Beyond the Sea Mist, Page 2

She gave a mirthless laugh, a jarring contrast to the soft lilting tone of her voice. “It was the neighboring chieftain who arranged the attack, in order to lay claim to my father’s lands. As for my father’s other allies, they’re all dead.”

  She was alone, except for the young women gathered round her, and they appeared even more vulnerable and helpless than she was. Magnus’s body grew tight with frustration. He yearned to aid this woman, but how could he? Croa was a man of wealth and power, while he was but a hired swordsman. It seemed hopeless, but surely it wasn’t. He needed time to think of a plan. “What will Croa do now that you’ve arrived in Dublin?”

  “We’ll probably be taken to slavemarket and sold to whoever offers to pay the most.”

  “Do you go there now, or must Croa make arrangements for his other trade goods first?”

  The woman shrugged. “What does it matter to you?”

  “Because I mean to help you, if I can.”

  Her sea-colored eyes glittered with contempt. “How? Do you have sacks of jewels and booty stored away on your ship?” She jerked her head toward the Waverunner. “For that matter, is it even your vessel? You appear far too young to own such a craft. I think you’re a hireling, paid in silver to help row the ship to shore and protect its captain and cargo. If that’s true, then you have as much hope of purchasing me as they do.” She gestured to the slaves unloading Croa’s other loot.

  Magnus felt a surge of anger. He was trying to help this woman. She need not act so disdainful. Although she might be some petty king’s daughter and a princess of sorts, she didn’t have to behave as if he were unworthy of her company.

  Between his growing irritation and his lack of a reasonable plan to save her, Magnus decided it was time to retreat. He inclined his head to her. “Farewell then, lady. I hope all goes well for you at the slavemarket.”

  A cruel thing to say, he thought as he walked back to Orm and Skulli. But no more harsh than the way she’d treated him. Perhaps she didn’t need to be rescued after all. No doubt her sharp tongue was a formidable weapon, capable of cutting most men to shreds.

  But not one like Croa, he realized. Men like that were immune to insults and sharp words. The only thing that could hurt them was cold, hard steel. Instinctively, his hand went to his sword hilt and he imagined driving the weapon deep into Croa’s huge belly.

  If he did such a thing, Croa’s men would kill him, and only a fool would throw his life away in such a fashion. If he died fighting, he would go to Valhalla, but the pure truth was that he wasn’t yet ready to leave this realm. Life was too sweet, and he had far too much left to accomplish.

  “So?” Orm demanded as soon as Magnus was within earshot.

  “It’s exactly as I thought. The woman and her companions were taken captive and forced into slavery.”

  “And all her kinsmen were killed,” Skulli put in, nodding. “It’s a common tale. With the chieftains fighting among themselves and the Norse trying to carve out territories here, the Irish people are in constant danger of being enslaved. They say hundreds of prisoners pass through the slavemarket of Dublin each year.”

  “Where’s the slavemarket?” Magnus asked.

  “Farther along the quay.” Skulli pointed.

  What if he could convince Sigurd to purchase the Irishwoman? At least that way she’d be out of the clutches of the foul Croa. But what inducement could he offer his captain to do such a thing? And why should he trouble himself to help her? She was a haughty, vinegar-tongued creature and deserved whatever fate befell her.

  He told himself this several times, but couldn’t make himself believe it.

  * * *

  “What did he say to you?” Brina asked after the Norseman had left.

  Ailinn’s insides twisted with regret. Why had she coldly rejected the man’s offer? How could she have been so stupid? Her quick temper had caused her to speak harshly. It was difficult not to view any Norseman as the enemy, but she shouldn’t have let her fury at Croa affect her dealings with the young warrior.

  She sighed and responded to Brina’s question. “He offered to help me, and I—like a lackwit—threw his offer back into his face.” She grimaced. “I told him that since he was obviously a hireling, I didn’t see how he could aid me.”

  “But why did he make the offer in the first place?” Brina asked. “Do you know him?”

  “Nay. I’ve never laid eyes upon him before.” Perhaps she was right to send him away. There was no reason on earth for the Norseman to be concerned about her welfare ...unless he hoped to enslave her himself. But he’d seemed so sincere. And it hadn’t been lust she’d observed in his dazzling blue eyes, but pity.

