Storm Maiden (38 page)

“Shall we walk back together?” Jarl Lygni
approached Sigurd, his heavy gold neck-collar and armbands clanking
as he walked. “I weary of the
skald
contest, and our camps
are close. I wouldn’ mind a friendly ear on the journey to my tent.
I’m certain I won’t find such a thing when I arrive.

Sigurd laughed. “Is your foreign thrall
still bedeviling you? Thor’s thunder, Lygni—why do you endure the
wench?”

Lygni looked sheepish. “I hope to get a son
of her. With her sharp tongue and cunning, I vow that a warrior of
her blood would be a man to reckon with.” He sighed. “But sometimes
I wonder if ‘tis worth waiting ‘til her womb quickens. If only I
could find a way to silence her complaints. Always, she bends my
ear with tales of other men who treat their women better, as if I
didn’t pamper her like a queen. Why, just this day she spoke of
your brother and how generous he is to his Irish thrall!”

“Dag?”

“
Ja.
Although I could scarce credit
her story, Eleni says Dag is so besotted with the woman, he
actually means to return her to her homeland.”

“What?” Sigurd demanded.

Lygni nodded. “Eleni vows he cares so much
for his thrall that he intends to restore her to her people. It may
have been a lie. Eleni often exaggerates. I certainly can’t imagine
a sane man doing such a thing. If he loves the woman, why would he
give her up?”

Because he is a soft-hearted fool!
Sigurd’s jaw tightened. Damn Dag for his ridiculous affection for
the Irish wench!

Lygni’s bushy brows rose. “You think it’s
true?” he asked incredulously. “What is Dag thinking of? I am fond
of Eleni, but never would I forget that she is a valuable piece of
property. I would no more return her to her kin in Brittany than I
would hand over my neckring.”

“I fear it’s true,” Sigurd answered
bitterly. “My brother has strange notions regarding women, and I
fear the Irishwoman has aggravated his confusion.”

“Do you intend to aid him in this nonsense?”
Lygni asked.

“
Nei,
I will find a way to stop him,
if I can.”

They reached the area where their tents were
spread. Sigurd gazed thoughtfully at the one belonging to his
brother. Fiona was there, alone. Dag was making camp with Ellisil
this night since they intended to leave so early. Sigurd flexed his
fingers. How easy it would be to snap the little Irishwoman’s neck
and rid his brother of her once and for all. But
Nei,
he
could not. He’d promised Dag. Now he was honor bound to protect
her.

“Beg pardon, Lygni, I would ask you to join
me for a drink beside our fire, but I must find my brother. I have
a notion that he means to leave early to seek out men and aid for
his absurd plan. I would speak to him ere he goes.”

Lygni nodded. “Do what you can. Other men
with restless women thralls depend upon you to keep Dag from this
ill-conceived venture.

* * *

“Turgeis and his men have settled in the
north, but we could control the south.” Dag spoke intently, so on
fire with his plans he scarcely noticed the rain falling on them as
they walked. With the storm coming, he had convinced Ellisil not to
wait until morning, but set out for Ferjeshold immediately.

“Think of it, Ellisil, land of your own, and
a fair Irish maiden like Fiona. I trow, such a prospect seems to me
worth dying for!”

“I have heard it is a forbidding isle,
Ireland is,” Ellisil responded. “Their dead sleep uneasily, and the
place is overrun with supernatural beings. I’m not certain I want
to dwell there, even as jarl of my own steading.”

“For land of my own I would be willing to
dwell among a band of trolls,” Dag retorted.

“Do you know the language? Did the woman
teach you to speak her tongue?”

“I learned enough to converse with her about
commonplace things. Fiona knows the territory and the other
chieftains in the area. That will making settling there much
easier.”

“And she has agreed to help you?”

Dag hesitated. He and Fiona had never
discussed the details of the expedition. Would she be willing to
aid him in subduing her people and gaining control over her
father’s lands? Even if he took her to wife and made her his queen,
would she accept his rule over Dunsheauna? His jaw tightened. She
must. It was the only way they could be together and both retain
their freedom and their pride. “The woman would be a princess of
Eire again,” he answered. “She wishes to return to her land and
recover her inheritance. I offer her the opportunity to do so.

