. Until I left
you the last time, I maintained some hope that you would recover
and take my maidenhead.”

Dag shook his head. “Was there no other way
to avoid the marriage? Could you not reason with your father? If
you despised the man...”

“It seems simple now, but it was not then.”
Fiona sighed. “My father would not give me his reasons for wedding
me to Sivney, and I assumed the worst. I never knew until too late
that he hoped to gain warriors to fight off Viking raiders

Her voice broke. Dag fought the urge to
reach out and comfort her.
Nei,
he had to think on what she
had told him first. It shocked him that she admitted defying her
father so audaciously. In his experience, honorable woman did not
rebel against their sire’s wishes. But he had never known a woman
like Fiona before. She was as bold as a man sometimes, as
courageous, too. Was it not her fearlessness which he admired?

He rose to leave the bedcloset. “Go back to
sleep,” he said. She made a sound, half-sigh, half-sob. Pity pulled
at his heart, but he did not waver. He would not go to her until he
had decided.

He moved past the benches full of snoring
warriors and into the half-darkness of the late summer night. The
scent of newly cut hay drifted on the breeze, melding with the
ever-present reminder of the sea. He breathed deeply, trying to
clear his head. At this moment, he wished he were on the
Storm
Maiden.
There was nothing like sailing under a clear,
star-studded sky—no passion that compared with the dangerous
freedom of going
aviking.

Nei,
that was not true. The
Irishwoman made his veins throb with a fever as fierce as the
thrill of riding a well-made ship over the waves. For her, he was
willing to do almost anything.
Even return with her to
Ireland.

The idea had come to him a few days before
when he was talking with Ranveig. The old shipwright loved to tell
about journeys he had made, places he had seen before his swollen
joints had made cold, damp days on a ship pure
hei.
He had
mentioned raids made on the northern shores of Albion, the land of
the Picts. They had gone back several years, stripping the land of
all its portable treasure. Then, finally, a ship of Norsemen had
settled there. There was good land they said, and pretty, foreign
women.

Ranveig had nodded approvingly, remembering
his sea companions’ foresight. Most men had to give up
aviking
someday, he said, if they wanted to settle down and
breed sons. The wise ones found a choice bit of land in an area
exhausted by raids and made their home there.

That was when the image had first come to
Dag—he and Fiona presiding over a feasthall built upon one of those
strange rounded hills of Ireland. Sometimes it seemed preposterous,
an addlepated fancy from one of his fever dreams. Other times, it
captivated his thoughts, making his mind whirl with ideas of how to
make it come about. He had discussed the matter with no one; he had
not dared. He needed Fiona’s knowledge of her homeland to have any
hope of succeeding, and he did not know if he could trust her
yet.

That was the decision he had to make. Could
he risk depending on her to aid him? By all rights he was her
enemy, but it had never felt that way. From the first time he had
seen her, he had been drawn to her. Tonight she had admitted that
she knew something of the same. Their spirits, Norse and Irish,
seemed bound together more tightly than the affinity they felt
toward their own kin. Dag wondered—could ties of the spirit be
stronger than those of blood?

“Who goes there?”

Dag jumped as a voice jarred him from his
thoughts. “ ‘Tis I, Dag.”

“Thor’s balls, but you scared me,” Rorig
complained, rising up from the shadow of the turf wall. “I had half
dozed off when I heard your footfalls.

“What are you doing out here so late?”

Rorig sighed. “Word came yesterday that the
Agirssons are raiding. Sigurd believes we should keep watch at
night.”

Dag felt a twinge of guilt. He had been so
preoccupied with his dilemma over the Irishwoman, he had scarce
paid attention to anything else. Raids were an ever-present danger
to a prosperous steading. Sigurd was wise to set a watch, although
a dozing guard was scarcely better than none.

“You should take your responsibility more
seriously,” Dag chided. “We could have all been burned in our beds
before you noticed anything amiss.”

“You think the danger is real?”

“ ‘Tis hard to say. Sigurd reminded me
recently that we are distantly related to the Thorvalds. That might
be enough to set the Agirsson clan against us.”

“Tiresome feuds.” Rorig sighed. “ ‘Twere not
for the Agrissons’ foolishness, I would be snuggled in a haystack
with Breaca.”

“It goes well between you?”

“
Ja.
Better than I’d hoped. The
little thrall is... ummm... more inventive than I’d imagined.”

“Have you thought of asking the jarl if you
might purchase her for a wife?”

“Why would I do that? I am well pleased with
things between us as they are.”

“What if she gets with child?”

“I would claim the babe, of course.”

“What if the jarl decides to sell her? If
you don’t own her, you have no say in what happens to her.”

“Knorri would not do that.”

“Knorri will not be jarl forever,” Dag
reminded the younger man. “If you care for Breaca, you should do
something to secure your future with her.”

“Mayhap I am not certain if I care for her
that much. There is a whole wide world of women out there. I might
fancy to sample a dark one next time, or one with a rounder bottom
and bigger breasts.”

“ ‘Tis your decision, Rorig. I only suggest
these things because I know what it is like to have a woman I cared
for decide that she would fare better with another man.

