Viking (17 page)
Thorne and Aren had left Rolo’s hall before the household stirred. The blizzard had ended during the night and a weak sun shone through the clouds. It went against Thorne’s nature to let Bretta and Rolo go unpunished, but he’d promised not to betray
the confidence of his informant. He vowed to return and confront Rolo and Bretta once he rescued Fiona from the slave trader. Their vile deed wouldn’t go unpunished; Rolo and his sister would pay dearly.
Thorne knew exactly where to find Roar’s homestead. He’d visited on more than one occasion when he’d had dealings with the slave trader.
They reached the spacious house late that day. “Be prepared for anything,” Thorne warned Aren as he pounded on the door. “I’m determined to get Fiona back no matter what it takes.”
“I will be right beside you fighting for Tyra,” Aren vowed.
Morag opened the door and Thorne pushed inside, followed closely by Aren.
“Where is Roar?” Thorne bellowed when a visual search of the smoky hall failed to reveal either Roar or the two women he sought. Several karls sprang forward to defend their master’s hall. Thorne waved them back. “I mean no harm to your master if he cooperates with me.”
“Roar is abed,” Morag said, “recovering from a serious wound.”
“Where are the two women he recently purchased from Rolo the Bold?”
Morag wrung her hands. “Gone, my lord.”
“Gone!” he shouted. “What nonsense are you spouting?”
Roar heard the commotion and hobbled out of his bedchamber to learn the cause. “Who in Thor’s name is doing all that bellowing?” He recognized
Thorne from previous dealings, noted the fierce look on his face and came to an abrupt halt. “Thorne the Relentless. What brings you to my homestead?”
“Call off your men. I seek but a private word with you.”
Roar motioned his men away and led Thorne to a bench at the back of the hall. He sat down with a sigh, stretching out his leg to ease the pain. “What is it you want? Do you have more Christian slaves for me? The foreign priests I purchased from you last summer greatly pleased my clients in Baghdad.”
“I’m not selling slaves this time. I’m looking for two women you recently purchased from Rolo the Bold.”
Thorne could tell by the wary look on Roar’s face that the trader knew of whom he spoke. “There are no female slaves here besides my own.”
“One of the women you purchased from Rolo is my wife.”
Roar’s eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets. “I would never knowingly buy a man’s wife, unless it was the husband’s wish for the woman to be sold into slavery. It happens sometimes.” He shrugged expansively. “I am a slave trader. I do not look too closely into a slave’s background. I was led to believe the women in question were slaves. Lady Bretta approached me weeks ago about purchasing a pair of beautiful Christian slaves.”
“Bretta!” Thorne spat. “I should have known she’d be involved somehow. Produce the women,
Roar, and you will be amply reimbursed for your time and trouble.”
“I cannot,” Roar lamented. “The women are no longer with me.”
“You lie!” Aren shouted, taking a menacing step toward Roar.
“Nay. I speak the truth.” He pointed to his leg. “As you can see, I’m recovering from a serious injury. I was in danger of losing my limb as well as my life. Fiona saved both and was rewarded with her freedom. She and Tyra left this morning.”
“Left! I cannot believe you’d allow two defenseless women to leave in the dead of winter. Where did they go? They could both be lying dead in a snowdrift.”
“They had a destination, my lord,” Morag offered timidly. She’d been hovering nearby and heard the conversation between Thorne and Roar.
Thorne rounded on her. “Speak, woman! Where did my wife go?”
“Fiona believed you didn’t want her, my lord. She said you had Lady Bretta sell her to my master. Rika, daughter of Garm the Black, offered her shelter.”
“Rolo’s wife?” Thorne questioned.
“ ’Tis my understanding that Rika divorced Lord Rolo. Your wife and Tyra were dressed warmly and carried sufficient food for a six-day journey.”
“My wife is with child,” Thorne said, his voice taut with concern. Though late in coming, he’d finally realized that Fiona had not lied to him. The child was indeed his. If Rolo feared Fiona would
render him impotent, he must have good reason to believe such a thing.
“What do we do now, Thorne?” Aren asked with a hint of desperation.
“We follow.” He turned to Roar. “Can you give me directions to Garm’s homestead?”
“I’ve done business with him a time or two. He lives south along the coast, near the town of Bergen. ’Tis late. Share our meal and sleep tonight in my hall. You can begin your journey tomorrow, when you are refreshed.”
Thorne was eager to be off but he recognized the wisdom of Roar’s advice. “Aye, we accept your hospitality, Roar. We were both duped by Rolo, so I do not hold you accountable for my wife’s captivity.”
