“Mistress! I have news!”
Fiona sprang up again as Aeddan came flying into the room. The youth paused to compose himself, then bowed faintly to Fiona. She winced inwardly. Try as she might, she could not convince Aeddan that she was a thrall like him and deserving of no special consideration. He persisted in calling her “mistress” and observing absurdly respectful behavior in her presence.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Utgard has returned.”
“With Dag?”
The boy shook his head. Fiona bowed her head and turned away.
“Tell us.” Breaca demanded. She grabbed the boy’s arm. “Did Dag refuse to come?”
“Nei, Dag was not there. He had gone somewhere with Skirnir’s sons.”
Fiona turned slowly around. “Did Skirnir say where?”
The boy looked sheepish. “I did not hear. After Sigurd received the news, he walked away, angry. Utgard was busy with his ale, and I could not ask him the rest of it.”
“I’m finished,” Fiona whispered. “Even now, Sigurd plans my execution.”
“Nay!” both Breaca and Aeddan cried.
“Ja,” a rumbling voice responded.
Fiona raised her gaze to the huge man blocking the doorway.
“I’ve chosen a fitting punishment for a woman who does not know her place,” Sigurd said. “I’m sending you with the old jarl—as his slave and concubine in the otherworld.”
Breaca gasped. Fiona’s throat closed up.
Sigurd continued his pronouncement, “ ‘Tis customary to send a great jarl to the otherworld with an accompaniment of his wealth—fine clothes stuffs, utensils, armaments, and jewels. The fire has stolen much of the riches of our steading, but I would not have Knorri go on his journey without gifts appropriate to his standing. We will send him on his proud ship, accompanied by a woman to tend to his needs. You will be the woman, Fiona. The jarl desired you in this life; now he will find satisfaction with you in the realm of the dead.”
Her thoughts disordered by shock, Fiona wanted to laugh hysterically at the irony of Sigurd’s decree. She had once feared that Knorri would make her his concubine. Now she was to be bound to the ancient Viking in death; the bed they shared would be a funeral pyre.
“You cannot do this!” Breaca stared up at Sigurd, her blue eyes wild. “You cannot kill Fiona! She has done nothing to deserve death!”
Sigurd regarded the young thrall with narrowed eyes. “You forget yourself wench, to speak to me so. I am jarl now. I can do anything I wish. As for the fairness of my pronouncement—” He swung his gaze to Fiona. “—’tis considered an honor for a young woman to serve a great warrior in death. I honor you, Fiona of the Deasunachta.”
A muscle twitched in Sigurd’s jaw. Fiona wondered briefly if he mocked her. But if Sigurd were amused by the cleverness of his vengeance, he hid it well. His eyes were grim and bitter.
Fiona took a deep breath. She must argue for her life, and she had only one weapon to use. Although she had feared to bring up Dag before this, now she had nothing to lose.
“And what will your brother say?” she asked boldly. “Do you not fear to lose your brother’s regard altogether if you murder me?”
The muscle in Sigurd’s lower cheek jumped again. “He might be grieved at first, but in the end, he will thank me. I do him a favor by disposing of you in such an appropriate fashion.”
“Nei,” Fiona protested. “Dag loves me! He will be sorrowed by my death.”
Sigurd shook his head. “He will come to his senses and remember who he is. A Norseman—a proud, valiant warrior who would never lose his heart to a woman of foreign blood.”
Fiona felt numb. She forced herself to meet Sigurd’s cold eyes. “Your brother does not plan to attend his uncle’s funeral?”
“The messenger could not reach him.” Sigurd’s voice was taut. Fiona knew better than to think he lied merely in order to torture her. She accepted the truth. Dag could not be found. He would not return in time to save her.
Sigurd nodded to her curtly, then left the dwelling. After a moment, Fiona went to the doorway. Pushing the hide covering aside, she came face-to-face with a stony-faced Viking named Kalf. “Get back inside,” he ordered in gruff Norse. “Sigurd says you are not to leave this dwelling until the day the old jarl is sent on his journey to the otherworld.”
Fiona retreated inside the building, trembling. Breaca took her arm, leading her to a stool by the hearth. “We’ll think of something,” Breaca reassured her. “Dag will get the message and come and save you, I know it.”
