Lord of Hawkfell Island (15 page)

He looked at Entti, still frowning at him, tense, ready to attack him again, and scratched his head where she'd struck him. Yet another one whose mind was now hidden from him. He didn't like this new Entti. He turned away, shaking his head. He heard Entti say behind
him, “That's right, you lout, turn away, go hide, don't face the truth that's staring you in your goat's face!”

He said nothing, though the irritation at her words was great. He walked away, silent and thoughtful.

But it was Hafter, only minutes later, who yelled for silence and gave all their people the news. He sounded enthusiastic. He looked over at Entti and she smiled at him, making him feel like a trained pet who had performed just as she'd wished.

As for the women, they surrounded Mirana, hugging her and kissing her loudly, telling her that finally Lord Rorik had shown good sense. “Aye,” Old Alna said, trying to look wise, “finally he's wedded a woman like his mother, wise and kind. Aye, and strong. 'Tis a strong woman Lord Rorik must have for he is a warrior, a Viking, and at the bottom of things, he is a man, and thus rough and untidy, sometimes unmeasured in his talk and actions.”

“A good thing I say,” Amma said. “You didn't really bind Alna or Asta very tightly, so you don't need to feel guilt about it. They understood. All were proud of you and your cunning.”

“Now Gurd will keep to me at night,” Asta said, laughing and hugging Mirana. “I am very fond of the new Entti and know now that you won't allow any more married men to abuse their wives with their infidelities.”

“I will do my best,” Mirana said, smiling at all of them, these women who'd taken care of her and fed her and treated her as one of them, without question. Mirana felt very lucky. She saw Utta standing at the edge of their circle, and quickly drew her in. “I thank you, little one. I am nearly as good a cook as you are.” And Utta hugged her close. “Aye, Utta, you and I will deal very well together, never doubt it or my affection
for you. Would you be my sister or my daughter?”

All the women laughed at that.

And there was Erna, drawing back, as she always did, but she was smiling, moving slowly closer, her face softly pretty. “Utta must be a sister, I think,” she said, looking from little Utta to Mirana, “for none would ever think you her mother.”

That night Mirana slept in Rorik's bed. He slept in the outer hall, wrapped in a wool blanket. She happened to see the chain lying next to the bed on the floor. She just looked at it. She didn't touch it.

She smiled. What she was doing was right, she felt it deep inside her.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
dawned warm and sunny. More birds than Mirana had ever seen in her life seemed to have visited the island for their wedding, flying overhead, swooping downward, spinning through the clouds, their keening cries filling the air. It was magical.

It was a perfect day to be married.

Mirana stood opposite Rorik, beneath a sweet-smelling apple tree, her hand held in his across the space between them. His men flanked him, with Hafter at his right hand. The women, led by Old Alna, stood behind her, Entti at her right hand.

The women had done wonders. They'd sent Mirana off to bed the previous night, and immediately made their plans.

Mirana was now wearing a gown of the softest wool, dyed a rich saffron. Her tunic was a pale cream, fastened at her shoulder with two beautifully pounded silver brooches, a gift from Rorik. She wore soft leather slippers on her feet, a gift from Erna, who'd said softly, “I haven't two good hands, but I do have two good feet and they are just your size.”

The slippers fit her perfectly. Mirana's hair was loosely plaited, as one would a belt of soft leather, and wound
up onto the top of her head with pale saffron-colored linen ribbons threaded through the thick coils.

She felt calm. Her decision was a good one. Even if Rorik were marrying her to forward his revenge against Einar, she didn't care. She still believed him honorable. She held to that thought, now looking at Rorik, who said slowly, his voice deep and sure, “I will take you to wife, Mirana, daughter of Audun. I give you all that is mine and promise you my honor and loyalty and fidelity until I die. Before all our gods and all our people, this I vow.”

Some of the men cheered, several slapping him on the back, but most were silent, their eyes on the ground, uncertain and wary. When there was again full silence, all eyes went to Mirana.

