Viking (16 page)

“I did not lie to you,” Fiona said wearily. “I used my knowledge of herbs to keep Rolo from bedding me.”

Bretta’s laughter was harsh and grating. “I can well imagine my brother’s rage when his manhood failed. He’s not one to be denied. I’ve known him to take three different women in one night.”

“I pity them,” Fiona muttered beneath her breath.

“Aye, I agree. Rolo is not an easy man to please. None of his mistresses remain long with him, and the slave women all fear his heavy hand. Little Rika doesn’t know how lucky she is to be rid of him.”

Rolo, his instructions completed, turned back to them. With a stroke of his knife he freed Rika’s arms and legs. “Gather your things, Rika. You’ll leave within the hour with your escort. As for you, Fiona,” he said, giving her the full benefit of his harsh glare, “your life will depend upon my prowess in bed tonight. If all goes well when I bed one of the slave women, your life will be spared. I pity the potentate who buys you to warm his bed. I fear he will get more than he bargained for.”

Having given his final word on the subject, Rolo returned to his bedchamber. Bretta flashed Fiona a triumphant smile, then flounced off.

“I can’t leave you like this,” Rika said, reluctant to abandon the woman who had saved her from a terrible fate.

“You must go,” Fiona replied, “else all we did was for naught. Go home to your father. Tell him that you divorced Rolo because he was a brutal husband. If your father loves you, he will understand.”

Her gaze wandered somewhere past Rika’s shoulder. Her eyes glazed over. “There is another man in your future. I cannot see his face but I know he will love you and you will love him. One day your new husband and your father will join forces and recover your dowry. Rolo will receive just punishment for his acts of brutality.” The vision disappeared as suddenly as it had begun, and Fiona shook her head to clear it.

“You can see all that?” Rika asked, awed by Fiona’s psychic ability. “What about
your
future? What will become of you and your child?”

Fiona shook her head. Her own future was less clear to her. She sensed danger and sadness but little else. “I don’t know. I once thought Thorne was my future but now I’m not so sure. Thorne doesn’t want me, Rika. He cares not what happens to me. Somehow I will find a way to return to my home on Man.”

“May the gods protect you,” Rika said as she placed her hand on Fiona’s shoulder. “If ever I cross
paths with Thorne, I will tell him exactly what I think of the way he has treated you.”

Just hearing Thorne’s name brought unbearable pain to Fiona’s broken heart. Her people feared and hated Vikings for their brutality, but for a short time she had believed Thorne was the exception. To her misfortune she had learned that Thorne was as cruel and heartless and vicious as any Viking she had ever seen or heard about. He couldn’t have been more brutal had he shoved a blade through her heart and twisted.

An hour later, swathed in warm furs and boots, Rika was escorted from Rolo’s homestead. By nightfall, Roar the Trader had arrived, accompanied by three warriors who acted as bodyguards. Roar looked Fiona and Tyra over, grunted his approval and went off with Rolo and Bretta to haggle over price.

“What’s going to happen to us?” Tyra asked fearfully. She no longer feared slavery, if that was to be her lot in life. It was the unknown she dreaded. And the thought of never seeing Aren again.

“I wish I knew.” Fiona sighed. “We’ll think of something. Ships can’t travel in winter, so the trader will have to keep us somewhere nearby. Perhaps we can escape and seek shelter with Rika’s father. She told me how to reach her home.”

“Perhaps,” Tyra said with little enthusiasm. Fiona knew she was thinking of Aren and the possibility that she might never see him again.

After negotiations for the two women were concluded,
Roar was invited to spend the night in the hall. Rolo looked over the women slaves in his household, grabbed a pretty one named Mista and dragged her into his bedchamber immediately after the evening meal. Fiona and Tyra were untied and allowed to eat and visit the lavatory before being trussed up for the night.

Fiona spent an uncomfortable night stretched out on the bench without benefit of blanket or warm robe. Nothing made sense to her. It wasn’t like Thorne to let others take responsibility for his decisions. Had he wanted to be rid of her he would have done so himself, or so Fiona assumed. How could Brann’s prophesy be fulfilled if Thorne cast both her and their unborn child aside without a thought for their well-being? When sleep finally came, nothing was settled in Fiona’s mind.

Early the following morning Rolo charged out of his bedchamber grinning from ear to ear. Apparently his manhood had been restored and he had rutted the entire night. He strode directly to Fiona and shook her awake.

“I won’t have to kill you, after all, witch,” he said, puffing out his chest with masculine pride. “My vigor has been restored, and I am satisfied. After you are gone I will have naught to fear again. Thorne was wise to send you away. He is better off without you.”

