Storm Maiden (19 page)

She proceeded to the table at the end of the
room where the jarl sat in an ornately carved chair. Fiona
shuddered at the sight of his leathery face crisscrossed with
wrinkles, his iron gray hair thinned to wisps across his bare
scalp. She couldn’t help remembering Breaca’s suggestion that she
entice him in order to gain better treatment. Nay, never would she
do such a thing. If her lot became unbearable, she might try to win
back Dag’s favor, but she would die rather than bed old Knorri.

She moved behind the table and set the
platter down in front of the jarl, acutely aware of Dag seated
beside Knorri. Fiona could feel the bronze-haired Viking’s hot eyes
watching her, and the awareness of his gaze caused a strange
sensation to fill her lower belly. Every time she glanced toward
him, Dag’s eyes were upon her. The intensity of his regard made her
body feel hot, and the coarse wool rubbing against her nipples
contributed to her distress.

She turned abruptly to head back to the
cooking area for another platter. Mayhap Dag didn’t hate her, she
thought as she moved among the crowded tables. After all, he had
come to her aid when the repulsive Viking—the one Breaca called
Brodir—attacked her. If her slap hadn’t caused Brodir to release
her, she felt certain Dag would have intervened. He must still feel
he owed her for her care of him.

Near the firepit, the Vikings had pushed the
tables together, blocking her way. Fiona looked at the mass of
flushed, sweating men and decided to go around. As she turned in
the awkward space, a man’s hand reached out and grabbed her kirtle.
Fiona shrieked as she recognized Brodir. He jerked her down into
his lap. She struggled, crying out with rage and fear. Brodir
laughed, his pig-like eyes raking over her. She reached up to
strike him in the face, and he grasped her wrist and jerked it down
with such force that tears filled her eyes.

Fiona glanced desperately toward the jarl’s
table, hoping Dag would see her and come to her rescue. Dag was
turned away, apparently in deep conversation with his brother.
Across the crowded, noisy longhouse, she had no hope of gaining his
attention. Fiona twisted frantically as Brodir began to fondle her,
his greasy fingers probing for her breasts beneath the rough wool.
Desperation filled her. She hadn’t endured a ghastly sea voyage and
the shame of slavery only to be raped by a filthy Viking swine in
front of his leering companions. She must do something!

She forced herself to go still and wait for
her captor to relax his grip. If she had learned anything from her
struggles with men, it was that she needed the advantage of
surprise to have any hope of thwarting them.

Brodir’s free hand roamed lower, seeking the
bottom of the kirtle. Fiona’s eyes darted to the nearby table,
where an eating knife glittered among the refuse of bones. She
waited as the Viking tugged up her kirtle. His hand moved up her
leg.

In one swift motion, Fiona grabbed the knife
then twisted around and jabbed at Brodir’s face. He jerked back,
and the knife caught him in the side of the neck. Brodir bellowed,
then released Fiona and reached up with both hands to pull out the
knife. Blood spurted everywhere. Fiona, squirming to avoid the
spray, lost her balance and pitched into the edge of the table. The
rough wood hit her sharply in the shoulder, and pain lanced down
her arm. Momentarily stunned, she had no chance to flee before
strong arms grabbed her.

Another Viking held her, his iron-like grip
half-crushing the bones in her arms, his angry, flushed face
glaring down on her. Fiona began to scream, her terrified cries
adding to the uproar in the longhouse. She thrashed wildly, all
rational thought gone from her mind. She didn’t want to die like
this
—murdered by a dozen mad Vikings!

Fiona screamed and screamed, struggling
frantically. She hardly noticed as another pair of strong arms
wrenched her from the first man’s grasp. She continued to flail as
her new captor flung her over his shoulder.

Fiona found herself being borne to the
corner of the dwelling. The noise and confusion of the longhouse
receded. Her abductor ducked down to enter a doorway, then she was
upended once more and flung onto a bed.

Gasping for breath, she stared up into Dag’s
livid face. Relief flooded her. He had protected her once
again.

As he continued to glare at her, Fiona’s
sense of reprieve vanished. Dag stood over her, fists clenched, his
jaw rigid, his eyes flashing cold-blue fury. He might not kill her,
but he looked as if he wanted to beat her senseless at least.