Ellisil sighed. “Tis a bold plan, but for
every warrior who succeeds in settling in a foreign and hostile
territory, dozens die trying. I wish I had more time to think on
it. Could the journey not wait until spring?”

“If we wait, it may too late. Other Norsemen
will soon realize Ireland’s vulnerability as we have. If we
hesitate, they will take the best land.”

Ellisil didn’t respond. Dag grew impatient.
Dare he ignite the old competition which had been between them
since they were boys? If he goaded Ellisil, he might make an enemy
for life. But he was desperate to make the other man see his
viewpoint. “I can’t believe this.” He made his voice cold with
disgust. “You’re afraid of the Irish!”

Ellisil jerked to a halt beside him. “Are
you calling me a coward? Do you suggest I am a soft, weak man to be
left behind while others challenge the boundaries of the Norse
world?”

“
Nei,
I suggest no such thing. I know
you are a brave and fierceless warrior. That is why I would have
you with me.” Dag held his breath.

Ellisil laughed. “You have learned tact and
persuasion in the years since we were boys. I vow, you will manage
to beguile my father with your silky words and he will demand I go.
He wishes to see me settled and wed, so it does not trouble his
conscience that he has no land to give me. Your plan will fit
perfectly with his.”

“If Skirnir provided a ship and some of the
men, we would share our profits equally with him. Eire is a rich
land; we could make him wealthy. Think of it, Ellisil,” Dag
continued. “We would live in a fortress on a soft green hill within
a stout palisade, mayhap even a wall constructed partly of
stone—there are stones everywhere on that isle. We would have
cattle, sheep, and horses—and hounds, big fluffy-coated beasts like
my old dog, Ulvi. On winter nights, we would let the dogs into the
feasthall to warm themselves before the fire while the
skald
performed. Fiona says that many Irishman play the harp as well as
telling tales.
Bards
the Irish call them. The hall would
with ring with music and the clink of horns and beakers as the
warriors drank and boasted. And there would be women,
smooth-skinned, graceful women.”

Ellisil laughed. “You have almost convinced
me, Dag. But tell me more about the women.”

“We would find you a princess, sword
brother. One fearless and beautiful. Her skin would be as white and
fair as the mist, her voice as soft and seductive as the wind
through the reeds, her body as gently rounded as the Irish hills
and as supple as a silvery stream. You would breed great warriors
upon her body.

Ellisil groaned. “Curse you, Dag! You should
have been a
skald
.”

Fiona struggled to escape the tendrils of
her dreams. Even as she woke, she was aware of a sense of loss. She
instinctively reached out for Dag. Her eyes snapped open as she
found cold, empty space beside her. She sat up, remembering. Dag
had left her to find a ship and men. He had asked her to trust
him.

She rearranged her clothes hastily, tidied
her braid, then left the tent to go out in the rain. Nothing
remained of their camp except the tent she had slept in. She looked
around uneasily. Spying the cart, she hurried toward it. The horses
were already harnessed to the vehicle, and the cart was piled high
with supplies. Sigurd came up, grunting as he loaded his rolled-up
tent.

Fiona snapped at him. “Why didn’t you wake
me? Did you mean to leave me behind?”

Sigurd’s cold, blue eyes flicked to the tent
she had just left. “I would not desert a valuable tent, and you
were inside it.”

Fiona bristled at Sigurd’s implication that
she was less than baggage. Then she remembered that Dag had asked
Sigurd to look after her. It might be wise to temper her hostility
and seek Sigurd’s favor. “Is there any way I can help?” she
asked.

“
Nei,
I think you have done enough
already.”

Glancing at Sigurd, Fiona was suddenly aware
of the rage in the huge man’s face. The sight sucked the breath
from her body.

“If I could choose,” Sigurd continued in a
slow, deliberate voice, “I’d leave you here, my gift to the men
gathered for the
Thing
—
all
of them.”

Fiona flinched. What had Dag done—leaving
her under this man’s protection?

Sigurd stepped back, as if the sight of her
disgusted him. “Unfortunately, my brother made me promise to see
you safely back to Engvakkirsted, and I must honor his wishes. Get
your things together, quickly and quietly. I don’t need any excuse
to discipline a wench who has subverted my brother’s loyalty.”

Feeling as if she had woken to a nightmare,
Fiona scurried to obey.