Fiona closed her eyes, the bitter betrayal of Thorne’s abandonment cutting through her like a thousand sharp knives. She squared her shoulders
and vowed to rise above the crushing defeat of Thorne’s cruel dismissal. She had more pressing problems right now, including finding a way to save herself and her child from slavery in Byzantium.

Roar the Trader was ready to leave after he had broken his fast. Fiona had few belongings besides her medicine chest, and Tyra had even less. A heavy fur cloak and thick, fur-lined leather shoes were welcome additions to their wardrobe. The heavy clothing had been provided by Roar, who strove to keep his slaves healthy for greater profit.

The day was as cold and bleak as Fiona’s heart when they left Rolo’s homestead. Though the village was but a short distance away, the trip could have been arduous had there been wind and heavy snow to contend with. Between them, Fiona and Tyra shared the weight of the medicine chest. As Fiona trudged across the frozen tundra, she recalled Bretta’s parting words. They were meant to be hurtful and had succeeded only too well.

“Do not worry about Thorne, Fiona,” Bretta had said in a cutting aside. “I will do my utmost to make him happy. He was always meant to be mine. Soon he will forget you ever existed.”

“Are you all right, Fiona?” Tyra asked as Fiona stumbled and then caught herself before she fell.

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

“This isn’t like Thorne, Fiona. I’m not convinced he is aware of what is happening to us.”

Fiona shrugged wearily. “Convinced or not, it makes little difference. Even if Thorne didn’t ask
Rolo to get rid of us, by the time he learns what has happened it will be too late. Besides, I’m not sure he cares enough about me to want to find me.”

“Save your strength for walking,” Roar warned as he prodded them forward. “ ’Tis threatening to snow and I don’t want to be caught out in it.”

Though he saw that the medicine chest was heavy, and that the two women struggled with it, he did not offer assistance. Late that afternoon they arrived at Roar’s homestead located just beyond the ridge that circled the village. Fiona was so cold her feet felt like blocks of ice and her flesh was chilled beneath the fur cloak.

The blast of heat from the open door felt wonderfully welcome as Fiona and Tyra stumbled inside. A tall, thin woman of middle years met them at the door.

“Welcome, master,” she said, ushering them inside.

“The heat feels good, Morag,” Roar said, shaking the snow from his cloak. “This is Fiona and Tyra, two new thralls bound for Byzantium. I want them kept healthy enough to withstand the journey. Fiona is increasing. I was fortunate enough to get mother and child for the price of one. The child will bring a good price if it’s born healthy.”

Fiona gasped and hugged her stomach. “No one is going to take my child from me.”

Roar regarded her coolly. “You have no choice, slave. Go with Morag. She has prepared a chamber for you and Tyra. If you resist, I will beat you. I am skilled in plying the whip without causing lasting
scars.” His threat hung in the air like heavy smoke as he walked away to join his men at the ale barrel.

When Fiona would have challenged his authority, Morag touched her arm and said, “Do not argue, lady. I felt the bite of the lash many times before I learned to accept my lot. ’Tis not pleasant. Follow me. ’Twill not be so bad, you’ll see. Byzantium can’t be half as bad as suffering Roar’s heavy hand.”

Fiona saw the wisdom of her words and followed her meekly through the hall to the bedchamber she and Tyra were to share. “Does Roar travel to Byzantium often?” Fiona asked.

“Aye, each summer he carries new slaves he has purchased throughout the fall and winter. He recently took Christian priests all the way to Baghdad. Roar is a very rich man. He eats from gold plates and adorns his walls with priceless tapestries.”

Morag opened the door to a small chamber and motioned them inside. “I’ll bring food later. Warm yourselves. Few houses can boast of a hearth in the bedchamber, but Roar is very careful of his female slaves. Male slaves are kept in a compound, but the women are housed in luxury. You’ll not be starved or beaten here, unless you do something foolish. Roar does not tolerate disobedience.”

Tyra said something to Fiona in Gaelic. Morag’s thin face lit up as Fiona answered in the same language. “You speak Gaelic,” she said with a hint of surprise. “Are you both from Ireland?”

“I am,” Tyra said. “Fiona is from the Isle of Man. Did you understand what we said?”

Morag’s expression grew wistful. “Aye, I understood, though it has been many years since I’ve heard or spoken my native tongue. I come from Ireland. I was taken in one of the first Viking raids upon our coast. Roar bought me for his bed and soon tired of me. He said I wasn’t beautiful enough or young enough to please another master, so he kept me to run his household. Rest now; I will return soon.”