Fiona heaved a sigh. Her body was bruised
and aching, her throat raw from screaming. If she were doomed to
die in this grim, foreign place, it might as well be by this
magnificent warrior’s hand. She lay back on the bed, her limbs
trembling with fatigue. Let him do his worst; she had no energy
left to fight.

Dag watched as the woman lay quiet, her
light-colored eyes strangely tranquil, her slender arms stretched
outward, as if she offered herself to him. He felt his anger depart
as quickly as it had come. The woman had done nothing except defend
herself. She couldn’t know that the penalty for a slave attacking a
Viking warrior was death. Would the jarl be lenient with her
because she was a woman, and a beautiful one at that?

A shudder raced down his spine. That she was
a woman made the insult worse. If Brodir died because of her
attack, he would have suffered an ignoble death. Despite a lifetime
of valiant fighting, his spirit would not be welcomed by the fallen
heroes who knew glory in the great hall of Valhalla.

But Brodir would not die, especially if his
wound were tended properly. He’d survived a dozen serious sword and
axe blows already. The man was as hard to kill as a thick-headed
ox. But his hatred wouldn’t die, either. Brodir worshipped
vengeance as the White Christ’s followers worshiped their
kindhearted deity. Even if the jarl spared the Irishwoman’s life,
Brodir would never stop plotting her punishment.

Dag sighed wearily. He had been wrong to
think he could be rid of his responsibility for the Irishwoman.

There was a sound behind him. He turned as
light from the doorway splintered across the dimly lit chamber. The
red-haired slave crept into the room, her eyes wide. “You haven’t
killed her yet, have you?” she asked.

Dag shook his head. “How goes the mood in
the longhouse? Has Brodir let off bellowing like a butchered
pig?”

“
Ja
, although he still calls for the
Irishwoman’s blood. That one, he will not forget this.”

“And the jarl—what says he?”

The girl shrugged. “Knorri reassured Brodir
that you will see your slave punished appropriately. He also warned
him that the woman was your property and yours to do with as you
see fit.”

“Of course,” Dag answered bitterly. “ ‘Tis
my
responsibility
to see her punished.”

“How?”

The dread in the slave girl’s tone unsettled
Dag. Did she really fear he would kill the Irishwoman?

“Stay with her,” he ordered the girl. “If
anyone comes, run and find me.”

“Where are you going?”

Dag paused in the firelight shining in
through the doorway. “I must consult with the jarl.”

As he entered, Dag observed that the hall
had quieted. Near the firepit, Mina and Ingeborg tended to Brodir.
At the front of the room Knorri, Sigurd, and Veland were talking
and eating as if nothing had happened.

Knorri looked up as Dag approached. He
frowned slightly but said nothing as Dag took a seat on the bench
opposite. Dag recovered his drinking horn and, holding it out,
gestured for a slave to fill it.

When he had drunk it down, he met Knorri’s
watery-blue eyes. “I must consult with you, Uncle, regarding my
thrall’s disgraceful behavior.”

Knorri grunted.

“ ‘Tis true she behaved outrageously, but
considering that our ways are foreign to her, and she has been a
slave only a short time...”

“You would make excuses for her?” Knorri
interrupted. “A woman? A slave?” He snorted loudly.

“Why should the fact that she is a woman
discredit her bravery?” Dag asked, trying another approach. “Can
you deny that she fought well? If she were a man, even a slave, she
would be lauded for her valor.”

“
Ja,
lauded and then killed.” The
jarl’s mouth set in a stubborn line.

Dag remained silent, trying to reason out
another argument for sparing the Irishwoman. He glanced toward the
firepit. Two slaves cleaned up the blood; Mina and Ingeborg argued
with Brodir, trying to get him to remain still so they could
bandage the cut. The warrior’s face was flushed with anger, and he
appeared to be cursing everyone and everything in sight.

Dag turned back to Knorri. “Brodir doesn’t
look to be grievously hurt. In a day or two, he will have nothing
more than a small scar to show for the incident.”

“Unless the wound festers,” Knorri said, his
voice cold. “If I lose a good warrior because of your thrall’s
foolishness, you will pay wergeld to me.”

Dag set down his drinking beaker and used
his finger to trace a pattern in the wood of the table. “If the
Irishwoman tended Brodir’s wound, you could be certain it would not
fester. She is very skilled. Sigurd had her tend my arm... on the
ship.” He glanced up to see if Sigurd meant to contradict the
misleading statement. “My sword arm was filling with poison, but
she cleaned it and cured my fever as well.”