  Perhaps that’s what had galled her so much. He’d reminded her how utterly helpless she was, how weak. If I were a man, I’d be trained to wield a sword and I wouldn’t be in this situation. I would have died defending my home, my family. As the unbearable anguish threatened, she pushed it back into the darkest corner of her mind.

  “If you don’t know him, then it’s odd he made such an offer,” Brina mused. “Perhaps he’s simply a kindhearted man.”

  Ailinn snorted. “A kindhearted Viking! Brina, the miserable journey here must have muddled your wits.”

  “But what other explanation is there?”

  “He obviously hopes to steal me from Croa so he can have me for himself.”

  “And would that be so bad?” Brina cocked an auburn brow and smiled, showing her dimples. “You must admit he’s much better looking than Croa.”

  “I don’t want to be the slave of any man...no matter how comely!” The fury and resentment rose up inside Ailinn, softened a bit by the thought that Brina was right. The Norse warrior was fine to look upon. If she had to submit, it would be much less distasteful to do so with a young, well-made warrior. “Anyway,” she told Brina, “it won’t be Croa who takes my maidenhead, but the rich chieftain or king he sells me to.”

  As she spoke the words, she imagined the sort of man who would become her master. He’d be probably be old, with bad teeth and a greasy beard. She shuddered. If only she’d been more courteous when the warrior made his offer. She should at least have listened to what he’d had to say.

  Her regret intensified as she glanced down the quay and saw the warrior pacing next to the ship. A pang went through her as she admired his muscular form. He moved with surprising grace for such a big man. With his long, gold-tinged brown hair, he reminded her of an enormous cat prowling the wharf. She could sense the coiled tension that radiated from him, as if he were ready to draw his sword and spring upon an enemy at any moment. Perhaps he could have helped her. He might not have Croa’s wealth and a crew of lackeys, but he seemed bold and fearless enough to take on any adversary.

  “Ailinn!”

  She turned at Brina’s frantic whisper, and her heart sank as she saw Croa striding toward her, a mocking grin on his vile face.

  Magnus watched in dismay as Croa approached the woman. His turmoil deepened as a wooden oxcart drew beside the prisoners and the slavemaster began to lift the women into the wicker pen on the back of the cart. His actions were brisk and efficient, as if he were loading barrels of fish. Until he got to the princess. Then he paused and leaned down to speak to her. Her fine features contorted with hatred and she spat in his face. He laughed and grabbed her around the waist, then dropped her, flailing and cursing, into the wicker pen with the other women.

  Magnus clenched his hands into fists and gritted his teeth. If I try to help her, I'll be throwing my own life away...and over a sharp-tongued, ungrateful little shrew who thinks she’s far too good for me.

  As the slave drove the cart full of women away, Magnus focused his gaze on the Waverunner. His insides felt tied in knots and his jaw ached. With luck I’ll never see her again. With luck...

  Chapter 2

  It grew foggier as night fell, and the only light came from torches set up around the edge of the quay. They sent out a feeble, pinkish glow that barely penetrated the por
ridge-like mist. The three men stayed close to the Waverunner, pacing back and forth along the narrow strip of dock beside the ship. It wasn’t cold—in fact, Magnus was surprised to find himself sweating beneath his heavy wool tunic. But that was likely due to his inner turmoil as much as the balmy weather. He couldn’t stop thinking about the captive Irishwoman. She didn’t mean to insult me. She was frightened. It was natural for her to lash out at me the way she did.

  As time passed, he found it easier and easier to forget her harsh words and remember only the lush coral lips that had formed them, to ignore the contempt he’d seen in her eyes and recall only their shimmering loveliness. She had appeared so small and fragile, surrounded by those other timorous young women. Although her stance had been unyielding, her defiance was obviously a bluff. She’d endured a horrible loss and the future she faced clearly terrified her. He couldn’t blame her for questioning his offer of aid. She was right. Until he had a sound plan to rescue her, it was witless to pretend he might be of some assistance.

