Beyond the Sea Mist (3 page)

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...

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 porridge-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.

Magnus turned back to the alehouse door. From here he could make out bits of Croa’s side of the conversation: “...thought the king would like to know about this... Conlach O’Donovan’s daughter...a real prize, with enough fire to stir an old man’s loins.”

Magnus stiffened. Croa must be talking about the Irishwoman. He moved a little inside the wooden doorjamb so he could hear better.

“She’s a virgin,” Croa said, his voice gleeful. “I’ve seen to that. And she comes with a group of serving maids who are all tasty pieces themselves.”

Baldar muttered a response that Magnus couldn’t hear, then Croa’s loud voice broke in again. “I won’t go down on my price. If Sitric isn’t interested, I’ll find some other jarl or king who appreciates what I’m offering. There are plenty of men willing to part with their gold for the pleasure of deflowering a well-born and comely Irish maiden.”

“Looking for your food, are you?”

Magnus jerked around as the serving woman spoke from behind him. She held a platter full of steaming pastries.

“I...well...we have been waiting quite a while.”

She smiled teasingly. “I didn’t forget you, I promise. I knew a strong handsome fellow like you was bound to have a hearty appetite.” Her blue eyes danced.

It’s Orm you should be flirting with. He’s the one who’s eager to find a woman.
Then another thought came to Magnus and he smiled back at the serving maid and motioned for her to go in ahead of him.

He met her at the table where he’d been sitting, and she unloaded the platter of pastries. “Will there be anything else?” She leaned over, giving him a good view of the tops of her breasts above the thin wool of her kirtle.

“Aye. I would like a bit of information.”

Her smile faded. “What sort of information?”

Magnus moved nearer and lowered his voice. “You see that big Norseman behind me? The one talking to the dark-haired fellow with the axe in his belt?”

The serving woman shot a surreptitious glance in the direction Magnus indicated. When she faced him, the teasing sparkle was gone from her eyes. “Aye, I know Croa Ottarson.”

“I want to know where he stays when he docks in Dublin. Does he have a house here?”

“I suppose so.” The serving woman straightened and picked up her tray.

“Do you know where it is?” Magnus persisted.

“Nay.” She clutched the tray to her chest and bent over to whisper, “You don’t want to have anything to do with that one.”

“I thank you for your concern. But I do have one more question. Do you know where he keeps his slaves, the ones he means to sell?”

“If he’s like most of the traders, he has a pen near the slavemarket where he keeps his captives.”

“A pen?”

She made a face. “Most of the slavers treat their thralls no better than livestock.”