Storm Maiden (18 page)

Mina nodded.

Dag turned and headed toward the corner of
the longhouse where his bedchamber lay. He would not waste any time
making it clear to the Irishwoman what her new circumstances were.
Her life as a house thrall would not be idle, but it would not be
overly harsh, either. Among the Norse, no woman’s life was
leisurely. Mina might rule as the mistress of Jarl Knorri
Sorlisson’s household, but she had little free time to enjoy her
status. She was always busy.

Reaching the door of the bedchamber, Dag
flung it open. Two pairs of startled eyes met his. Dag looked from
the little red-haired thrall’s face to the Irishwoman’s. There was
something conspiratorial about the way they stood near each
other.

“You speak her language?” he demanded of the
red-haired girl. She watched him warily a moment, then nodded.

Dag felt a spurt of resentment. It made him
feel more frustrated than ever to think that a raggedy thrall could
communicate with his captive while he could not.

He quickly quelled his irritation. The
Irishwoman needed someone to share her thoughts with, else she
would be miserable with loneliness. Besides, it would be less
troublesome to communicate with the captive through a female thrall
than through Sigurd.

“Tell her that she is to serve Mina,” he
said to the girl. “Mina will be responsible for her duties and her
living arrangements.”

The girl turned and repeated his words to
the Irishwoman. Dag saw Fiona look past him toward the main room of
the longhouse. Her expression was cautious, but not rebellious. He
inwardly heaved a sigh of relief.

Mayhap his burden for the foreign woman
would finally lift.

“Take her to Mina now,” he told the girl.
“She will see that she is fed and cared for.”

The slave girl nodded. Dag darted one last
look at the Irishwoman’s endlessly beguiling face, then strode out
of his bedcloset.

Fiona followed Breaca into the main room of
the longhouse. She was to serve a woman, and a gently bred one at
that. Observing Sigurd’s wife closely the previous night, she had
been impressed by her quiet, efficient manner. It was startling to
imagine someone like her married to a lout like Sigurd.

The woman known as Mina looked up as Fiona
approached. A slight frown marred her face then disappeared. She
said something to Breaca in Norse. Breaca quickly translated. “She
asks how much you know about clothmaking?”

“Some.” Fiona met the Norsewoman’s probing
gaze. She must please her new mistress, but it seemed better not to
exaggerate her abilities. Although, like all woman, she had been
trained in spinning and weaving garments, in recent years, her
duties had been limited to supervising others.

Mina again spoke to Breaca, who translated.
“She wants me to take you to the bathhouse. After you are clean,
she will find some clothes for you and your hair will be cut to an
acceptable length.”

Fiona’s hand went to the long braid that
hung over her shoulder.

“Come,” Breaca said abruptly and headed
toward the door. Fiona forced herself to follow.

“What is Mina like?” Fiona asked as the two
women walked
across the
hard-packed dirt outside the
longhouse.

“She is not cruel, but she demands hard work
from her thralls. You would be better off if you had submitted to
Dag and he had decided to keep you for his bed.”

Fiona decided not to argue. She had no fear
of hard work, and serving a woman was bound to be better than
serving Dag. But her hair—did Mina truly mean to cut it off? She
glanced at Breaca’s butchered tresses and shuddered.

The girl turned to her. “If you were Dag’s
bed thrall, he would not cut your hair.” Her eyes took in Duvessa’s
kirtle. “Like as not, he would let you keep your own clothes as
well.”

Fiona clenched her jaw. She would not let
petty vanity weaken her resolve. Even so, she could not resist
looking down at the soft blue wool she wore. The garment was the
only thing she possessed which linked her to her past life in Eire.
To give it up would be another painful loss.

Breaca led her to a timber building with
smoke pouring through a hole in the roof. Inside, there was a large
pile of rocks near a fire and several troughs full of water. Breaca
gestured to a wooden bench near one of the troughs. “Take your
clothes off and put them there.”

Fiona removed her shoes and kirtle. Breaca
watched, her blue eyes intent. Fiona had not been so acutely aware
of her body since the Viking saw her naked. There was not lust on
Breaca’s face, but cool assessment. Fiona felt herself being
inspected like a cow at a summer fair.