  His mind raced as he tried to think of a way to free her and her companions. It was obvious she wouldn’t abandon them, not after Croa’s vicious threat. He thought of asking Sigurd for aid, then grew discouraged. The captain was unlikely to involve himself in the dilemma of an unknown foreign woman. If one of his crew were taken prisoner, Sigurd would intervene, but more out of self-interest than compassion.

  Magnus sensed Croa was a formidable adversary. In fair combat, he had no doubt he could beat the massive man. But Croa was the sort who paid others to fight his battles and probably considered a knife in the back an appropriate way to deal with anyone who crossed him.

  Nay, he couldn’t take on Croa directly. He must find a clever and subtle way to get the Irishwoman free of the slavemaster’s clutches. His mind worried at the matter while he strode back and forth beside the Waverunner.

  * * *

  It was late when Sigurd and the rest of the crew returned to the ship. Magnus’s stomach burned with hunger and his mouth was dry. While Skulli and Orm had taken turns reboarding the ship for a bite of flatbread and fish and a drink of stale water, he’d held out for fresh sustenance.

  When Orm broached the idea of visiting the longphort, Sigurd was wary. “If all three of you go, it might be safe. But you must keep your wits about you. There are thieves and cutthroats everywhere. Stay near the alehouses and don’t drink too much or become separated.”

  But Skulli was no longer keen on going. He said he’d already seen the sights of Dublin and wanted to curl up in his bedsack and sleep. Only Orm’s outright begging convinced the older man that the comforts of a cup of ale and a seat by a warm hearth could compensate for the hours of sleep he would lose.

  Orm was bursting with enthusiasm as he led the way between the quay storehouses, where men guarded nearly every doorway. “Imagine the wealth contained here,” he said. “Furs, spices and wine. Jet, amber and ivory.”

  “The cargo we’ll be taking on is a bit more ordinary than that,” Skulli said.

  “What is it?” Orm asked.

  “Hides, wool and grain,” Skulli answered. “Those are the main commodities Ireland is known for.”

  “What about slaves?” Magnus asked. “Does Sigurd ever deal in them?”

  “From what I’ve heard, he thinks they’re too much trouble, worse than transporting cattle or other livestock.”

  Perhaps Sigurd could be convinced to make an exception, Magnus thought. But what would be the point of asking the captain to purchase the women? They would still be sold as slaves in the end.

  As the three men left behind the warehouse area and approached a planked walkway lined with thatched roofed buildings, Magnus pushed thoughts of the Irishwoman from his mind and concentrated on the hearty ale and warm food that would soon fill his growling belly.

  They found a well-lit alehouse and sought out benches and a table not far from the central hearth. “This looks as good a place as any,” Skulli said as they sat down on the scarred wooden seats.

  Orm nodded and glanced around the crowded room. “Look. They’ve got a dice game going.” He gestured to an area in the front of the alehouse where several men had cleared the straw from the dirt floor and were taking turns throwing dice onto a wooden gaming board. “I’ll bet I can turn the few pieces of silver in my money pouch into a whole handful.” Orm grinned at the other men. “Maybe even win enough to entice one of the serving maids to take me home with her.”

  Skulli snorted. “Don’t be a fool. Those men probably use weighted gaming pieces.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve brought my own.” With a brilliant smile, Orm tossed two carved bone dice on the table.

  Skulli shook his head. “You don’t know the sort who frequent these places. Even if you win, it’s unlikely you’ll make it back to the ship with your loot intact. For that matter you might not make it back at all. Many a man’s had his throat cut along the dark footpaths of a longphort.”

  Hearing Skulli’s words, Magnus was glad he’d seated himself so he was facing the doorway. He glanced around. Most of the men looked Norse, although a few had the darker coloring of the Danes. Nearly all of them wore swords or had axes tucked in their belts. A few were garbed in chainmail shirts, as if ready to do battle at any moment.

  A buxom, ebony-haired serving woman approached their table, a tray holding a pewter pitcher and several drinking cups balanced on one shoulder. The woman greeted them, set down the pitcher and cups and inquired whether they’d like a hot oyster pastry. As the woman poured the ale and took their order for food, Magnus regarded her casually. She wasn’t bad to look upon, but nothing compared to the princess on the dock.