Fiona shook her head. “The messenger came back without delivering his message, and Sigurd will not send another. By the time Dag returns, there will be naught left of me but ashes.”
Breaca began to weep.
Chapter 29
“For now, the jarl’s body lies in a temporary grave, with food and drink and his weapons beside him,” Breaca said. “When the funeral pyre is ready, they will dress him in what finery they can devise—since the fire destroyed so much—and place him in a tent on the ship.”
“And me?” Fiona asked. “What will they do with me?”
Breaca’s mouth quivered as she answered. “You will be taken to the ship and placed in the tent with Knorri’s corpse. There will be feasting and celebration. The warriors will toast Knorri’s memory and the skald will tell tales of his bravery.” Another tremor passed over her face, then she continued. “Before the actual cremation takes place, the closest of Knorri’s oathmen will come and lie with you.”
“Lie with me? You mean...”
Breaca nodded stiffly. “To honor Knorri. After he lies with you, each man will ask you to convey his regards to the dead jarl. ‘Tell your master that I do this only for love of him,’ they will say.” Seeing Fiona’s appalled look, she added, “By this time, you will have been drugged by the wise woman; you will not even know what is happening. They say there is no pain; that you will feel peace and even happiness.”
“The wise woman—who is she?” Fiona demanded. She must focus on the facts; that was why she had asked Breaca to tell her exactly what Sigurd planned. If she knew every detail of the Viking funeral rites, she could discover some route of escape.
“Sigurd has sent for the old wise woman from Ottar’s steading. For the funeral, she will play the role of the ‘Angel of Death.’ “ Breaca grimaced. “ ‘Tis she who will oversee your execution.”
“You mean I am to be killed before the fire is lit?”
Breaca nodded. “A cord will be tied around your neck, and you will be strangled and stabbed to death at the same time.”
Despite her resolve to be calm and dispassionate, Fiona shuddered. The worshippers of the old gods of Eire had once performed similar sacrifices, but most of her countrymen were Christian now. The Viking funeral rite seemed barbaric in the extreme. What horrified her the most was the thought of coupling with Knorri’s warriors. In her worst nightmares she had imagined being raped repeatedly by Vikings; now, if Sigurd had his way, such a fate would be hers.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Fiona gazed desperately at the doorway. How was she to escape? The entrance to the slave dwelling was guarded day and night, and she would scarcely have any more freedom once she was placed on the ship. She would be in the care of this wise woman, this “Angel of Death.” The horrible creature would surely guard her prey carefully.
Fiona shivered again. She could only hope that the drug the woman gave her banished her awareness of what was happening. If she were not able to comprehend what they did to her, it would not be so bad. Nay, it would be worse. To go helplessly, meekly, to her death—it was a shameful thing. Better to end her life herself and cheat the Vikings of their ugly, evil plans. Fiona glanced around the small building again, searching for a knife or other weapon.
Breaca saw Fiona’s questing glance, and immediately guessed her goal. “Nay, Fiona,” she said quietly. “They left no weapons for you to use against yourself or them.”
The young woman shook her head, sympathetic tears blurring her eyes. “I will try to find some poison for you, if you wish it. I know Mina would help, but her store of herbs is gone.”
“Mina!” Fiona looked up, surprised out of her blind terror. “You think Mina would help me?”
“Aye, I do,” Breaca answered, moving close to Fiona so that she might whisper. “Mina thinks what Sigurd plans is wrong. She argued with him to spare your life, to forget his murderous scheme for burning you with Knorri.”
“And?”
“He would not listen. Sigurd has made up his mind, and he sees it as a sign of weakness to back down. He will not heed the advice of anyone, even his wife.”
“Do you think Mina would contrive to help me escape?”
Breaca shook her head. “As much as she disapproves of Sigurd’s plans, she would not defy him openly. Nay, the most we could hope for is that she might secure some poison from one of the other women so you could end your life ere Sigurd puts his wicked plan in motion.”
Poison. Fiona wrinkled her brow in thought. Would it be more noble to seek her end that way? In the past, she had considered choosing death a coward’s decision; now, she was not certain. Why should she endure the degradation and pain Sigurd had planned for her if she had the means to avoid it? The image of Brodir coming to rape her flashed into her mind, and Fiona decided quickly.
