Storm Maiden (34 page)

A fragrant odor assailed Dag’s nose as he
entered the low doorway of the building. Fiona kneeled by the
cooking fire, stirring something in a cauldron. Dag went weak with
relief. He wanted to rush over and crush her slim body to his
chest. Instead, he barked, “Where were you?”

Fiona glanced up, her eyes wide with
surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I came looking for you some time ago, and
you weren’t here.”

“I went to gather some wild garlic. It makes
a nice flavoring with pork.”

Dag stood over her. “I was beside myself
with worry. You should not go anywhere alone!”

Fiona’s eyes lit with resentment. “Am I a
prisoner in this place? Dare I even leave to use the privy by
myself...
master?

The sarcasm in her voice enraged him. He had
spent nearly the whole afternoon searching for her.
He was
simply trying to protect her.
“Always you defy me! I tire of
your independence and your stubbornness! Mayhap I should beat you.
Then you might learn to mind me!”

Fiona stood. Her head reached barely to his
shoulders. “Beat me then, if it soothes your pride, Viking,” she
taunted. “Act a brute like the rest of your race!”

He raised his hand to give her what she
demanded. At the last moment his fingers stalled in midair. He
sighed and turned away. “You provoke me, wench. But I get more
pleasure bedding you than I would beating you.” He turned to face
her again. “I have only your welfare in mind. I would not see you
hurt.”

Her anger appeared to fade as quickly as his
had. “I beg pardon, Dag. I know you care for my safety.”

He breathed a sigh of relief at her
compliance, but could not disregard his worries. “I came to tell
you that Sigurd and I

must make a journey to attend a meeting of
the
Thing
—an assembly of men from different steadings who
gather to make and enforce the laws of our people. I fear for your
safety while we are gone.”

Fiona nodded. “Brodir...”

“He will try to hurt you, I know it.” Dag
took a deep breath, struggling for a solution. Sigurd was right;
Brodir could not go with them. He was exactly the sort who caused
problems at a peaceful gathering. But left behind, he was a hazard
to Fiona.
Unless she came with them.
He wrinkled his
forehead, considering. Although women were welcome at the
Allthing
in the spring, this was not that sort of meeting.
The jarls met to forestall war, and few men would bring their wives
or families to such a potentially volatile event. If he took her,
Fiona would have to remain alone at their camp much of the time.
She’d dare not act defiant or haughty.

He gazed at the woman before him. Short of
temper, long on pride—she was a volatile creature. But she was
sharp-witted, too, and reasonable, for the most part. Dared he
trust her to behave herself if explained the circumstances?

He had no choice. Better the dangers they
might encounter at the
Thing
than the inevitable disaster of
Fiona alone with Brodir at Engvakkirsted.

Fixing her with a stern look, he said, “I am
taking you to the
Thing.
I can’t leave you alone with
Brodir, but I need your promise that you will behave on the
journey. You must agree to act the part of a docile, compliant
thrall every moment we are away from Engvakkirsted.”

Fiona nodded slowly, but Dag still felt
anxiety. She could not guess how important this journey was to
their future—unless he told her. Mayhap it was time he shared a
little of his plans. He took a deep breath. “While we are at the
Thing,
I mean to find a man with a ship who will sail to
Ireland. I intend to take you back to your homeland.”

With the area outside the slave dwelling lit
only by moonlight, Fiona could scarcely see Dag, and it took a
moment for his words to sink in. When they did, her mind reeled.
Return to her homeland, see her kinfolk, be free...

Dag spoke again, his voice impatient. “You
still want to go, don’t you?”

“
Ja
,” she breathed. Of course she
did. This was the dream which had kept her alive. Why, then, did
she feel so disappointed, so empty? “I am very grateful,” she told
Dag. “When will we leave?”

“I’m not certain. I hope to sail yet this
season, but I must find a man willing to provide a ship for the
journey, as well as a crew. At the
Thing,
I will be busy
talking to other warriors, finding out if they are willing to join
me. I will not have time to keep you out of trouble—that is why
your cooperation is so important.”

Fiona could hardly focus on what Dag was
asking. She forced herself to answer. “Of course, Dag. I promise to
do your bidding in all things.”