  Stop thinking about her. There’s nothing you can do. No way to help her. And why should you bother? She wasn’t even civil to you. It might be good for her to endure the life of a slave and be brought down a few notches.

  He nursed his resentment, imagining the Irishwoman dragged before a crowd of potential buyers, her fair skin flaming with humiliation, her brilliant eyes dimmed with shame and despair. The thought of it made his stomach churn with disgust. Then he envisioned another, even more repulsive scene: Croa raping the Irishwoman, the slaver’s thick, crude body thrusting between her creamy, slender thighs.

  “Magnus? Magnus? Are you even listening to me?”

  The red mist of fury that gripped him faded and he realized he was holding his cup in a death grip while Orm gazed quizzically into his face. “I asked you if you wanted to go with me to join the dice game.”

  “Sigurd said we should stay together,” Magnus reminded him.

  “I’ll be within your sight every moment.” Orm winked.

  “What a lackwit,” Skulli muttered as the younger man left them.

  Magnus nodded. Orm did seem rash and impulsive. But was he any better? Here he was, worrying over a woman who’d scorned him.

  “Although I must admit that when I was younger I was just like Orm,” added Skulli, running his hand through his thinning blond hair. “I tried my hand at dice and gaming, and when I won, I spent my silver on women. I also got in my share of fights.” He traced a scar running from the outer edge of his eye down his cheek. Then he sighed and sat back on the bench. “ Now I have a few cups of ale and try to find a warm place to sleep. Usually alone. Women aren’t worth the trouble they bring. Of course, if I’d ever had a chance to settle down with a nice girl and have a family, things might have been different. But I never saved up enough money for a brideprice, nor stayed in one place long enough to strike up an acquaintance with a widow who might choose her own husband.”

  He shrugged. “It’s probably better this way. I have no sons or daughters to worry over. Nor do I have to wonder if my wife is faithful while I’m away. The seaman’s life is a simple one, and I like that. Believe me, as soon as you involve women, things get complicated.”

  Magnus found that he agreed with everything Skulli said. He was far too young to consider getting married. And, like Skulli, he
didn’t have the wealth to afford a wife.

  A moment later, Skulli rose. “I’d guess I’d better go over there and make certain our friend doesn’t get cheated too badly. Give me a signal when the food comes.”

  Magnus gulped down the rest of his ale, refilled the cup, then waited impatiently for the food to arrive.

  After a time, a group of Norsemen entered the alehouse, talking loudly. Magnus’s muscles grew rigid as he saw that one of them was Croa Ottarsson. The massive man elbowed his way into the crowded room, then paused and scrutinized the scene around him. Magnus’s hand went to his sword. Had one of Croa’s men observed him talking to the Irishwoman and mentioned it to his master, who then came looking for him?

  Croa’s gaze alighted on a man sitting at the back of the alehouse and a smile of recognition split the slavemaster’s jowly face. “Baldar the Dark!” he roared. “The very man I was looking for.”

  The man glanced up at Croa’s greeting, and Magnus noted that Baldar was uncommonly swarthy for a Northman, with lank black hair and keen dark eyes. Baldar motioned for Croa to approach, and the slaver squeezed his bulk past the men gathered around the hearth. His well-armed guard followed.

  Magnus leaned back as far as he could on the bench, trying to hear what Croa had to say to the man named Baldar. But the normal buzz of conversation had begun again and while he could make out the rise and fall of Croa’s voice, he couldn’t catch his words.

  Eager for a chance to spy on his adversary, Magnus got to his feet and surveyed the back area of the alehouse. Croa and Balder were seated near a doorway that probably led to the kitchen shed. He’d seen the serving maid carrying in platters of food from that direction.

  He moved toward the open doorway, keeping his gaze straight ahead. Reaching the doorway, he paused just outside of it. There was a wooden overhang that bridged part of the distance to the kitchen, which was a daub and wattle structure like the alehouse, but much smaller. Billows of smoke rose from a large smokehole in the kitchen’s thatched roof.