Thorne tossed and turned most of the night. He was desperate to find Fiona before a new winter storm or brigands threatened her. When he found her he would beg for her forgiveness, though he knew he didn’t deserve it.
The first few miles had presented little difficulty for Fiona and Tyra. The coast road was nearly deserted this time of the year and they’d encountered little traffic. That night they found shelter with a farmer and his family. The large one-room house was cozy and warm and the weary travelers shared it with the couple, their four children and three dogs. They also shared their simple but ample meal.
Vikings were renowned for their hospitality. The family who gave them shelter asked no questions despite their curiosity and sped them on their way
the next morning after a substantial breakfast of cooked oats, warm bread and milk.
Thorne and Aren started out early, munching food Morag gave them to eat along the way. Thorne was desperate to catch up with Fiona so he set a hectic pace, jogging when the road was clear enough to do so and walking as fast as humanly possible when it was not. It was Aren’s idea that they stop and make inquiries at a small homestead they passed along the way. Thorne was glad that they did, for they learned that two women had indeed sought shelter with them the night before. They declined the farmer’s hospitality and moved on.
“If the weather holds, we can catch up with them tomorrow at the latest,” Thorne determined. He glanced up at the lowering sky. “It doesn’t look promising. Snow will fall before nightfall.”
Aren’s anxiety was nearly palpable. “We’re traveling twice as fast as the women. Perhaps they will seek shelter early because of the threatening storm.” As he spoke, large flakes of snow drifted down upon their heads. Exchanging worried glances, they broke into a brisk trot.
Both men were in excellent physical shape, possessing extraordinary strength and stamina. They covered an impossible amount of ground in a very short time. By nightfall the snow was coming down faster, and Thorne knew they had to find shelter for the night or perish in the thickening storm.
* * *
The second day of travel had been difficult for the women. A light snow had hampered their progress, and Fiona had begun to show signs of exhaustion, despite frequent rests along the way. A nagging pain in the middle of her back had plagued her off and on during the day. As night fell, they’d spied a deserted homestead nestled amid a copse of trees. Fiona was so grateful she offered a prayer of thanksgiving. Something was happening inside her body, and she knew she could go no further.
“Look, Fiona, there’s a stack of wood beside the door,” Tyra said excitedly, “and I have a flint in my pouch.”
“I’m sure the owners won’t mind,” Fiona allowed. “It’s threatening to storm again. Thank God we won’t have to spend the night outside.”
The small house was indeed deserted. It was a simple one-room dwelling containing a tiny hearth, two rickety benches pushed up against a wall, a stack of straw in one corner that served as a bed, and two rusted cooking pots turned upside down beside the hearth. There was nothing else, but it was enough.
Tyra carried in wood and used a handful of straw for tinder. The straw caught and in a short time a tiny flame set the wood afire. Once the fire was going well, they ate sparingly of the food in their pouches and made a bed in the straw, rolling in their cloaks for warmth. They both slept soundly despite the early hour.
A few hours later, sharp, knife-like pains roused
Fiona from a deep sleep. Tyra awakened to her cries.
“What is it, Fiona? Is it the babe?”
“Oh, God,” Fiona sobbed. “My baby! My poor baby.”
Aren had been the first to see the thin spiral of smoke rising from a copse of snow-draped trees. The snowfall was so heavy now that they had failed to notice the ramshackle hut until Aren spied the smoke.
“We’ll ask for shelter,” Thorne said, heading for the hut. “They look like poor people, judging from the condition of the house. They may not have extra food to share, but the fire will warm our bones.”
“Aye,” Aren agreed, pulling his fur cloak closer about him. “Mayhap they’ve seen Fiona and Tyra. We should have caught up with them by now. The pace we’ve set has been grueling, and we’ve made excellent time. You don’t suppose—”
“Nay! Don’t even think it. We will find them tomorrow. They probably sought shelter along the road with another farmer.”
Thorne heard the scream as he stepped up to the door, followed by moaning sobs. He didn’t bother to knock as he grasped the door latch and flung open the door.
Fiona was sick with despair. The babe was lost. Too tiny even to have formed within her. The violent pain and rush of blood between her legs was all the proof she needed to know she had miscarried.
The scream that had escaped her lips was a furious protest against nature’s cruel punishment. Fiona sobbed piteously, inconsolable. Her babe. Her precious babe, Thorne’s child, was gone.
Suddenly the door was thrust open and two snow-shrouded apparitions burst into the room. Tyra screamed and hovered protectively over her mistress.
Thorne shook the snow from his cloak and pulled the hood from his head. With his beard grown shaggy, Tyra didn’t recognize him at first.
“Please, kind masters, do not hurt us. My mistress just lost her babe.”
