Beyond the Sea Mist

Copyright Mary Gillgannon, 2011

Published by Mary Gillgannon, 2011

Cover design by Rae Monet, Inc. Designs,
www.raemonetinc.com

E-book format by
A Thirsty Mind

All rights reserved.

No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the Author.

The dragon-headed ship glided up the River Liffey, its red striped sail like a bloody clawmark slashing across the mist. The brawny men at the oars rowed with a steady, even rhythm. Despite the vessel’s fierce appearance, the men’s blue eyes weren’t agleam with battlelust, nor were their muscles tight with anticipation of armed conflict. They hadn’t come to raid and kill, but to trade. Here at the longphort of Dublin, named for the dark waters swirling around the ship’s timber hull, they would exchange their cargo of furs, soapstone and ivory for other valuable commodities.

Magnus Gunnarson, the first rower at the starboard side, stared hard at the fog-blurred shoreline and wondered if the tales he’d heard of Eire were really true. Was the land here as rich and fertile as it was said? The women as fair and lissome? Could gold really be found lying in the bottom of the rivers and streams?

Part of the reason he’d joined the crew of the
Waverunner
was the opportunity to see new places, and this island, seemingly set at the end of the world, intrigued him as did few other destinations. It was said to be a bountiful land, with pastures full of fat cattle and coastal waters rich with sealife. Of gentle rains, rainbows and glistening mists, so different from his homeland with its long, dark winters of snow and ice.

He reminded himself he would probably see little of the countryside. This was a trading expedition, and Dublin was probably like most Norse longphorts—crowded, dirty and violent—the very reason Sigurd Rolfsson had hired him and the other fifteen men now rowing the vessel to shore. They were responsible not only for manning the ship on the sea voyage but also guarding Sigurd and his merchandise at the various settlements where he traded.

Magnus couldn’t help dreaming of the day when he would no longer be a hired swordsman, but possess his own swift, beautiful ship. He would decide where they sailed and what cargo they carried, and command his own crew. It might take years to save up enough hacksilver to purchase a worthy vessel. In the meantime, he intended to learn all he could about navigating the harsh, unpredictable northern seas and negotiating with sly foreign merchants.

As they neared land, Magnus saw that the wooden dock was crowded with men unloading two ships already anchored. They were shallow-drafted crafts, meant for navigating rivers and hugging coastlines rather than traveling long distances at sea. They were probably bringing in products from other parts of Eire. Magnus saw rows of barrels, straw-filled wooden boxes and piles of hides. On one side of the dock stood several young women in brightly colored cloaks. He was surprised to see females in such a place and wondered if they were the wives of some of the men who had just arrived.

The steerman gave the order to cease rowing, and the crew of the
Waverunner
dropped anchor and set the mooring lines, then readied themselves to disembark. Magnus was putting on his swordbelt when Sigurd made his way along the crowded deck. “You, you and you.” The captain pointed to Magnus and two other men, Orm and Skulli. “The three of you will stay and guard the ship.”

Orm, a skinny red-haired man of less than twenty winters, frowned at Sigurd and asked, “Aren’t we allowed to go ashore and stretch our legs?”

“You may stretch your legs all you wish as long as you remain on the dock,” Sigurd answered. “Stay close to the ship and see that no one comes near it.” After a steely glance at the three men, Sigurd made his way to the side of the vessel and jumped down onto the quay.

Orm let out a sigh. “We come all this way and then aren’t even allowed to go into the longphort. I was looking forward to finding an alehouse and a comely Irish wench to warm the chill from my bones.”

Skulli, a much older man with a weathered face and several missing teeth, gave a snort of disgust. “And what did you think to use to pay for your pleasure? The wages Sigurd paid us for this part of the journey will only buy a few horns of ale and a meal or two.”

Orm’s narrow face fell. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Magnus marked the distance to the quay with an easy jump, then called up to the two men still on the boat, “I’m certain we’ll be allowed a turn to visit the settlement. Sigurd knows he can’t keep a good crew unless he makes it worth our while.”

“That’s true,” Skulli agreed as he leapt to shore. “And Sigurd is usually a fair man, if a stingy one.”

“How long have you sailed with him?” Magnus asked.

“Ten years.” Skulli grimaced. “And I have little enough to show for it. As soon as my money pouch is filled with silver, I find ways to empty it.”
 
I’ll not do that
, Magnus thought.
I’ll save every bit of silver I lay my hands on
.

Skulli cocked his head and squinted at Magnus. “If I were a young man again, I’d do things differently. The way to obtain real wealth is raiding. Attack a settlement of those womanish Christian brothers. They keep all sorts of gold treasure dedicated to their god. And they don’t fight at all, simply fall to their knees and whimper, asking their holy Christ to save them even as you cleave their fool skulls with an axe.”

Skulli’s words troubled Magnus, yet he knew they were true. He’d heard tales of warriors who went aviking for only one season and returned with sacks full of precious metal and other riches. On the other hand, some men didn’t return at all. Instead of meek monks and terrified villagers, they were met by bands of stout warriors determined to kill the invaders. Raiding wasn’t a certain route to wealth and independence.