Breaca filled a pail with water from one of
the troughs and dumped it over Fiona’s head. Fiona spluttered and
pushed her dripping hair out of her face. Before she could catch
her breath, Breaca doused her again.

When Fiona was fully soaked, Breaca handed
her a fistful of squishy soap that smelled strongly of pine. Fiona
rubbed it over herself. Breaca rinsed her, then Fiona stood
shivering until Breaca fetched her a rough cloth to dry off
with.

Her bath finished, Fiona put on her kirtle
again and combed her fingers through her hair. It felt wonderful to
be clean, but underneath her satisfaction, anxiety hovered. How
long would it be before she was forced to relinquish Duvessa’s gown
and have her hair hacked off?

Fiona followed Breaca back the way they had
come. Before they reached the longhouse, Breaca veered off toward a
squat daub-and-wattle building that stood near what was obviously a
cattle byre. She led Fiona inside the dwelling and gestured to the
rows of pallets spread on the floor. “This is where we sleep.”

Fiona looked at the bare, gloomy chamber,
the rude, uncomfortable-looking pallets, and the first glimmerings
of doubt stirred in her mind. Could she endure the hardship which
lay ahead?

She met Breaca’s pitying gaze. “I warned
you,” the red- haired girl said. She took Fiona’s arm and guided
her back toward the longhouse. “At least consider what I suggest.
If you are set against offering yourself to Dag, what about
Sigurd?”

They reached the doorway of the longhouse
and went in. Seeing Mina at the hearth, Fiona expected Breaca to
end the conversation. Instead, she continued arguing her cause.
“Sigurd will be jarl after Knorri dies, and ‘tis not uncommon for
jarls to take second wives. If you could snare his interest, you’d
want for nothing. He dotes on his sons, too; if you birthed him a
babe, he would certainly claim it.”

“Sigurd?” Fiona smothered a laugh. “He hates
me.”

“What about Knorri, then? The jarl’s been
ailing lately, but he’s still a man.”

“He’s
old,”
Fiona protested. “I doubt
I could even get his shaft to rise.”

“But if you did, he would be exceptionally
grateful,” Breaca pointed out. “He’s old, but he might live many
more years. He could gift you with many things during that time,
even your freedom.”

Mina turned toward them, and Fiona flushed,
thinking of the impropriety of their conversation. Thank the saints
the North woman did not speak Irish.

* * *

Dag took a deep breath of fresh air before
entering the stuffy longhouse. He went to the hearth and grabbed a
piece of rye bread, then spooned some milk curds into a wooden
bowl. Going to one of the board tables, he took a seat on a bench
and began to eat.

Brodir sauntered over to the table,
scratching his belly. “What have you done with the Irish bitch?” he
asked. “Does she still sleep? Did you ride her so hard she cannot
rise?”

Dag shrugged. “She’s up and busy with the
other women. Mina will be ordering her tasks.”

“Mina?” Brodir’s beady eyes narrowed even
further. “You mean to make the foreign woman a house thrall? To set
her to spinning and baking bread?”

Dag shot the other man a warning look. “
‘Tis what she was trained for.”

Brodir chortled.
“Nei,
that woman was
made for bedding and naught else. What ails you, Dag, that you
don’t keep her as a bed thrall?”

A muscle in Dag’s face twitched. This was
what he feared, the other men’s interest in Fiona. How could he
warn off Brodir without again involving the Irishwoman in his life?
“Mina will see to her,” he answered firmly.

“And at night...” Brodir’s eyes glittered
with lust. “Who will see to her then? I warn you, Dag, if she
doesn’t sleep in your bed, I mean to have her in mine.” The
greasy-haired warrior rose and strode away.

Dag’s stomach clenched. Not two hours had
passed since he’d spoken with Mina, and already his plan was
threatened.

He glanced toward the door and sucked in his
breath in consternation. Fiona and the red-haired slave girl
entered the longhouse as Brodir was leaving. Dag watched Brodir
brush by the Irishwoman, nearly knocking her off her feet. The
warrior reached out, as if to steady her, but instead of grasping
her arm, his hand caught her waist, then skimmed upwards to grope
her breast.

In a second, Dag was on his feet and heading
toward the doorway. He saw the outrage and fury on the Irishwoman’s
face as her hand came out to strike at Brodir. She slapped him hard
on the chin. Brodir laughed and released her. Before Dag could get
there, Brodir slipped out the door, still laughing.