After Morag left, Fiona and Tyra discussed a possible escape. “Perhaps we can convince Morag to help us,” Fiona said hopefully. “She seems very sympathetic.”

“She fears Roar,” Tyra argued. “He would kill her if she allowed us to escape.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Fiona concurred. “We will just have to bide our time and plan our escape carefully. God willing, we will never reach Byzantium.”

Chapter Sixteen

Thorne and Aren blew in with a ferocious storm a fortnight after Fiona had been sold to Roar. They were alone. Their warriors had remained with Thorolf, preferring Thorolf’s newly constructed hall to Rolo’s, where they did not feel welcome.

Bretta hurried to take Thorne’s heavy fur cloak as she bid him welcome. Thorne had no time for Bretta as his gaze swept the hall for Fiona. Aren had already hurried off to find Tyra.

“Warm yourself by the fire,” Bretta urged as she handed Thorne’s snow-encrusted cloak to a servant. “A hot drink will warm your insides,” she said, offering him a horn filled with hot mulled wine.

Thorne sipped the wine, all the while searching for the only person he truly cared to see in Rolo’s
hall. “Where is Fiona?” he asked as a pang of foreboding pierced through him. Something felt wrong. Very wrong.

“Forget Fiona for now,” Bretta said. She wanted her brother to be the one to tell Thorne the story they had concocted together.

Suddenly Aren appeared beside Thorne, distraught, his eyes wild. “They’re gone, Thorne! Fiona and Tyra are gone.”

Thorne appeared bewildered. “Gone? Gone where?”

“No one seems to know. Or is willing to say,” he added.

Bretta suppressed a smile. The thralls and karls had been threatened with severe punishment should they reveal what they knew about Fiona and Tyra.

Thorne turned, pinning Bretta with his gaze. “Is this true?”

“Aye,” Bretta said, feigning regret. “I tried to stop them but they wouldn’t listen.”

“Odin’s balls! Where could they have gone? And why? ’Tis the middle of winter and Fiona is with child.”

“Ah, here’s Rolo,” Bretta said with relief when she saw Rolo enter the hall from his bedchamber. “He will explain what happened.”

“Did you send Fiona away?” Thorne roared, rounding on Rolo.

“Nay. The witch left of her own free will. She took her medicine chest and her servant and announced her decision to leave my hall.”

“Why would she do such a foolish thing?”

Rolo shrugged. “A jarl from the North arrived after you left, seeking shelter for the night. Fiona became friendly with the man, if you take my meaning,” he hinted slyly. “When the jarl left the next morning, Fiona and Tyra accompanied him. ’Tis my belief that he promised to take Fiona home to Man when he went a-Viking next summer. Since Fiona wasn’t my slave, I could do naught to stop her.”

Thorne stared at Rolo in disbelief. “You lie! Fiona would never go off with a stranger.”

“But she did,” Bretta assured him. “We tried to stop her but she was determined. You know how stubborn the witch can be.”

“Give me the jarl’s name!” Thorne roared. “I will split him from gullet to groin.”

“Be reasonable,” Bretta cajoled. “The witch made her bed, now let her lie in it. Fiona made it clear that she was leaving you. She’s probably already warming the jarl’s bed. ’Tis no great loss to you.”

“I cannot let her go,” Thorne claimed. The pain in his heart became so sharp he nearly doubled over from it. Though there was a good possibility that Fiona carried Rolo’s child, he still wanted her. Would his enchantment never end? Was he destined to spend the rest of his life under a spell so strong it could not be broken by either absence or betrayal?

“The name, Rolo. Give me the jarl’s name.”

Rolo and Bretta exchanged frantic glances.
Bretta raised an elegant brow, signifying that Rolo should handle the matter.

“Despite our differences we are still friends and neighbors,” Rolo said. “ ’Tis for your own good that I withhold the jarl’s name from you. You cannot wage a battle in the winter. Should you feel the same in the spring, I will give you his name.

“Look around you, Thorne.” He gestured expansively. “I have many comely slaves. Any one of them will help you to forget Fiona the Learned. Bretta is still eager to become your bride. She regrets that small episode with the poison. ’Tis time you forgave her and married her as your father and I planned.”

Thorne heard none of what Rolo said. His mind whirled with the implications of Fiona’s defection. Why had she left? Had she suddenly realized that the paternity of her child would always be in question? Had she bewitched the jarl in the same way she had bewitched him? He pitied the poor, unsuspecting wretch if that was what Fiona had done. His own life hadn’t been the same since he’d first spied the enchantress.