Aren stepped forward. “Tyra, ’tis Aren and Thorne. We’ve been searching for you and Fiona.”
“Aren?” Tyra appeared dazed and confused. “Oh, Aren! Thank God you’ve come.”
Thorne was already on his knees beside Fiona, noting with horror her bloodstained skirts and pale features. Her eyes were closed, and immediately Thorne thought the worst. The blood froze in his veins as color drained from his face.
“Odin help us, she’s dead!”
“Nay, Lord Thorne, she is merely sleeping,” Tyra informed him. “Fiona has just lost your child and is exhausted.” She sent Thorne a look of intense dislike. “What did you expect? You sold your wife and unborn child to the slave trader without a thought to her well-being. She loved you well, and you betrayed her.”
Thorne cradled Fiona against him, paying scant heed to Tyra’s words. He couldn’t lose Fiona, not now, not when he had finally accepted that his love
for Fiona had naught to do with spells and enchantments and everything to do with his heart.
The warmth of Thorne’s body broke through Fiona’s exhaustion, and she opened her eyes. She searched his face for the space of a heartbeat, recognized him, then beat weakly against his chest.
“Go away! I hate you! I hate you!”
“I don’t blame you for hating me, but it wasn’t my doing,” Thorne argued. “I believed you had left me. Rolo and Bretta deceived us both. A courageous slave who hated Rolo told me what really happened. If not for her, I might have gone on believing that you had left with another man.”
“Just leave me alone, Thorne,” Fiona said on a sob. “I cannot bear the sight of you. Our child is lost. I do not even know if it was a daughter or a son.”
“You’re upsetting Fiona, Thorne,” Tyra said, pulling Thorne away from Fiona. “She has suffered a great tragedy and needs time to heal.”
“Do you think I’m not suffering?” Thorne challenged. “ ’Twas my child she lost.”
“This is the first time you’ve ever admitted that
the child is yours,” Fiona charged. She turned away from him. “I’m so weary. So very weary.”
“Will she recover?” Thorne asked worriedly as Fiona seemed to drift into unconsciousness.
“She’s sleeping, Thorne,” Tyra said. “ ’Tis what she needs right now.”
“How long before she can travel?” Thorne wanted to know.
“Several days, I would think. She needs rest and nourishing broth to sustain her. Perhaps you and Aren can catch a fat rabbit or two. I found two usable iron pots, and there’s still plenty of firewood. I’ll prepare something nourishing to sustain her when she awakens.”
Though reluctant to leave, Thorne welcomed the opportunity to be useful. He felt helpless in a situation like this, and helplessness wasn’t a state he enjoyed.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Aren said as they left the hut. “I will enjoy watching you wreak vengeance on Rolo and Bretta. ’Twas a vile thing they did.”
“Aye,” Thorne said, thinking of all the ways he’d make Rolo and Bretta suffer for what they had stolen from him and Fiona.
It rankled him to think that he was partly to blame for what had happened. Had he not left Fiona with Rolo and Bretta to fend for herself, she would still be carrying his child. There were so many obstacles to overcome that sometimes Thorne wondered whether he and Fiona would ever surmount them. Even his own brother feared and disliked her.
Then Thorne saw a fat rabbit outlined against the snow and his mind shut down as his hunter instincts took over.
Fiona’s dream seemed to take on shape and substance before her closed eyes. She saw Brann standing beside her, a tender smile upon his face. She reached out to him. He grasped her hand and crouched down beside her.
“I’ve lost my child,” Fiona said in a voice made hollow with grief.
“Do not despair, child,” Brann replied, squeezing her hand. “There will be other children. Many other children. I have always known that your first son would be born on Man. He will have the strength of his father and the wisdom of his mother.”
“Nay. I will bear no more of Thorne’s children. I cannot bear the rejection, nor the pain of loving him and being unloved in return.”
Fiona must have cried out in her sleep, for Thorne was beside her instantly, clasping her hand. Still lingering in that hazy place between sleep and full awareness, she opened her eyes, expecting to see Brann. She saw only Thorne. She blinked repeatedly, but her beloved friend and mentor did not reappear. Then she became aware of the tempting smell of cooking meat and tried to sit up. She flinched as a sharp pain pierced her innards. Then reality intruded. She had lost her child, and it was Thorne’s fault. Had he not wanted to be rid of her, she’d still have her child safely beneath her heart. She didn’t understand what he was doing here.
“Are you all right?” Thorne asked when her eyes focused on him. “Are you in pain?”
“The pain is in my heart,” Fiona whispered. “You could have told me yourself that you didn’t want me instead of having Bretta do it for you. I would have returned to Man long ago had you allowed it.”
