Storm Maiden (52 page)

The next time he woke, Fiona was there,
sitting on a stool beside the fire, stirring something in a wooden
vessel. He said nothing, only watched her. Her hair was unplaited
and disheveled, her face pale. She was dressed in a simple,
unadorned kirtle. But that scarcely diminished her beauty. She
looked as he remembered her, wild and haughty. A warrior-woman—his
storm maiden.

She looked up and met his gaze. Unfathomable
green eyes stole his soul even as memory rushed back.

“Dag!”

Her hand felt cool against his skin. Her
lips touched his tenderly. He kissed her back, his eyes fluttering
closed with the effort. The pain and fear vanished. She would heal
him.

He reached out to feel the softness of her
flesh and sighed with contentment.

Epilogue

Fiona gathered up her skirts and ran. She
could not be late, not on this day of all days—Beltaine, the
ancient celebration of summer.

Surely they would not begin without her, she
reassured herself as her hide sandals squished in the wet grass.
Expectation welled up in her, making her half-dizzy with buoyant
happiness. Ducking into her aunt’s hut, she dug hurriedly in the
leather- bound chest in the corner. Triumphantly, she lifted up her
treasure. She gazed at it a moment, then whirled and left the
hut.

The forest was heady with warm mist and the
sweet scent of flowers. But Fiona didn’tt pause to savor the
sunshine gleaming through foliage, to remark upon the extraordinary
fairness of the day. Her thoughts were fixed on another image, one
more beautiful to her than any other.

Leaving the woods, she raced up the grassy
slope to the freshly-hewn walls of the palisade.

Duvessa met her at the gateway. “Where have
you been? Siobhan has been searching everywhere for you,” she
scolded.

Fiona didn’t answer, only smiled and fell in
step beside her friend as they walked to the center of the
palisade. Under a canopy of leather, three long, board tables and
benches were arranged. There was no great hall, not yet. Dag had
insisted that rebuilding the fort walls was more important than the
hall. If they had to, they could sleep another winter in their
temporary shelters.

Fiona slowed her pace as she remembered the
exquisite kirtle she wore and decided she should have a care for
it. Fashioned of green silk and embroidered with gold thread, the
kirtle was the finest garment she had ever worn. Dag had brought
the fabric back from Hedeby after his early spring trading voyage,
and Duvessa and Breaca had wasted no time in using the fabulous
material to make her a gown fit for a princess.

Fiona smiled, thinking of the hot gleam in
Dag’s eyes when he had first beheld her in the garment. “In truth,
you look like a fairy queen,” he had said, his breath catching. “I
vow, the only time I have ever seen you look more beautiful is when
you are naked.”

Could a man be beautiful, too? Fiona
wondered as she approached the feasting table. Surely, in her eyes,
Dag was the most glorious sight she had ever seen. Standing behind
the head table, he wore a short tunic of snowy linen banded with
saffron and crimson silk. Fitted in the Irish fashion, the garment
bared his powerful neck and muscular arms. With his long,
reddish-gold hair, coppery mustache, and ruddy skin, he glowed like
a sun god.

She wanted to go to him, to pull his face
down to hers and drown in his fiery kiss. But this was a day for
ceremony and formality. Around them, dozens watched—her kinsmen and
his oathmen—all resplendent in their finest tunics and kirtles, the
women’s hair neatly plaited, the men’s beards and mustaches
combed.

This day would seal forever the bond between
Irish and Norse. It had been a long time coming. Dag hadn’t fully
recovered from his wound until almost the Yule season. Then they
had been busy, so busy, making tools, rebuilding storehouses and
shops, rounding up cattle and horses which had strayed since the
fire, hunting and fishing to supplement their meager food supply.
When the first shoots of new green appeared on the hillsides, they
had all worked—man and woman, Norse and Irish—side by side,
planting in the fields.

They had scarcely finished the planting when
Dag had said it was time for a trading voyage. Although they had
little produce to barter with, Dag still had a cache of hacksilver
and other booty—his share of the fortune Knorri had saved from the
fire. Fiona had also been able to contribute. In their haste, the
Vikings had missed a fair share of her father’s wealth, and after
the fires were spent, Siobhan and the other women had scavaged
among the ashes and discovered metalwork and jewelry which had not
burned and a whole wicker casket of glassware, silks, and other
luxury items.

Although Fiona had wept to see him go, Dag
had insisted that trading was different from raiding. They would
take no risks, keep to the safest sea route, and be back within a
fortnight. He had kept his word, and Fiona had welcomed him back
with a passion she hoped would entice him to remain forever at her
side. Of course, she knew that the sea and travelling was in his
blood, just as the land was in hers. And one of Dag’s greatest
skills was his ability as a trader. He was able to drive a hard
bargain and win men’s goodwill simultaneously. In time, he hoped
that word would spread and Dunsheauna would become an important
trading center.

Looking at her proud, regal husband, Fiona
did not doubt that he could accomplish anything he wished. They had
been wed as soon as he was recovered enough from his wound to
stand, both in a traditional Norse ceremony and then by a Christian
priest who happened to pass by in early spring. Siobhan had
protested the Christian ceremony, but Fiona felt better afterwards.
She wanted her bond to this man to be recognized by every
god—Norse, ancient Irish, and the Christ God as well. Her instincts
told her that Siobhan’s prejudice against the Christian priests was
as limiting as Dermot’s implacable hatred of the Norse.

Thinking of her foster brother, Fiona tore
her eyes from Dag and looked around the gathering. Many of the
widowed Irish women had found companionship with Dag’s oathmen.
Fiona did not doubt that during the next full turn of the seasons
there would be a whole crop of Norse-Irish babies born at
Dunsheauna. Such a thing would have horrified Dermot.

Poor Dermot, Fiona thought sadly. He hadn’t
lived long enough to learn the truth. Between a man and a woman,
blood and traditions didn’t matter as much as that their spirits
touched. Why, there was Rorig, a broad smile on his face as he
looked down at Breaca and their auburn-haired babe. And farther
down the table, Ellisil bent his silvery head to whisper to Duvessa
and make her laugh. Who was to say that they should not be together
because their peoples had once been enemies?

Realizing that everyone waited, Fiona again
sought Dag, and she walked to take her place beside him. He smiled
at her, his blue eyes soft and melting, then cleared his throat to
speak to those assembled. Fiona stopped him with her hand on his
arm. “Wait, Dag,” she whispered. “I forgot something.”

She took an object from the folds of her
kirtle, then stood on tiptoe to place it around Dag’s neck. An
excited whisper passed through the crowd as the sun caught the gold
of the massive torc encircling Dag’s neck.

“ ‘Twas my father’s,” Fiona told Dag shyly.
“Now you truly look an Irish chieftain.”

As if expressing his approval, Tully sat
back on his haunches at Dag’s feet and began to bark.

The sun shone bright on the timber-ringed
fort perched upon the vivid green hillside, and the sound of
laughter floated into the moist, enchanted air.

The End

I am fascinated by history, as well as
Celtic myth and legend. These interests inspire and enrich most of
my books, both historical romance and historical fantasy. Raised in
the Midwest, I currently live in Wyoming with my husband, four cats
and a dog. Besides writing and working (I'm employed in a public
library) I enjoy gardening, travel and reading, of course!

For more about my books and me, visit my
website
www.marygillgannon.com
.