Viking by Connie Mason Page A

captain. Moments later a ferocious giant appeared on the deck. He was huge, bigger than Thorne even. Rust-colored hair streaked with gray hung down to his shoulders in wild disarray, and his beard all but hid his fierce features. He joined Thorne on the pier, where they spoke earnestly for several minutes. Then Thorne placed something shiny in the captain’s palm and waited as the man strode back aboard his ship.
    The wait was short. A man wearing the ragged remnants of a monk’s habit and hobbled by leg irons stumbled down the gangplank to join Thorne. They conversed heatedly. Fiona saw the man shake his head several times before he was led under protest to where she stood. The sound of his voice sparked recognition, and she let out a gasp of dismay.
    The ragged monk was Father Damien, a priest from the monastery on Man. He had offered Mass many times in their little village chapel. She had given him her confession shortly before the Vikings sacked the island. She was aware that the savage Vikings had pillaged the monastery and taken prisoners, but she’d never expected to see any of them again.
    “Father Damien!”
    “Are you all right, child?”
    “Aye, I am fine.”
    She rounded on Thorne, her eyes shooting violetfire. “Is this how your kind treat holy men? How dare you!”
    “Ulm sacked the monastery,” Thorne revealed. “When I came ashore on Man I sought but one person … the woman who had bewitched me. The priests were sold to the slave trader when we reached port. They are going to the Byzantine, where slaves are in great demand.”
    “But they are Christian priests. You cannot send them to a heathen country.”
    “ ’Tis all right, child,” Father Damien said. “I am resigned to my fate. God in his mercy will protect me. Perhaps He has a plan for me and the others from the monastery. We will go forth and convert the heathens. Do not lament my fate; ’tis you I’m worried about. The Viking told me he wishes to take you as his mate and wants me to perform a Christian ceremony. Is that your wish, child?”
    Fiona shook her head in vigorous denial even as Thorne said, “Aye, priest, ’tis Fiona’s wish for us to be wed according to Christian rites.”
    “Is that true, Fiona?”
    Fiona could not lie to the priest. She had indeed told Thorne that she would marry him if he could produce a Christian priest. “Aye, Father, ’tis what I said but—”
    “Hurry, priest,” Thorne demanded. “If you refuse, I will take Fiona to my bed whether or not we are wed.”
    Father Damien decided it would be in Fiona’s best interest to wed the Viking. “Have you a witness?”
    Thorne glanced down the road and saw Brann approaching on the mule. “He comes now. Brann will stand witness.”
    Brann slid off the mule and limped over to where Fiona stood beside the priest. He peered closely at the monk and recognized him instantly. “Why, ’tis Father Damien.”
    “You’re just in time, wizard,” Thorne said. “We have need of a witness. I am taking Fiona to wife.”
    “Wait, please! I need a moment alone with Brann,” Fiona cried.
    “The slavemaster’s ship leaves with the tide. There is scant time for conversation,” Thorne said.
    Then he surprised Fiona by taking the bundle from her hands, unwrapping it and removing from it a beautiful blue woolen cloak lined in scarlet silk. He shook it out, threw it around her shoulders and fastened it with his own gold brooch.
    “Now we are ready, priest.”
    “No!” Fiona’s courage reinforced itself. “We hardly know one another. The Viking wants to marry me for the wrong reason.”
    “Fiona,” Father Damien said gently. “The Viking has already made known his intentions where you’re concerned. In God’s eyes, ’tis better to be a wife than a mistress. Be content that the heathen is honoring your wish to be married by a Christian priest.”
    “ ’Tis meant to be,” Brann intoned sagely.
    “Is my future not my own to decide?” Fiona cried,