She heard him exhale the breath he had been
holding, and his hands came up to stroke her arms. “You are cold,
Fiona. We must see about getting you some warmer garments.” He
leaned over and kissed her. Fiona closed her eyes as the familiar
fire burned through her.
How could she bear to give this
up?

The kiss deepened. Suddenly, Dag pulled
away. “Ah, Sorli,” he said. “I needed to speak with you. The woman
will be going with Sigurd and me when we journey to the
Thing.
I trust that you can do without her for the several
days we will be gone.”

After Dag and Sorli left, Fiona lay down on
her hard pallet and stared up at the thrallhouse roof. Dag meant to
return her to Eire, to give her back all she had lost. It was
everything she had wished for. She would return to her home and
resume her role as princess of the Deasunachta. Her life as a
thrall among the Norse would be over, banished as if she awoke from
a bad dream.

Why, then, was she so unhappy? Why did
she feel as if she had been stabbed in the heart?
She squeezed
her eyes shut, fighting tears. The thought of leaving Dag made her
feel empty inside. He had come to fill the void within her that her
father’s death had left; now she was to lose him as well. Could she
bear to give him up?

The great, yawning emptiness inside her
grew. What would life be like without Dag, without his beautiful,
strong body; his warm smile; his courageous, proud spirit? Without
him, she would be only a shell of herself, living and breathing,
but no longer really alive. It sounded unendurable, but then, so
had being a Viking thrall.

Fiona took a deep breath, struggling for
control. She had made a vow, and she would keep it. Dag had offered
her the chance to be a princess again. It was her duty to accept
his gift.

Dag walked back to the longhouse. His plan
was taking shape. At the
Thing,
he would surely find men
willing to sail with him to Ireland. He savored his dream, fleshing
it out. Each time he imagined it, the feasthall on the hill grew
larger. Now it had carved timber supports and the defending walls
of the fort were of stone instead of wood. Beautiful, swift horses
grazed in his fields, and his hall was crowded with strong warriors
and fair maids. Fairest of all was Fiona, dressed in a vivid green
gown and gleaming gold.

He frowned. She had not seemed as pleased as
he had hoped, tonight when he’d announced his intentions. He had
expected her to embrace him, her face to light up with gratitude.
Why had she been so quiet, so thoughtful? Could it be that she did
not feel for him what he felt for her?

He tensed at the thought. Never had they
spoken of the future, trying instead to deny the oppression and
worries of the present. In his mind, it was natural to see her as
his wife, but he could not know if she wished him for a husband.
Mayhap she meant to return to her people and wed an Irish
chieftain. Anger rose in him. He would not give her up to another
man. She was
his,
and he would have the lands she was heir
to as well. If necessary, he would fight for them.

He entered the longhouse. Sigurd and the
other men still sat up drinking, talking, playing dice and board
games. Dag ignored them. Already, he felt distant from his sword
brothers. If things went well, he was to embark on an adventure
more daring than all the raids and trading journeys any man of his
clan had ever taken part in.

He slipped into his bedcloset, his mind
still racing. There was so much to plan, so many details to
arrange. He needed a crew of at least thirty men and a light,
durable sailing vessel. And then there were weapons,
foodstores...

Dag reached out and patted the horse’s
shaggy forelock. He stared into the animal’s dark eyes, seeking to
communicate with its spirit.

“What do you think, brother?” Sigurd asked
impatiently. “Are they worth the price? I’m no judge of horseflesh,
but we need some draft animals to pull the supply cart when we
journey to the
Thing.
Will these beasts do?”

Dag nodded absently. The horse seemed wary,
fearful; it appeared likely it had been abused. “The animals are
sound. If properly fed and cared for, they will serve.”

Sigurd gestured to the fierce-visaged man
standing next to him. “My brother says they will serve. We’ll take
the pair.” His eyes narrowed. “But Thor strike you down, Ottar, if
you have cheated us.”

Ottar Jokulsson, jari of the steading,
smiled, the movement causing his battle-scarred mien to grow even
uglier. “You say your brother can judge a beast’s temperament? What
a queer skill for a warrior to possess. Can he also predict the
weather and which way a battle will turn?”