“Thorne, what are you thinking?” Bretta asked when Thorne remained uncommunicative.

“Murder wouldn’t be too far from the truth,” Thorne returned. He was angry enough to kill. At first his anger had been directed at the jarl who had captured Fiona’s fancy. But the longer he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the jarl wasn’t to blame for what had happened. His rage toward Fiona grew in leaps and bounds. Were
she standing before him, he’d wring her beautiful little neck.

“Come share our meal,” Bretta urged. “Things will look brighter tomorrow. In time you’ll realize how lucky you are to be rid of the witch.”

“I’ll share your meal but not your hall,” Thorne said. “I will return to my brother’s hall, for I can no longer abide this place.”

During the meal Thorne noticed that Rika was not present and succumbed to curiosity. “Where is your wife, Rolo? Is she ill?”

Everyone in the room grew quiet, waiting for Rolo’s answer. “Rika divorced me,” Rolo said easily. “I sent her home to her father. ’Tis no great loss. The wench and I didn’t suit.”

Thorne promptly put Rika from his mind as he contemplated his own woes.

As luck would have it, a fierce blizzard arrived before Thorne could leave, and his rage continued to simmer as he waited for the weather to moderate. Rolo’s refusal to reveal the name of the jarl whom Fiona had accompanied did nothing to ease his bad humor. Thorne suspected that Rolo and Bretta had lied, but he couldn’t prove it. Something did not smell right. He didn’t buy Rolo’s claim that starting a war over a woman was not worth a man’s life. Why wouldn’t Rolo reveal the name of the man who had stolen Fiona’s affection? Was it because there was no such man?

Thorne bided his time, aware of the air of mystery pervading the hall. He remained watchful and
vigilant. One night he bedded down in his usual place on a bench close enough to the fire to absorb its warmth. He longed for Fiona with every fiber of his being, then railed at himself for being weak where Fiona was concerned. He even dreamed about the child she carried. Some deep, warm place within his heart believed that the child was his, conceived of the passion they had shared. Aye, and love. The love he felt could be only the result of Fiona’s spell, but it felt very real to him. Unfortunately, he had come to that realization too late.

As Thorne lay beside the fire thinking of Fiona, he heard a rustle and tensed, his hand reaching for Blood-drinker. The banked fire in the hearth cast a dim circle of light. Beyond that circle the hall was dark. A woman’s voice whispered to him from out of the darkness. Thorne relaxed his grip on Blood-drinker and strained to listen.

“Stay your sword hand, my lord,” the woman hissed in his ear.

“Who are you? What do you want? I’m in no mood to fornicate tonight.”

The woman gave a muted snort of resentment. “I just came from Lord Rolo’s bed. Fornication is the last thing on my mind.”

“You’re a thrall?”

“Aye, but ask no more questions of me.”

“What do you want?” Thorne demanded.

“I have information for you. Do you wish to know the truth about Fiona?”

Thorne stiffened. “Speak, wench. What is it you wish in return? I cannot free you.”

“I want naught but Fiona’s safety. What I tell you must remain between you and me. If Lord Rolo learns of this, he will kill me.”

“Why are you telling me this if it endangers your life?” Thorne asked suspiciously.

“Because I hate him!” the slave said with a vehemence that startled Thorne. “He is not a gentle lover. He and his sister betrayed you, and you should know of it.”

Thorne started to rise but a small hand pushed him back down. “Nay, do not move. I fear discovery.”

“Tell me what happened to Fiona and Tyra.”

“They were sold to Roar the slave trader.”

It was all Thorne could do to keep from bellowing in outrage.

“Rika would have suffered the same fate had not your lady pleaded her cause. She threatened Rolo’s manhood if he did not send Rika home to her father. Apparently Rolo feared Fiona’s power, for he sent Rika home, but he did not extend his mercy to Fiona and Tyra. They were sold to the slave trader.”

“Sold,” Thorne hissed, caught between the urge to kill Rolo and the need to go after Fiona. Rescuing Fiona was more urgent; he could always return and kill Rolo at his leisure. “How long has Fiona been gone?”

“Since shortly after you left.”

“Odin’s balls! Do you know where Roar took her?”

“Nay. He cannot sail in winter so he could have taken her to his home near the village. I must go
now, before Rolo awakens and finds me gone. I hope you find your lady.”

“Wait!” Thorne said. “Don’t go yet.”

When he turned to peer into the darkness he found nothing but shadows. Quietly he moved to where Aren slept and shook him awake. Then he revealed everything the woman had told him. Aren’s anger was as great as Thorne’s. They whispered together for several minutes; then Thorne crawled back to his bed beside the fire.