As Dag strode up, the Irishwoman fixed him
with a defiant glare, her green eyes flashing fire. He returned her
gaze coldly. Although pleased at her swift response to Brodir, he
resented that he was again forced to concern himself with her
welfare.

With only a few feet between them, he could
smell the pine scent of Mina’s special soap clinging to Fiona’s
damp hair and observe the pink flush of her clean, glowing skin
enhancing her already formidable sexual appeal. He wanted her with
a desire bordering on obsession—-why should not the other men crave
her as well?

“I warned you, Dag.” Mina’s soft voice came
from behind him. “ ‘Twill not be easy to keep the men away from
her. Mayhap after that wild hair is cut off, her appeal will be
lessened.”

“Her hair?” Dag turned to face his
sister-by-marriage. “You mean to cut her hair?”

“I was just getting the scissors from the
storage closet.”

“Her hair is beautiful,” Dag protested. “Why
must you destroy her loveliness?”

“Really, Dag. Slaves do not have time to
brush and plait their tresses, especially when they are as thick
and long as hers. ‘Twould be impractical to leave her hair
long.”

“
Nei.”
Dag struggled to keep his
voice calm. It was absurd that it bothered him to think of the
Irishwoman having her hair cut. Mina was right. Once shorn of her
glorious ebony tresses, the foreign woman would not seem so exotic
and enticing. The men would bother her less.

“
Nei,”
he repeated. He met Mina’s
glance. She looked impatient. “I know it’s foolish, but I...” He
took a deep breath, remembering the Irishwoman’s tender care of his
arm. He had said he no longer owed her a debt, but in his heart he
felt differently. He had made her a slave, but he didn’t want to
see her humiliated. Her long black hair made her look like a queen,
and he didn’t want her haughty beauty diminished. “I owe her this,”
he said.

Mina gazed at him a long moment, then
nodded. “As I said, she remains your responsibility. I merely
provide tasks to keep her busy. What of her clothes? Would you have
her churn butter and bake bread in that frivolous garment she now
wears?”

Nei, I would rather have her naked every
moment of the day.
Dag suppressed the ridiculous thought. Of
course, the woman must have sensible clothes. He glanced toward the
red-haired girl, still standing by Fiona. The young thrall wore a
shapeless, brownish wool garment, no doubt the usual attire for
slaves. At least such a garment would hide the Irishwoman’s
delectible figure.

“Whatever you think best, Mina,” he
answered.

His sister-by-marriage turned away, her
irritation obvious. Dag watched her beckon to Fiona and the slave
girl, then lead them toward the storage chamber in the back of the
hall.

Dag returned to the table, his belly now too
unsettled to eat. If Ulvi were still alive, he would dump his food
in the straw and let her finish it off. Another pang of distress
went through him. Engvakkirsted was not the same without his
dog.

Wretched itchy cloth! Fiona adjusted the
platter of roast meat she carried and used her free hand to scratch
at a place on her shoulder where her new garment rubbed. It might
be looser and less confining than Duvessa’s kirtle, but the coarse
weave of made the garment quite uncomfortable. The thick fabric was
hot as well, especially in the closeness of the long- house. Fiona
could feel perspiration beading her brow and trickling between her
breasts.

She paused and surveyed the smoky Viking
longhouse. The place reeked of ale and stale sweat, and if that
weren’t disgusting enough, she had to endure the sight of the
bare-chested Norsemen gorging on the roast oxen cut from the
steaming carcass in the firepit and swilling horn after horn of
ale. It reminded Fiona vaguely of the feasts in her father’s hall,
although certainly the Irish warriors who kept company with her
father were never as coarse and crude as these men. The Vikings
laughed raucously and constantly shouted challenges to each other
in their barbaric tongue.

At least they didn’t sing. Breaca had told
her that, unlike the Irish, the Norse weren’t known for their love
of music, although they greatly honored their storytellers, called
skalds.
Later in the evening, Breaca said, when the
skald
performed, the Vikings would grow amazingly quiet,
listening like entranced children.

Perhaps then she could rest, Fiona thought
wearily. Her feet and back hurt and her head ached. If she sat down
for even a moment, she would surely fall asleep, despite the
din.