She took Breaca’s arm. “Ask Mina,” she whispered. “Ask her if she would do this for me.”
Breaca nodded and left the slaves’ dwelling. Fiona sighed and sat by the fire. An image came to her, taking shape among the flickering flames—Dag’s proud, handsome face, his blue eyes glowing with passion, his wavy hair a wild nimbus around his features, his body strong and hard. Fiona’s soul reached out for the compelling vision, drawing it into her heart. She would think of Dag when she took the poison. She would send him her spirit as she died. In death she would be joined with him, even if they had failed to join their spirits in life.
A sob broke from her throat. She was not ready to die! She had not said goodbye to Dag nor had the chance to tell him how much she loved him. She had not borne him a child of her womb. How could she leave him now, with so much left unfinished between them?
She choked back another moan of grief and stood up and began to pace. There must be some way out of this trap, some means of escape she could not see. Mayhap the wise woman could be bribed. At the thought, Fiona paused in her restlessness. Breaca had said that Rorig had returned with treasure, enough hacksilver to buy her freedom and more. Would Breaca consider asking her lover for a portion of his wealth, enough to tempt the wise woman? Fiona exhaled in relief. It was a clumsy plan, but a plan nonetheless. While there was breath in her body, she would not yield. She would fight for her life until the cincture closed around her throat and her vision went black.
“Fiona would be very distressed to learn of your plan,” Breaca said.
“Do not tell her,” Aeddan responded. “If Sorli knows of it and promises not to speak, what have I to fear?”
“But you are a thrall—thralls do not carry messages to other steadings. You don’t even know the way to Skirnir’s holding.”
“I cajoled directions from Gudrod; he’s been there once. Besides, I am taking Brudhol; the horse will find Dag.”
“That’s absurd. A dog might be able to trail its master, but a horse, never. They are naught but stupid beasts.”
“Do not speak ill of Brudhol!” the boy responded angrily. “She is a fine animal with a stout heart and willing spirit.”
Breaca shook her head in consternation. Aeddan meant to go after Dag, to make one last attempt to save Fiona. A reckless, foolish plan, but how could she fail to help? If there were anyone who could turn Sigurd from his horrifying scheme, it would be Dag. If only Aeddan could find him in time...
She drew breath sharply. “If you insist on going, I will find you some provisions. And you’d best take grain for the horse; this time of year there is not much fodder.”
“Would you speak to her? Please?” Fiona stopped her pacing and gestured beseechingly to Breaca.
Breaca gave a mournful shake of her head. “It won’t work, Fiona. Even if I offered the wise woman gold, she would not free you. Creatures like her...” She hesitated. “She enjoys her role as Angel of Death. One of her assistants told me that she goes into an ecstatic trance as she wields the dagger. She loves to see blood shed.”
“But you will approach her?” Fiona insisted. “You will at least try?”
Breaca sighed. “Of course. Rorig has agreed to give me part of his treasure for the bribe. I will do what I can.”
Fiona started to pace, but Breaca grabbed her arm and drew her near. She cast a swift, surreptitious glance at the doorway, then fumbled beneath her cloak. With her back turned to the two thralls who sat spinning in the other end of the room, Breaca held out a small packet. “The poison,” she whispered. “If nothing else works, there is always this. Mina says it takes some time to take effect. Don’t wait too long to put it to use.”
“How will I ingest it?” Fiona whispered.
“Ask for ale when Sigurd orders you put on the boat. As soon as you receive the drink, pour the poison into the ale and swallow it down.”
Fiona nodded and reached for the packet. Breaca shook her head. “You will be stripped and bathed ere you are placed in your ceremonial funeral garments, and the poison would surely be discovered. Mina will sew it in a flap at the entrance of the tent. I merely wanted you to know what it looks like so you can find it more easily when you search for it.”
Fiona pulled her shaking hand away. “When will they come for me?” she asked.
“Sigurd has decreed that the funeral rites will take place at sunset on the morrow.”
Although it was difficult to ascertain the time of day from within the slaves’ dwelling, Fiona guessed it to be near sunset now. One journey of the sun across the sky, and her doom would be upon her. Dread, heavy and thick, closed over her. If only she could breath fresh air once again and feel the breeze in her hair. If only she could see the green hills of Eire one more time.