Thorne recalled everything he had said and done to earn Fiona’s distrust. He remembered accusing her of enjoying her role as Rolo’s mistress. He recalled how he had stubbornly refused to believe the child she carried was his, listening instead to Rolo’s and Bretta’s lies.
“I’m guilty of many things but not the sin of selling you,” Thorne denied.
“Admit it. Had our child lived, you would have always wondered to whom it belonged,” Fiona charged.
Thorne had nothing to say to that. Lying didn’t come easily to him. Though he regretted it with all his heart, Fiona’s words were partly true. The notion that Fiona carried Rolo’s child had festered and grown until Thorne hadn’t known what or whom to believe.
“Perhaps,” Thorne admitted. “That is something we will never know for sure. Forgive me for causing you such grief. I don’t care if I’m bewitched. ’Tis no longer important. You’re mine, Fiona. We are still husband and wife according to your Christian God.”
“Continue your conversation later, Thorne,” Tyra said, shooing him away. Aren was right behind her,
carrying the pot of broth Tyra had made. He set it down beside Fiona.
“We have no dishes but we do have our spoons,” Tyra said, removing a spoon from her pouch and handing it to Fiona. “We will eat after you have had your fill.”
When Fiona would have taken the spoon from Tyra, Thorne moved to intercept. He grasped the utensil in his hand and patiently spooned the broth into Fiona’s mouth, feeding her bits of cooked rabbit between each mouthful of broth. Despite the lack of salt, the broth was rich and filling, and when she’d eaten her fill, Thorne helped her to lie down.
While she rested, Thorne, Aren and Tyra shared the remaining broth and rabbit and discussed plans.
“Fiona isn’t fit to travel,” Thorne said in a low voice.
“What are we going to do?” Aren asked, anxious to do anything to help Thorne and Fiona.
“I think you and Tyra should continue on to Garm’s homestead. Fiona and I will follow as soon as she’s able to travel.”
“Can you survive here that long?” Aren asked worriedly.
“Aye. I’ve done it before. There is plenty of wild game to fill our bellies, and wood to feed the fire. We have fur cloaks to keep us warm and a bed of straw to lie upon. The hut is in fair condition despite its neglect. We will manage.”
After the meal, Aren and Tyra moved a portion of straw to the opposite corner and bedded down
for the night. Thorne lay down beside Fiona, pulling his cloak over both of them. When he took her into his arms, she stiffened but did not protest. A few minutes later he heard her even breathing and knew she had fallen asleep. Holding her tightly against him, he joined her in slumber.
When Fiona awakened the following morning, it was so quiet she feared she had been abandoned. The hut was empty save for herself; there was no sign of Thorne, Tyra or Aren. Then the door swung open and Thorne entered, filling the room with his dynamic presence. His arms were piled high with firewood, which he proceeded to stack next to the hearth. Fiona was quick to note that he had scraped the beard from his face with his blade while she slept.
“Where are the others?” Fiona asked, surprised that her voice was so weak.
Thorne whirled at the sound of her voice and strode over to her makeshift bed. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”
Fiona’s hand went to her stomach. “Empty.” She felt like crying.
“Fiona, I—”
“Nay, I do not wish to talk about it.” She turned her face away from him.
Thorne dropped to his knees beside her. “Don’t turn away from me, love. I’m consumed with guilt over this. ’Tis my child you lost.”
“I don’t care what Brann said,” she said wistfully, “this child will be sorely missed.”
“Brann? Brann is dead.” Was she hallucinating? Thorne wondered as he placed a hand on her forehead, testing for fever. She was cool to his touch.
“Aye, Brann is dead, but there is a special bond between us that defies space and time, even death.”
“Brann spoke to you? What did he say?” Thorne was curious now, despite his lack of faith in Fiona’s ability to speak to the dead. But Fiona had proved him wrong so many times, he thought it best to hear her out.
“He told me not to despair, that there would be other children.”
“And there will be, Fiona. I will give you all the children you want.”
Fiona shook her head. “ ’Tis too late, Thorne. I do not want your children.”
“I know you’re hurting now, but—”
“You know naught of how I feel!” Fiona charged. “No man can know how a woman feels after losing a child. Perhaps I will have other children but they will not be yours, Thorne the Relentless.”
Thorne wisely decided not to argue the point. Fiona was too weak to waste energy exchanging angry words. “I sent Aren and Tyra on to Garm’s homestead. We will follow in a few days.”
“Why didn’t you go with them? I can take care of myself without your help.”
Thorne scowled at her. “I would never leave you, Fiona. I’ll take care of you until you’re well enough to travel.”