Knorri’s eyes flickered with interest. “She
is a wise woman?”

“I can’t say for certain, but she is skilled
at wounds.”

Knorri nodded slowly. “At the very least, we
must have her look at Brodir’s neck before we kill her. Knife
wounds are serious.”

Dag grimaced. Knorri’s talk of executing the
Irishwoman made his guts twist. “I don’t want to kill her,” he
ventured. “I owe her for aiding my arm.”

Knorri took a drink of ale, then loudly
passed wind. “She’s a slave; she had no choice. Even if she saved
your life, it wouldn’t be a worthwhile exchange. A woman’s life is
not nearly equal in value to a man’s. If a horse should save your
life in battle, do you owe the beast a debt?” Knorri guffawed.

Why not?
Dag questioned silently. Why
could not an animal and a man’s soul be bound together? He had
saved Ulvi’s life, and she would have been willing to do the same
for him, if she still lived. He could not feel that animals’ souls
were so different than men’s. And a woman—was not the Irishwoman’s
spirit every bit as valuable as his?

“On my honor as a warrior, I can’t see her
put to death.” He met the jarl’s gaze firmly. “She is my property,
is she not? Surely you will not force me to kill a valuable slave,
so long as Brodir recovers fully.”

“What about flogging?” Veland, who had been
sitting quietly nearby, spoke up. “ ‘Tis a lesser punishment, but
it might satisfy Brodir. He only wants to see her suffer.”

The image of the Irishwoman’s slender back
crisscrossed with scarlet welts flashed into Dag’s mind.
Nei,
he could bear that even less than seeing her put to
death. “I fear such treatment would kill her,” he said. “She is a
small, soft-skinned woman, unused to hardship. Even if flogging
didn’t cause her death, it would ruin her as a thrall.”

“Why?” Knorri asked. “If, as Sigurd tells
me, you mean to set the woman to baking and weaving for Mina, why
should a few scars on her backside interfere with her
usefulness?”

Dag felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He had
no explanation for his wish to spare the Irishwoman. It was
weakness on his part, pure and simple.

Knorri gazed at Dag sharply. “Feel you some
affection for this woman, mayhap desire to beget children of
her?”

Dag froze. What should he say? He didn’t
want to admit his feelings for the Irishwoman, but it might be the
only way to save her. “She
is
comely,” he admitted.

Sigurd laughed loudly. Knorri did not join
in Sigurd’s amusement. He frowned and said gravely, “If you care
for her, I will respect your wishes. But don’t forget that your
first responsibility is to your sword brothers.”

Dag released his breath in a sigh. Thank
Odin, Knorri was so fond of him. The old man would never have
honored the feelings of any man excepting his nephews.

“What of flogging?” Veland asked. “Have you
decided to forgo that as well?”

“Dag is right,” Knorri said. “Such harsh
treatment might well kill her.” He waved his gnarled hand
dismissingly. “The woman will tend to Brodir’s wound, and Dag will
choose some appropriate punishment to subdue her spirit.” The jarl
paused and glared at Dag. “From now on, you must control her. A
slave who dares to attack a warrior—I will not allow it at my
steading.”

The jarl got up and began to walk unsteadily
toward the longhouse entrance, likely intent on relieving himself.
Dag heaved a sigh at the jarl’s departure, then cast a look toward
the door of his bedcloset. His jaw set. In his mind at least, the
debt to the woman had been repaid. Would she ever appreciate how
much he had risked to save her life?

Sigurd’s mocking voice interrupted Dag’s
musings. “How will you punish her, brother?” he asked. “Or will
you?”

Dag rose abruptly and followed the jarl’s
path to the door of the longhouse.

* * *

“You think they will kill me?” Fiona gaped
at the Irish girl. “For stabbing a man who molested me? What kind
of savages are these Northmen?”

Breaca shrugged. “I warned you that they
consider slaves as little better than animals. In their eyes,
Brodir had the right to rape you on the table in front of all. When
you struggled, you broke their laws. When you stabbed him, you
committed an outrageous crime.”

“But Brodir had no right to touch me! Sigurd
said clearly that I belong to Dag!”