Storm Maiden (15 page)

Dag glanced toward the crowded dock. Several
dinghies were being launched to offload cargo from the ship and
transport it to shore. He could wait for a dinghy to take the woman
or wade in like the others. A quick look at the woman decided him.
She would not arrive in her new home like the haughty queen she
thought she was. Instead, he could carry her ashore like the
worthless baggage she had turned out to be!

Leaving his seat on the sea chest, he went
to the Irishwoman and gestured for her to gather up her things. She
apparently did not know what he meant, for she simply gaped at him.
Too impatient to wait, Dag grabbed her about the waist and half-
carried her to the side of the ship. He left her there, then with a
graceful vault, slid over the side into the water. Gritting his
teeth at the cold, he shouted up at the woman in the ship,
indicating that she should jump down to him. She stared at him,
looking stricken and making no move to obey.

All around him, men dropped into the water
and began to splash toward shore. Dag felt his armor absorb the
chill of the frigid water. Aggravation surged through him. Damn the
woman! He should have thrown her over first. If he had to climb
back into the ship and get her, he would make sure she swallowed
plenty of seawater before they got ashore!

He took a breath and once more looked up at
her, trying to force his voice to sound coaxing. He held up his
arms again. He intended to catch her and keep her from getting
soaked. Was she too stupid to see he meant to aid her?

He saw her eyes widen in startled awareness,
then a determined look crossed her features. She scrambled nimbly
up and perched on the edge of the ship’s timbers. Then, with a
beseeching look at him, she jumped. Dag deftly caught her about the
waist, then swung her over his shoulder.

He slogged the few paces through the
freezing water toward the dock, glad she was such a small woman.
The icy water sucked at his boots and trousers, reminding him that
he was back in the North, where the coastal waters never warmed.
Panting heavily, he reached the dock and flung his burden onto the
wet timbers. He climbed up after her, then paused a moment,
breathing hard.

“Uncle, what did you bring me?”

Dag looked up into the piercing blue eyes of
Gunnar, his eldest nephew.

“Greedy child,” he answered with a growl and
a feigned cuff at his nephew’s skinny shoulder. “Is that any way to
greet a wounded kinsman back from war?”

“You were wounded?” The boy’s eyes rounded
in awe.

“
Ja.”
Dag sat up and held out his
right arm. He had begun to use it normally and no longer needed to
keep it bandaged, but the scar was still an ugly, livid reminder of
the seriousness of the wound.

Gunnar sucked in his breath in wonder and
envy. “How many Irishmen did you kill?” he asked breathlessly.

Dag glanced toward his captive, lying in a
disheveled heap a few feet away. It was well she didn’t understand
the boy. He shook off the unwelcome stab of guilt and answered his
nephew. “It took ten men to take me down, and I’m certain at least
two of them suffered mortal wounds.”

The boy’s eyes widened even more, if that
were possible, and he sucked in his breath with a satisfied sound.
“You’ll tell us all about it, won’t you, Dag?” The boy glanced at
the slender, fine-featured woman who had come to stand beside him
and added hastily, “Tonight, around the feasting fire, of
course.”

Dag got to his feet and gave his
sister-by-marriage a careful hug. “Greetings, Mina. I see you have
your hands full with the boys these days. And another one on the
way.” He glanced down at her swelling belly. “By Thor’s Hammer, my
brother plants his seed well. For all that he is gone from home so
much, he keeps you busy birthing sons.”

“
Ja,”
Mina agreed matter-of-factly.
“For all that he is gone...” She shrugged.

Dag did not know how to respond to Mina’s
indifferent reply. He could not quite fathom his brother’s
marriage. Sigurd seemed content, and he and Mina didn’t appear to
argue much, but Dag wasn’t sure how things were between them. If he
had a wife, he would like her to act more fond of him.

He glanced quickly at the Irishwoman, who
had apparently shaken off her terror and gotten to her feet. She
stood watching the other people on the dock with a look of mingled
wariness and curiosity. What would she be like as a wife? he
wondered. She might be a shrew and a nag, but he didn’t think she
would ever be indifferent to him.