Roar’s Homestead

Fiona and Tyra bided their time, waiting for the right moment to escape. Unfortunately, the recent spell of bad weather put a temporary hold on their plans. Then something happened that changed their fortune.

One day Roar went out with some of his warriors to hunt for fresh game. He was borne home on a makeshift stretcher. He’d been gored by a wild boar he had cornered in the forest. The wound was high on his thigh and serious enough to cause grave concern.

“You are a healer,” Roar said to Fiona when he was settled in his bed. “Heal me. I am in great pain.”

Fiona studied the wound, which had started to crust over, and shook her head. “ ’Tis a serious wound, Master Roar. Mayhap the leg will have to come off. If it isn’t treated, it will fester and you will die.”

Roar’s face contorted with fear. “Nay! Save me,
lady. Ask anything and it will be yours.”

“Freedom, Roar, mine and Tyra’s,” Fiona demanded. “I will save your leg if you will free us and allow us to leave in peace afterward.”

“Aye, anything, anything … But if you let me die, my men will kill you.”

“Will you swear before witnesses?”

“Aye, but hurry. I cannot stand the pain.”

Fiona called Roar’s thralls and karls into the chamber. All heard Roar swear to free Fiona and Tyra if Fiona saved his leg and cured him. Then Fiona shooed them away and set to work.

She called for boiling water and brewed an infusion of mandrake root to ease Roar’s pain. While it steeped, she wet a clean cloth and carefully soaked the wound until the bloody crust washed away. She changed the water three times before the gash was clean and the heavy bleeding stopped. Then she fed the mandrake infusion to Roar. Later she called for strong red wine and poured a generous portion directly into the wound. Roar made a strangled sound but did not pass out.

“The wound must be cauterized,” Fiona determined. “Fetch a knife,” she said to Tyra, who hovered nearby, “and place it in the fire.”

Tyra obeyed without question. She found a short, broad blade, moved to the hearth and plunged it into the fire. When it glowed a dull red she removed it and brought it to Fiona. Fiona hesitated but a moment before placing the flat of the blade against the wound. The stench of burning flesh permeated the air. Roar howled and finally passed out. Fiona
worked quickly after that. She sent Tyra to her medicine chest for a salve made of marigolds and spread it over the wound. Then she applied a bandage, winding it around the seared flesh to hold the salve in place.

“Will he heal?” Tyra asked hopefully. “Are we going to be free?”

“God willing,” Fiona prayed. “I’ll brew an infusion of herbs to fight the fever that’s sure to come. I feel confident that Roar will live, and keep his leg in the bargain. He’s lost a lot of blood, but I will prepare a remedy to strengthen and renew him.”

“We can leave now, Fiona. Roar is in no condition to stop us.”

“I promised to heal him and so I shall. God willing, we will soon be free.”

By the time the storm abated and the weather turned unseasonably mild, Roar was well on his way to recovery with his leg intact. He was so grateful, he didn’t try to stop Fiona when she announced her intention to leave the next day.

“Where will you go, lady?” he asked curiously.

“Have you heard of Garm the Black?”

“Aye. His daughter is married to Rolo the Bold.”

“Rika divorced Rolo. Tyra and I intend to seek shelter with Rika’s family.”

“ ’Tis a long journey. You’d be better off taking your chances in Byzantium. I will see that you have the best of masters. One who will allow you to keep your child.”

“I will be no man’s slave,” Fiona said with firm resolve. “Is your word not good? Is your honor so
lacking that you will rescind your vow to free us?”

Roar was indeed thinking along those lines. But mindful of everything Fiona had done for him, he quickly discarded thoughts of monetary gain where Fiona was concerned. A pity, he reflected, for he knew many Eastern potentates who would give a king’s ransom in gold for a woman with Fiona’s beauty and skill.

“Nay,” he said sourly. “You and your serving woman are free to leave. ’Tis a foul time of year to travel, but I can see you are determined.”

“ ’Tis not far to Rika’s homestead. I will pray for six days of moderate weather,” Fiona said, fearing Roar would change his mind. “There is naught more I can do for you. Your limb and life are no longer in danger. I will leave instructions and medicine for your care.”

A weak sun broke through the clouds, dispelling the gloom as Tyra and Fiona took their leave the next morning. Morag gave them sufficient food to last to their journey’s end. Since Fiona’s heavy medicine chest would hinder them, Fiona and Tyra each filled a pouch with dried herbs and salves and attached it to their belts. Clothed in woolen tunics, fur cloaks and high, fur-lined boots, they set out on their long trek south.