She choked back a sob. Her rebellious nature had brought her to this pass. She had sought to please herself and ended up destroying all. Now she was to end her life in a foreign, barbaric land, her disgrace complete. Desperately, she thought of Siob- han. Her aunt was said to have the gift of sight. Why had she not warned Fiona of her woeful fate? Siobhan had encouraged her to aid the Viking prisoner. Had her aunt’s hatred of Donall compelled her to urge Fiona on this destructive path?
“If you cannot sleep, Mina has given me something for that as well,” Breaca said gently.
Fiona shook her head. She had little enough time in this world; she would not waste it in sleep. “Do you think, if I asked him, Sigurd would allow me a boon before I die?”
Breaca gestured uncertainly. “I know not. Mayhap. It would depend upon what your request is.”
“I would like to climb the the hill behind the steading and watch the sun rise one last time,” Fiona answered. “Sigurd can send a dozen men to guard me if he wishes.”
Breaca nodded. “I will ask him.”
Again, Fiona paced the narrow dwelling; impatience swept over her. If Sigurd waited too long, she would not get her wish. Already the other thralls rose from their beds and prepared to begin their work. Sunrise came late in the month of the Blood Moon, but it could not be much longer.
“Fiona.” Sorli appeared in doorway and nodded solemnly. Fiona hastened to pull her heavy tunic over her head and put on the fur boots, then followed the slavemaster outside. She paused to take a deep gulp of fresh air before hurrying after Sorli. Already, the darkness thinned in the east. If she meant to observe the sunrise, they did not have much time.
Sorli set a brisk pace along the pathways of the steading. Fiona half ran to keep up, her nerves dancing with excitement.
Pulling beside the man, she said, “I can scarce believe Sigurd sent onl
y you as my guard. Does he not fear I might run away?”
“I have given him my word that I will return you to the steading ere the sun reaches midpoint in the sky. I trust that you will not force me to break my vow.”
Fiona took a deep breath. Sorli had been nothing but kind to her; she would not compromise his honor in a futile attempt at escape.
They were past the turf wall of the steading now and climbing upwards. Sorli’s pace slowed, and Fiona guessed that his old, battle-scarred legs pained him. She slowed as well, no longer in a hurry. She meant to savor every moment of these last hours of freedom. To memorize the feel of the cold, moisture-laden air upon her skin, the crunch of the half-frozen ground beneath their boots, the smell of the sea wind blowing in over the valley. This place was not Eire, but there was beauty here as well, a harsh, dazzling loveliness. Fiona could imagine the valley swathed in glittering snow, ice crystals winking in the sun. And she had memories of the landscape green and gold and lush with the bounty of summer and a sky overhead so blue that it nearly hurt the eyes.
This wild land of the North had its own enchantment, its own ancient gods. They were deities of the sky, of thunder and lightning, of stone and oak and things unyielding and powerful. And the men of this place were equally fierce and stalwart, men like Dag.
Fiona felt the memories assault her mind. She remembered Dag as she had first seen him—wounded, bloodied, weak, but so unearthly handsome and well-made it seemed a crime against the gods to let him perish. He had looked at her with those stunningly blue, fever-glazed eyes and something inside her had answered. Such a man would sire valiant sons and proud daughters, her woman’s instinct spoke. He is for you, the gods whispered. Save him, heal his wounds... love him.
Fiona shuddered. She and Sorli had reached a little ridge above the steading. They turned toward the east. The sky brightened expectantly, but she watched unseeing. Her mind was filled with dreams and memories more real than the sunrise.
She blinked, forcing herself back to the moment, to reality. Her last sunrise. Her last hours in the world of the living. She watched ribbons of lush pink and mauve unfurl across the sky. Then, suddenly, the vision altered. The rugged Norse landscape vanished, and she stared instead at the sun rising over one of the green hills of her homeland. A man stood on the crest of the hill, his hair long and gleaming gold, his stance strong and proud. Fiona gasped as she recognized Dag. She felt his spirit reach out to her, drawing her toward him. The bounds which connected her to the earth unraveled. She was free, her soul released from the constraints of her flesh....
Storm Maiden Page 31