“Is that what you truly want, Thorne? Or are you
staying with me merely to salve your guilty conscience?”
“Remember when I said I felt bereft without you, that I want you with me always? Naught has changed. I missed you. I couldn’t wait to return to tell you that I loved you, that I’d been a fool to doubt you. When Rolo told me you’d left with another man I wanted to kill someone. I apologize for believing you capable of such deceit. What will it take for you to forgive me?”
“I’m not sure I can ever forgive you. Perhaps if our child had lived … but ’tis too late now.”
“I’ll make you love me, Fiona, I swear it.”
Fiona sighed and closed her eyes. She felt broken, as if the pieces of her life had been shredded and trampled upon. Before, there had always been Thorne to cling to, but now she felt abandoned and lost. She wanted to go home, to see her father, to enjoy the soft air and rolling green hills of her jewel-like island. She wanted to forget all the unhappy times with Thorne, as well as the happy ones, and return to her simple life as a healer.
When Fiona remained mute, Thorne moved determinedly to the hearth and carefully removed the iron pot from the fire. He had filled it with snow earlier and placed it over the fire to melt.
“I heated water in case you’d like a good wash,” he said as he set the steaming pot of water beside her. He didn’t wait for a reply as he removed the brooch at her shoulder and lifted her so he could remove her tunic and undergarments.
“I can do it,” Fiona protested weakly.
“Let me,” Thorne said firmly, pushing her hands aside.
With deft hands he removed her clothing and covered her with her fur cloak. Then he tore a piece of her tunic, dunked it into the warm water and pulled back the cloak, baring her upper torso. With gentle strokes he washed her face, neck, arms and breasts. When he finished he covered her upper body and bared her lower extremities. He winced at the sight of her bloodstained thighs but set to work with grim purpose.
“There,” he said, rinsing the cloth one last time. “Now I’ll see about getting you some breakfast. The rabbit I caught and cleaned this morning is simmering over the fire. Can you smell it? After you’ve eaten, you can take a nap while I wash out your clothes and dry them before the fire.”
Watching Thorne perform feminine duties was an awe-inspiring sight. Vikings weren’t known for their domestic skills. Thorne was special in so many ways, she thought dimly, but that still didn’t alter the decision she had made. He’d have to earn her trust before she relented.
Thorne sat beside Fiona, watching her sleep. The numbness that had set in after he’d learned that Fiona had been sold was just beginning to wear off. She had suffered enormously because of Bretta’s jealousy and Rolo’s pride. He’d almost lost her. The loss of their child had been heartrending, but losing Fiona would have been the final blow. She’d be
shocked if she knew how desperately he needed her, how very much he …
Loved her.
Fiona insisted upon moving about the hut the next day. She was growing stronger but wasn’t strong enough yet to attempt a journey. Thorne began to fret when he noticed signs of a new storm gathering over the horizon. Fearing they might be snowed in for a while, he went out that day, trapped several rabbits and brought down a young buck.
Thorne knew that he and Fiona wouldn’t starve as long as he had his weapons, nor would they freeze to death with a roof over their heads and plenty of wood nearby for burning. He was grateful to the previous occupants of the hut for the iron pots, thankful for his weapons and for the various implements he’d had the foresight to carry with him. And for the bag of herbal remedies Fiona carried with her. Thorne had little doubt that her rapid recovery was due to the herbs she steeped in hot water and drank three times a day.
Fierce and relentless, the expected storm struck the following day. Wind howled and pellets of icy snow struck the sides of the hut with daunting force. There were times when Thorne feared they would be blown away. But they were surprisingly warm and cozy huddled together beside the blazing fire, wrapped in their fur cloaks. With enough food to last them for several days, Thorne felt strangely at peace. There was no one he’d rather be snowbound with than Fiona.
Fiona, on the other hand, was restless and melancholy. The loss of her child still filled her with grief and she felt as if she had been cast adrift. Even as Thorne’s captive, her life had had a purpose … making Thorne love her. She had begun to believe that she and Thorne belonged together. Then just when she’d found love, her whole world had fallen apart.
The storm dumped two feet of new snow on the countryside. Thorne stomped a path to the latrine so that Fiona could visit it without getting lost in a snowdrift. With little to do but wait out the storm, a tentative peace formed between them. It might be days, or weeks even, before they could continue their journey. And little by little, Fiona’s stamina was returning.
Thorne was able to go out hunting again and returned more often than not with enough fresh meat to keep them from going hungry. When Fiona spent too much time staring moodily into the hearth, brooding and grieving, Thorne did his best to distract her with tales of his adventures in Byzantium and other foreign countries.