“Breaca would not choose another man over
me!”

“She might—if he offered to buy her.”

“Has she told Fiona that?” Rorig
demanded.

“
Nei,
not Fiona. ‘Twas to me Breaca
suggested it. She is keen to be under some warrior’s protection. If
you do not offer her that...” Dag let his voice trail off
meaningfully.

“Trolls’ ears! How could she? What other man
at Engvak- kirsted is as fine to look upon as me?”

“I do not think your attractiveness is at
question, but rather, your willingness to secure her future. Women
set great store by the comforts and protection a man can give
them.”

Rorig swore some more and kicked viciously
at the turf wall, complaining bitterly of fickle, greedy women. Dag
walked off, pleased that he had at least given the young warrior
cause to stay awake this night. A sleeping guard was worthless,
after all.

The night air was wet with dew as Dag
returned to the longhouse. He had been awake half the night,
weighing his decision. His conversation with Rorig had decided him.
If a man waited until he was completely sure of a woman, he might
wait forever. There came a time when he must reach out and seize
his dreams with both hands. If they crumbled to dust in his
fingers, he would still die knowing that he had chosen the
courageous path.

He crept into the longhouse on tiptoe,
fearing to wake the other warriors and alarm the household. Quiet
filled his bedcloset; Fiona must have slept at last.

He crawled into the box bed and drew the
furs over himself. “Dag?” Fiona’s sleepy voice whispered through
the darkness and wrapped around his heart.

“
Ja,”
he answered.

She said nothing more, but moved close to
lay her head on his chest. Her silky hair blanketed him like the
warm, soothing waters of a dark river.

“Dag!”

Dag sat up abruptly at the sound of his
brother’s voice. Instinctively, he reached for a weapon, sensing
warning in Sigurd’s tone.

“
Ja,
brother, what is it?” He rose
and moved to the doorway, keeping his voice low so as not to wake
Fiona.

“The jarl would speak with you.”

Dag dressed hastily, wondering what had
happened. From the sounds in the longhouse, he guessed it to be
late morning. He should not have slept so long.

When Dag left his bedcloset, he saw the jarl
sitting in his carved chair at the front of the longhouse,
surrounded by his oathmen. Dag approached them slowly, his
heartbeat quickening. From the serious expression on the men’s
faces, he feared something ominous. Had there been an attempted
raid or other threat to the steading?

He took his place next to Sigurd. The jarl
turned toward him and said, “I am banishing the Irishwoman from the
longhouse.”

When his shock had worn off, Dag looked at
his brother accusingly. “Are you blaming her for Mina’s loss? All
knew the babes came too soon—ask any woman in the steading!”

“
Nei.”
Sigurd’s voice was cold. “I do
not blame her for what cannot be helped. Indeed, I have argued for
mercy for your thrall.” He nodded toward Brodir. “There are those
who would have her put to death or sold outside the steading. I
argued that the matter could be settled by keeping her away from
the free women.”

“Why? What has happened?”

Veland, the brawny smithy, spoke. “Your
thrall suggested to Mina that she take some potion to keep a babe
from starting in her womb too soon.”

Dag was hardly surprised by Veland’s
words—it sounded exactly like the sort of thing Fiona would do. But
he was a little awed by Fiona’s knowledge of such things. Glancing
around at the other men, he realized that they, too, were
astonished, and fearful. Brodir’s accusation of witchcraft had
already tainted Fiona; this latest situation lended substance to
the charge.

“I’m certain Fiona meant only to aid Mina,”
Dag said, hoping to win at least Sigurd to his side. “She fears
that conceiving too soon might endanger Mina’s life.”

The jarl shook his head. “ ‘Tis appalling
magic—a potion that kills a man’s seed. I fear what Brodir says is
true. The woman is a
volva,
a sorceress.”

“ ‘Twould be disastrous if a woman could
control what man she conceived with,” Utgard agreed. “When a man
lay with a woman, how could he know that her body was not full of
poison meant to kill his offspring?”

“I don’t see why this is grounds to banish
Fiona from the longhouse,” Dag insisted. “She was only trying to
protect Mina.”

Velund thumped his meaty fist on the table.
“We don’t want our womenfolk exposed to such subversive, evil
practices. If my wife had not convinced me that the Irishwoman had
other useful skills, I would argue for her death myself!”

Sigurd spoke in a controlled, quiet voice,
“The jarl has made his decision. He expects you to remove the woman
from the longhouse as soon as she rises. From now on, she will
sleep in the slaves’ dwelling and fulfill the duties of a field
thrall. She will be allowed to use her healing abilities on members
of the steading, but only under close supervision. And she is not
to have contact with Mina or any of the other free woman unless the
woman’s husband is present.”

Dag sighed with resignation. Poor Fiona. Now
she was not only a thrall, but a field thrall. He thought of her
satiny skin turned dark and coarse by the sun and wind, her regal
posture twisted to the weary stoop of a field hand, her delicate
fingers gnarled and roughened by constant toil. He had to protect
her from such hardship, to keep his countrymen from ruining her
beauty as Brodir had smashed her enameled gold girdle when they
were on the ship.