The journey back to Engvakkirsted took twice
as long as anticipated. The storm followed them, slowing their
progress as the heavy cart foundered in the mud. The wind whipped
the rain against their faces, and their garments grew sodden and
heavy. Fiona trudged along listlessly, overwhelmed by the struggle
to keep warm, to keep walking.

The second day, the mud grew even deeper,
the rain colder. After Fiona stumbled and fell several times,
Sigurd, swearing, finally allowed her to ride in the cart. She
climbed among the barrels and sacks of supplies and sank down into
a deep, empty sleep.

When she awoke, she was lying on a pallet in
the slaves’ dwelling. Breaca leaned over her, a beaker of hot
liquid in her hand. “Drink, Fiona, ‘twill warm your blood.”

Fiona drank, then choked as memory returned.
She was back at Engvakkirsted, and Dag was gone. Tears filled her
eyes.

“Fiona, what is it?”

She looked up at Breaca’s young face,
scrunched up with worry. “Oh, lass, I don’t know what to do. Dag
means to take me back to Ireland.”

“But that is what you wish, isn’t it?”

Fiona shook her head. “No longer do I know
what I wish. I can’t deny that it breaks my heart to think of
leaving Dag.”

“You must speak to him,” Breaca said. “I’m
certain Dag won’t make you go if you don’t wish it.”

“I will. If I ever see him again. Dag has
gone to another steading to secure the use of a ship and a sailing
crew. He has left me in Sigurd’s care, and I worry I will survive
‘til he returns.”

“That’s nonsense. Sigurd wouldn’t kill his
brother’s thrall. Besides, he owes you a debt for saving Gunnar’s
life.”

Fiona shook her head grimly. “I fear Sigurd
has learned of Dag’s plans and blames me for driving his brother
away.”

“How could Sigurd know?”

“I foolishly boasted to another woman thrall
that my master meant to return me to my homeland. I’m certain
Sigurd found out my words from the woman or the woman’s master.”
Fiona sighed heavily. “I am doomed. Even if Sigurd doesn’t order my
death, Brodir means to kill me and Sigurd has little reason to
stand in his way.”

“I can’t believe Dag would leave you
unprotected.”

“He did his best. He went to Sigurd and
obtained his promise to keep me safe. Dag couldn’t know that Sigurd
would learn of his plans and blame me.”

“Sigurd is a man of honor. If he made such a
promise to Dag, he will keep it, no matter how much he might
despise you.”

Fiona shook her head again. “I would like to
have faith in Sigurd’s honor, but my heart is cold with dread.”

“ ‘Tis only that you are tired and ill,”
Breaca soothed. “Drink the rest of the broth, then go back to
sleep. You will feel better soon.”

Fiona lay back, so exhausted she could not
keep her eyes open.

Almost a day later, she awoke. As it might
heal a fever, sleep had burned away the worst of her anxiety. If
she could avoid the notice of Sigurd and the other men, they might
ignore her until Dag returned.

She rose unsteadily, looking for Breaca. The
slave dwelling was deserted. A cauldron of pottage sat near the
fire. Fiona stuck a finger in the congealed broth and licked it.
She made a face. No wonder the other thralls had been so
appreciative of her cooking skills. She would resume her duties as
soon as possible.

She returned to her pallet, searching for
her warm clothes. They lay beside the bedplace, neatly folded.
Fiona picked up the fur-lined tunic and lifted her arms to put it
on. A stale, unpleasant smell wafted to her nostrils.

“Saint Bridget, but you stink!” she said
aloud. She looked down at the dirty kirtle she wore. All those days
of travelling, and no opportunity to bathe properly. At the
Thing,
what with dozens of men around, she had been unable
to do more than wash her face and hands. Now she sorely needed a
bath.

She bent over her pallet, searching beneath
the straw mattress for a change of clothes. There was only one
clean linen undershift left from the days when she’d slept in Dag’s
bedcloset. She would have to wear that under her tunic until her
kirtle could dry.

Grabbing the clean shift and a bone comb,
Fiona walked cautiously toward the bathhouse. She breathed a sigh
of relief when she found the slave portion of the dwelling empty.
Slipping inside, she firmly latched the door, then stoked the fire.
While she waited for the hut to heat, she undid the plaits of her
hair and undressed. Memories crowded her mind. What pleasure Dag
had given her in this place. What awe-inspiring lovemaking they had
shared.