“
Nei,”
Sigurd answered sharply. “My
brother is no wizard; he simply has a way with animals.”

Ottar greeted this remark with a grunt, then
said, “Bring the gold to the longhouse when you are ready to
depart. I’ll have my thrall hitch the horses to the cart.”

Ottar left, and Dag and Sigurd watched a
dark, wraithlike slave harness the horses. The horses acted weary
and resigned. Dag frowned. He observed no lashmarks on the animals’
hides, but they had been poorly fed and neglected.

“You are certain, Dag?” Sigurd asked as the
slave moved out of hearing. “The jarl will be angered if I have
spent his wealth on beasts too sickly to survive the winter.”

“There is nothing wrong with them that a few
days of good feed would not set aright,” Dag announced confidently.
“Indeed, I think they are a bargain at the price. Their spirits are
low now, but with proper care, they will be eager to serve their
new master.”

“Spirits?” Sigurd shook his head. “How could
such mute, stupid creatures have spirits?”

“Some animals don’t, but these do. It is the
wild part of them that speaks in their eyes. They were not always
draft animals; once they thundered over the ground with beauty and
freedom. That memory is still with them.”

Sigurd shook his head again. The slave
finished harnessing the animals and began to lead them toward the
gate of the turf wall surrounding Ottar Jokulsson’s steading. Dag
and Sigurd followed. After stepping into the longhouse to pay Ottar
his gold, Sigurd departed through the gate with Dag and the
horsecart, Dag urging the horses along with a firm hand on the
darker animal’s harness.

“If we did not take Fiona, we could get
along without any cart and we would not have had to make this trip
to purchase horses,” Sigurd pointed out.

“The animals will be useful for other
journeys and tasks. Besides, if I go, Fiona goes,” Dag said. “I
dare not leave her behind lest Brodir hurt her.”

“And I have your vow that she will not act
defiantly and shame us before our countrymen?” Sigurd’s blue eyes
bored into Dag.

“
Ja
, I swear it,” Dag answered.

Sigurd gave him another searching look. “By
what means do you intend to make certain of the woman’s
obedience?”

Dag smiled. “I trow she will mind me in all
things.”

Sigurd’s dark brows rose. “You would only
promise that if you were very sure of her. What have you done? Have
you offered to wed her?”

Dag shook his head, but Sigurd ranted on.
“How could you be so foolish! By offering her hope for a life
beyond what you have already given her, you increase her
dissatisfaction and encourage her to rebel against her lot.
Dissatisfied thralls are dangerous, especially ones as clever and
determined as the Irishwoman.”

“Dangerous? How is she dangerous?” Dag
scoffed.

“Can you deny that she considers us her
enemies? Why should she not harbor plans for vengeance against
us?”

“You have been listening to Brodir!”

“
Nei,”
Sigurd answered, “merely
observing the woman. I underestimated her at first, thinking she
was like the rest of her sex, conniving for comfort and luxury and
the petty power of a pampered concubine. Now, I see that there is
more to her. She still fancies herself a princess and clings to her
past life in Ireland. She has not accepted her lot as slave, and
now you encourage her to think of herself as equal to a
freewoman.”

“She is equal.”

“
Nei!
Never! She is a conquered
slave; she has no rights!”

“Unless I choose to give them to her!”

Sigurd’s eyes widened in outrage. “I fear
Brodir is right. The woman
has
bewitched you. You forget who
you are, Dag Thorsson.”

“And what am I?” Dag demanded. “A landless
second son who will live his life always in his brother’s
shadow!”

The anger in Sigurd’s eyes turned to hurt.
“Always, I have treated you as my equal, Dag.” He shook his head.
“I would not have us fight. I would have things between us as they
were.”

Dag shook his head sadly. How could he tell
his brother that such a thing could never be?

* * *

It was well past twilight when they arrived
at the steading. Sigurd went to Knorri to make his report. Dag
excused himself and went to see to the care of the horses. He took
them to an old cattle byre that was half-falling down but still a
decent shelter and unharnessed them himself. Then he fetched them
fresh water and plenty of hay and even added several handfuls of
grain to their feed. After spending a few moments talking to them
and stroking their necks as they ate, he left and headed for the
slave quarters.