He dismissed the absurd musing and grasped
Mina’s arm. Although larger than the Irishwoman, his
sister-by-marriage still only came to his shoulder. Her small
features and skimpy, dark-gold braids gave her a youthful, almost
childlike appearance. Dag had to remind himself that at twenty-five
winters, she was as old as he. “I’ve brought you a slave,” he told
her as he guided her over to the captive. “She’s an Irish princess.
Too slight and well-bred for kitchen work, but I thought she could
help with the sewing and weaving.”

They paused before the Irishwoman. Mina
exhaled softly with what could have been either a sigh or a sound
of pleasure. “She is very beautiful,” she said, turning toward
him.

Dag shrugged. “I’m sure I could get a good
price for her at the Hedeby slave market.”

Mina’s voice was gentle. “Then, why don’t
you?”

Dag took a deep breath before answering.
“The truth is, I owe her my life. When I was scouting upriver
before we attacked, the Irish took me captive. My sword arm was
wounded badly. The woman cleaned it and stitched it, else I would
have died.”

“Why would she aid
you,
the
enemy?”

“I don’t know. Sigurd asked her, but she
wouldn’t say.” The familiar anger rose at the memory, sharpening
his voice. “It matters not why she did it, only that I am alive
because of her competence with healing herbs and fever brews.”

“She’s a wise woman?”

Dag shook his head. “I doubt she’s a trained
healer. She seems too young, and she hardly has the gentle nature
of a wise woman.” He jerked his head toward Sigurd, supervising the
unloading of the dinghies. “Ask your husband. He’ll tell you she’s
a fiery little wench, as likely to try and scratch out a man’s eyes
as to aid his wounds.”

Mina’s mouth twitched. “So, you want to give
her to me, to assist me in my sewing work.”

Faintly embarrassed, Dag pressed his lips
into a thin line, but was saved from responding by Sigurd’s
appearance. The big man blustered up, brushing packing straw from
his hands. He leaned embraced Mina briefly, then turned to Dag. “I
suppose you’re already pressing my wife to take charge of your
captive.”

Dag opened his mouth to argue.

“Mayhap we should wait to have this
discussion,” Mina said. She cast a glance in the Irishwoman’s
direction. “If I were ever made a slave, I would prefer not to have
my future debated in front of me as if I were naught but a pig or
cow.”

“She doesn’t know what we’re saying,” Dag
argued. “She speaks not a word of Norse.”

“Oh, she knows,” Mina said firmly. “While
she may not understand our words, ‘tis clear she is half-sick with
fear over what we will decide for her future.”

Dag looked at the Irishwoman and realized
Mina was right. The captive woman’s skin appeared as pale as
bleached linen, her slim form taut with tension. Her astonishing
green eyes reminded him of a cornered wildcat, regarding her
surroundings with frantic alarm. Reluctantly, Dag allowed himself
to feel pity for her.

“We should all go into the longhouse and
discuss this over a horn of ale,” he said. “You want me to help you
finish unloading, Sigurd?”

The big man shrugged. “We’ve done enough for
now.” He leaned down and hauled Ingolf up on one of his shoulders.
When Gunnar clamored for a turn, Sigurd lifted his elder son with
his free hand and helped him find a perch on the other side. Thus
laden, he started toward the longhouse. Mina trailed after him.

Dag waited, uncertain what to do about the
Irishwoman. He was frankly sick of carrying her around like a sack
of grain, but he wasn’t certain she would come otherwise. He jerked
his head toward the path to the steading, indicating she should
follow him. Her eyes flared with a rebellious look, then she broke
her rigid stance and approached him. Dag turned and started down
the path, mentally urging the woman to follow him so he wouldn’t
have drag her. The soft sound of her footfalls on the dirt pathway
reassured him that she came.

Fiona followed the Viking, apprehension
weighing down her every step. What was to become of her? It was
clear the Viking and his brother could not agree. She was not
certain which man’s judgment she feared the most. Sigurd appeared
cold and unfeeling toward her, but not necessarily unreasonable,
while Dag’s attitude ran hot and cold from one moment to the
next.

And now there was another person involved.
Fiona frowned, trying to gauge the Viking woman’s reaction. She
appeared to be someone of wealth and substance. The two young boys
favored her, suggesting she was Sigurd’s wife, although his manner
toward her had not been overly affectionate. Some marriages were
like that, Fiona knew. If she had wed Sivney, certainly she would
never have been able to manage a show of fondness toward him in
front of others.