Orm finally made the leap to shore. Nearly falling as he landed, he bumped into Magnus. The man’s pale blue eyes met Magnus’s and he grinned sheepishly. “Sorry.” He gave Magnus’s shoulder a playful shove. “Thor’s hammer, but you’re a solid fellow. Near big as a mountain and hard as granite, too.”

Magnus shrugged. “My sire was a giant of a man, and my brothers are tall as well.”

Orm grunted. “Have several brothers, do you? I’d wager a fortnight’s wages that most of the crew of the
Waverunner
are younger sons. There’s nothing for us in our homeland, so we go to sea to seek our fortunes.”

Magnus nodded. The old country was crowded, with scarce enough land left to grow grain and feed cattle. While he could have stayed and served his older brother, the opportunities of foreign places enticed him. When Magnus was a boy, the skald Hrold had fired his blood with sagas of great heroes and legends of sea monsters and other fantastic beasts that lived in the unknown realms beyond the places marked on the trader’s maps. Even though he knew his people had been coming to Eire for several generations and had built numerous settlements here, this island retained some of the allure of Hrold’s magical tales.

Yet there was nothing particularly appealing about his first glimpse of Eire. The wooden quay smelled of rotted fish and garbage and most of the people he saw were slaves with filthy bare feet, tattered coarse brown garments covering their thin bodies and iron thrall rings around their necks.

There was a crash as a barrel of salted fish fell onto the dock and its contents spilled onto the dock in a reeking mass. A huge, red-faced Norseman immediately appeared and attacked the slave who had dropped the barrel. The man wielded a thick wooden stick in a rapid, vicious rhythm that left the groaning slave lying in a heap next to the mess of fish.

Magnus’s jaw clenched with disgust. The slavemaster was clearly a brute, one of those men who enjoyed inflicting pain. The Norseman approached the group of women and shouted something at them. Magnus had thought at first that the women were wives of the seamen and traders, but now he realized they were captives.

The slavemaster reached out and cupped the chin of one of the women, holding her jaw rigid as he spoke what were undoubtedly words of threat and intimidation. A memory from Magnus’s childhood filled his mind: The slender, fair-haired slavewoman spilling the ale. Jarl Hareksson rising up and striking her with his fist. The slave falling, her head striking the table behind her. The slave lying motionless on the straw-covered floor with the crimson blood seeping from her ear and staining her long golden hair.

Magnus thoughts returned to the present, and he watched as the slavemaster released the woman. She staggered backwards but didn’t fall. Magnus let out the breath he’d been holding.

The woman raised her head high and met the slavemaster’s gaze. Even from across the dock, Magnus could sense her hatred and loathing. She was obviously from a prosperous background. Her green and yellow checked cloak was of good quality wool and fastened with a large brooch of ornate design.

This isn’t right! A woman like her shouldn’t be at that gutter scum’s mercy
! Magnus gripped his sword tightly, his whole body rigid.

“Magnus, what’s wrong?” Orm asked, coming up beside him.

Magnus shook his head and told himself there was nothing he could do for the woman. The red mist of anger that rose up before his eyes faded, but didn’t vanish altogether. “You see that woman over there?” He pointed. “She wasn’t born a slave.”

“She is comely,” Skulli said, joining them. “But hardly worth dying over.” He jerked his head toward the slavemaster, who was now shouting at the slaves unloading the other ship. “That’s Croa Ottersson. He commands not only these two vessels but several others. And don’t be fooled by his girth. He’s deadly with a war axe.”

Magnus felt a chill of dread for the woman. She’d survived this last encounter, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t eventually meet a violent end.

“As for the woman,” Skulli continued. “He probably captured her in a raid. While it’s a pity such an obviously well-born maid should end up as a thrall, there’s naught you can do about it. As long as Croa pays his tribute to the king of Dublin, you’ve no right to interfere with his property.”

Skulli had made much of the woman’s beauty, and now that Magnus really looked at her, he could see she was uncommonly fair. Silky red gold hair framed a delicate oval face set with large eyes of a pale color he couldn’t determine from this distance. Her nose and chin were dainty, her lips full and coral-colored. She reminded him of a fine-boned mountain doe, and her vibrant coloring was like the rainbow they’d seen as they first passed the northern shores of Eire, luminous and breathstealing. Her loveliness made his sense of outrage even more keen. She was a rare jewel tossed among the muck and dung of the quay.

But it has not been her looks that had first drawn him. It was her courage, her refusal to give in to her captor.

You’re a fool, Magnus
. His brother Hafthor’s voice sounded in his head.
You can’t keep the bird alive if it’s meant to die.
As a boy, he frequently came upon sick and injured animals and tried to help them. His family teased him for his soft-heartedness, and he thought he’d outgrown it. Obviously, he hadn’t. His every sense screamed that he must try to help this woman.

* * *

“Lady, I don’t think you should provoke him,” Brina whispered to Ailinn after the slavemaster had left them.

“Why not?” Ailinn demanded, every muscle in her body rigid with loathing. “You heard what he told his men right after we were taken. Not a hair upon my head is to be harmed. As a high-born virgin, I’m worth near my weight in silver.”