The boat Dagmar had stolen was an agile little vessel, and when the wind filled the small sail Dagmar could rest on the oars, the prow foaming the swells. It was her good fortune to find a full cask of water aboard, and fishing gear, worn though it was. She would not starve, unless she was blown hopelessly off course and the fresh water ran out. That would be a slow and terrible death.
On the evening of the third day, she caught a sea turtle, but had not the heart to hammer at it with her ax for the tender meat inside. She kept it in the boat for a time, running her fingers over its shell, watching its slow, ponderous movements before lowering it over the side and back into the sea again. It left green whorls of bubbles in its wake, and she watched until it disappeared into the gloom far below.
Her sister was never far from her thoughts, nor was little Siggy, who had known only neglect and abandonment in her few short years. One day, Dagmar would return to Kattegat and kill Aslaug for her treatment of the child. At least Siggy had known she was wanted before she died, though it tore at Dagmar's soul that the little girl had perished looking for Dagmar. She had likely feared being left again, and now she was, forever. Dagmar had relished the idea of raising the girl, of teaching her to defend herself and take what she wanted from this life. Little Siggy had been filled with a kind of inner strength that resonated deeply with Dagmar. To hone that strength and leave behind a shieldmaiden would have been the work of a lifetime.
Memories of her sister assailed her while she was at the oars, whole catalogues of summer days at sea with their parents, and winter nights huddled under the sleeping furs speculating on who they might marry one day, where they might travel and raid. The memories were so clear, Dagmar was often taken aback by them, and she thought she could smell her mother's bread baking and the sharp tang of her father's sweat and the lavender oil Siggy always wore, the scent of which encapsulated Dagmar's childhood.
She had not dreamt back then she would be cast from society for killing the man who had raped her closest friend. Never mind that the man had been her friend's husband; the assault had been so brutal her friend lingered near death for a week. Dagmar had not expected the council of elders to rule against her, but the man she had killed wielded considerable political influence and was wealthy enough to buy the opinions of others, and so Dagmar's life had ended and begun again. She had not thought so much about her former life in years; the solitude of the boat and the ocean forcing introspection to keep her mind busy.
She forced the memories away and thought instead of Rollo. Everything she had learned before departing for Kattegat told her that he would be encamped outside Paris. She would have to find a way in amongst the camp followers. She may be able to pose as someone who had been there all along, she had done so in the past without incident, but from all accounts Rollo was a womanizer, and would notice fresh meat in his midst, and he might recognize her from her visits to Kattegat in younger days. She hated playing the role of a camp whore, but it might be necessary to get close enough to kill him. Bedding a man was the quickest way to earn his trust and learn his secrets. At least they would not be Saxons. She had seduced a Saxon guard once to gain access to the postern gate of a small castle; the guard had been a fumbling buffoon she had spitted like a pig before he could finish the act and she entered the castle unseen, without a drop of his blood on her.
It would be better to kill Rollo from a distance and slip away undetected. It would take a little longer, but Dagmar had already waited years. A few weeks more would make no difference now. By then the scars from losing little Siggy would have hardened some, and she would not feel so weakened and desolate as she did now. How the child had gotten to her, making her see a future she had never envisioned for herself. The journey across the sea in this small craft would have been a grand adventure to the girl, one of many more to come. Dagmar would feel the loss keenly for the rest of her life; there was no point denying it to herself. One day Bjørn Ironside should be made to pay for the way he had cast his own daughter aside. But first Rollo must be dealt with.
She sang to pass the time when the wind favored her, drumming with the oars on the bottom of the boat, songs of home, and war, and conquest. Songs she used to sing with Siggy. She sang Siggy's favorite, an ode to Thor's ravens, until she was hoarse. She drank small amounts of water, wishing for some rum, and ate sparingly, and slept fitfully, little Siggy haunting her dreams, sometimes as a child, other times as a grown woman, pale-haired and tall and silent, her gaze level and confident, her stance fearless.
Dagmar was in the middle of just such a dream near dawn when someone hailed her. Barden was drawing near, near enough for Dagmar to see Bodil in the prow. She cried out a greeting. Magne was at the styrbord, angling to bring the two vessels parallel so the smaller boat could be tied off and Dagmar brought back aboard her ship. Dagmar was flooded with relief at the sight of her ship with about half her crew aboard. Who had elected to stay behind, and why? Hrothgar, surely, but no, there he was, grinning sheepishly at her, his teeth flashing white in the gloaming light. She shot him a withering glance and thought he might have recoiled slightly, though perhaps her eyes tricked her in the dim.
Dagmar grew impatient as Magne maneuvered the ship ever closer, until her small boat scraped Barden's side and Hrothgar reached out to help pull her aboard. She scrambled over the side unaided, the rope she had tied to the smaller boat looped over her shoulder. Bodil took it and pulled it through one of the oar holes, tying a monkey's fist and slapping the know for good measure. Dagmar beamed at them.
"We thought we might never find you," said Magne, still breathing heavily from his efforts. He smiled boyishly, flipping a swatch of heavy golden hair from his eyes.
"How did you get out of the harbor at Kattegat?" asked Dagmar.
"You do not want to know," Bodil answered.
"The others?"
"We fled so fast, there was no time to seek them," replied Hrothgar.
"And who is pursuing us?" Dagmar said to him acidly.
Hrothgar looked bewildered. "Oh, come now, Hrothgar. I know you told Aslaug everything; who we are, what we were doing in Kattegat. Where we were bound from there. You never could keep your mouth shut in bed. I know you were lovers."
"I said nothing," he mumbled, not bothering to deny he and Aslaug had been lovers.
"You made no vow to me. I do not care if you shared her bed. But you have endangered us all by revealing our identities and our purpose. I can see in your eyes that you are lying. What did she promise you, Hrothgar? That you would be the new earl, and rule at her side?"
Dagmar could easily see she had struck at his lying heart, and she moved before anyone else could. With one swift arc of her arm, she freed her sword and slashed lightly, opening a deep slit in his gut just above his pubic hair. His eyes widened in horror, for he knew what such a wound meant. Soon his entrails would slither out into a glistening mound at his feet. It was as a fatal a wound as slicing the large vein in the neck, but a slower death. It was also considered a mark of dishonor to be killed in such a way, a fate reserved for traitors and mutineers.
"Today you feed the sharks," Dagmar snarled at him. "But before you do, you will tell me which of Aslaug's men pursue us."
"Mercenaries. I do not know their names. In Aslaug's own ship." Hrothar stooped, clutching at his gut, trying to hold his already protruding intestines inside himself. He groaned mightily, staring up at Dagmar from under his strained brow.
"Toss him into the small boat, and we will drink to the Gods while listening to his death throes," said Dagmar woodenly.
"Wait," wheezed Hrothgar. "There is something you should know before I die. It was Ivar who killed the little girl. Siggy."
Dagmar cried out, and several of the others jumped at the sound, which cleaved the air like an invisible weapon. Dagmar's face was a rictus of pain and grief, and she turned away as if it was she who suffered the mortal wound. She heard the thud of Hrothgar's body landing in the small boat that had carried her here, but she did not feel it. Her mind raced numbly ahead. If she could bribe Aslaug's mercenaries to join forces with them in the capture and killing of Rollo instead of fighting them, so much the better.