Beyond a low turf wall, a complex of timber
buildings loomed ahead of them. She raised her eyes toward the
soaring, darkly forested hills beyond the settlement and a new wave
of homesickness crept over her. Such a harsh, lonely place to live.
For all that it was summertime and the valley green and lush with
plantlife, the place seemed cold and unfriendly. She could already
imagine the wind sweeping fiercely down from the north, the ridges
of the valley frosted with glittering snow. There was none of the
softness of the Irish landscape, the gentle mists moving in and out
among the rolling hills and gnarled, ancient forests.

Recalling the violent, warlike gods she had
heard the Northmen worshiped, Fiona shuddered. She didn’t belong in
this place, but she must adapt if she were to have any hope of
returning to Eire. Quickening her pace, she hurried after the
bronze-haired Viking. For all the turmoil he had brought her, his
presence was somehow familiar and reassuring.

As if sensing her anxiety, Dag turned and
looked back at her. Fiona steeled her expression to coldness once
more. He scowled back at her, and her insides twisted. She should
hate him, but more often than not, she could not manage it. Mayhap
it would be better if he did sell her to another warrior, one she
could despise unreservedly.

The Viking stopped and waited for her. Fiona
hesitated then walked to where he stood. When she reached him, he
took her arm. His fingers were warm on her flesh as he led her
along. Fiona repressed the urge to jerk away from his grasp. She
reminded herself that she must try to appear docile. She was a
slave now, and disobedient slaves were treated poorly by all
masters.

They reached a very large timber building
built in the shape of an overturned ship. At the Viking’s urging,
Fiona entered through the carved doorway. She froze on the
threshold. The entire chamber was filled with Vikings. They all
talked at once, and the cavernous dwelling echoed with the din of
their harsh- sounding language. Dag gave Fiona a gentle push, and
she half-stumbled into the room.

A few people turned to look, but most
ignored her. Fiona saw numerous women among the brawny warriors, as
well as many light-haired children. The children were appealing, at
least. Their fair hair and rosy cheeks made them seem angelic. The
warriors didn’t seem immune to the children’s charm either. Like
Sigurd, they allowed their offspring to climb all over them and
examine the loot they had brought home.

One small boy with a dirt smudge on his
cheek clutched a heavy bronze dagger in both hands and threatened a
massive warrior with the weapon. The Viking laughed and leaned down
to adjust the boy’s hold. Fiona swayed slightly, feeling sick. She
recognized the dagger by its gaudy red-and-gold enameled hilt. It
was Etain’s. For all she knew, it was still stained with her
cousin’s blood.

She shook her head, trying to regain her
composure. The Vikings played with their children and hugged their
wives just like normal men. How, then, could they be such beasts,
such bloodthirsty, evil demons to the peoples they preyed upon? She
glanced at Dag. He watched her impassively. When she swayed again,
he led her over to the hearth in the center of the room and helped
her sit down on one of the benches arranged around the fire.

Fiona took a seat gladly, feeling that her
legs might collapse at any moment. She sat quietly for a moment,
then turned at the sound of a voice next to her. A girl with
startling curly red hair held out a beaker of ale. A wave of aching
longing swept over Fiona as she accepted the beaker. The serving
girl reminded her painfully of Duvessa.

The red-haired girl returned her gaze. Fiona
noticed that she wore a rough, brown kirtle and a plain strip of
leather held her chopped-off hair in place. Her humble attire
suggested she was a person of low status, probably a slave. Fiona
felt encouraged by the thought. This girl might also have been
stolen from her homeland and brought here to serve the hateful
Vikings. With that vivid hair, it was even possible she was
Irish.

Fiona glanced around for Sigurd, then spoke
clearly in her own tongue. “Good day, lass,” she said. The girl’s
blue eyes widened slightly, then the look of awareness faded. After
giving Fiona another careful glance, she hurried away.

Fiona stared after her, puzzled. Did she
recognize the sound of the Celtic tongue, but not understand it?
She might be a Pict or Cymru from Albion. For that matter, the
woman could have been abducted from any of hundreds of isolated
islands scattered along the Viking route between Eire and the
Northlands. They had all been settled by peoples who spoke
languages slightly different from Irish.