“My Lord Rorik,” she said, looking up at him, and now she smiled, for he was looking very serious, overly serious, and it charmed her. She'd thought about what she would say to him and to his people, words that were critical to all of them. Her fingers tightened about his. “I come to you with naught save myself and what I am. I will be faithful to you and to your people for as long as I live. I swear to place your welfare above mine own, to honor you as my husband and as the lord of Hawkfell Island, and hold your interests first in my mind. I will never betray you. This I vow before our gods and before all who are here with us.”

Now the women cheered, much more loudly than the men, full-bodied cheers that rang out over the island, sending the birds winging upward, shrieking wildly. Kerzog barked madly, danced about the two of them and licked Mirana's feet. She felt pats on her shoulders and back. “Well done,” Entti said in her ear.

“Thank you, Mirana,” Rorik said. He looked at his men. Then he raised her hand and slipped a small
golden band on her middle finger. It was tight. She wondered to whom it had belonged. To his first wife? She made a fist, thrusting her arm high toward the cobalt-blue sky, symbolizing her acceptance and commitment to her marriage with Rorik.

The cheering began again, but not as loud as it could be. The women were shouting their heads off, making up for the men's wariness, Mirana knew, and felt a stab of anger for Rorik because his men were holding back, still uncertain of his decision, looking at her and knowing that she was of their enemy's blood. Rorik took her fist in his hand, gently opened her fingers, and laced his own fingers through hers. He grinned like a happy boy. The men eased, Mirana saw it and felt it. They began to cheer. When Rorik pulled her against him, lifting her high off the ground, his arms wrapped around her, and kissed her long and deep, the men began to laugh and jest. The women giggled and nudged each other. Chickens clucked wildly some feet away. The dozen or so children present looked uncertain, staring from their parents to Mirana and Rorik, then they were laughing and hooting and stomping their feet as loudly as the men and women.

Mirana felt such relief she would have shouted herself, but then what she felt was Rorik's mouth, warm and soft and firm. He wasn't particularly insistent, nay, he wasn't trying to savage her. He was more like an explorer, feeling the texture of her mouth, letting her learn him, taking his time, moving ever so slowly. Mirana, who had never before been kissed, hung there in his arms, relaxed as she could be with her blood crashing through her body, her hands on his shoulders, not understanding what all this was about, this strange concoction of feelings that were rioting in her belly. He said against her lips, “Kiss me, Mirana. It's
only right that you do so. You are now my wife, before the gods and before our people, who are finally yelling their throats raw.”

“I don't know what to do,” she said, her breath warm against his mouth.

“Open your mouth and I will show you.”

She did. His tongue slid between her lips. She gasped, wriggled unconsciously, much to the uproarious delight of all their people.

“He already makes her wild. Rorik won't contain his seed until the night falls!”

This was from Aslak, the only one of Rorik's men who truly approved his master's choice, for he'd lived at Clontarf for nearly six months and seen Mirana as she was. He quite liked her, save for her skill with weapons. That, as it should be for any reasonable man, was a bit frightening, for females were unpredictable at the best of times.

“She wriggled like a happy little stoat, she did. Did you see her bottom?”

“Rorik will make her scream with pleasure and all of us will be awake to hear it.”

“No longer will he be a sullen bear in the mornings, envying us the moans wrung out of us by our wives. Not with her beside him, ready and eager to make him smile.”

Their jests and laughter finally pierced Rorik's brain. Reluctantly, he eased Mirana down the front of his body until she was standing once again on the ground. He started to release her, realized dimly that she wasn't standing on her own, and leaned down to say in her ear, “Mirana, sweeting, we must wait. Come now, and we will let them jest with us and give us impertinent advice. They will drink themselves silly and soon we will be free of their attentions.”

She was breathing hard. It was very strange, this difficulty she was having drawing air in and out of her body. And her heart was pounding as if she'd run farther than her body wished to. Her skin felt hot, particularly where his fingers were touching her bare flesh. All of this from a man who was more a stranger than not, and yet she'd just enjoyed having him kiss her, enjoyed having him hold her, enjoyed the strength in his arms and his body pressed hard against hers, and knowing he wouldn't drop her. Ah, more than enjoyment, more than the growing insanity, she'd wanted something that was still a mystery, a deep incredible mystery, a mystery she knew was there, waiting for her, to be granted to her by him.

“Rorik?”

“Aye?”

“I don't understand. Give me another moment, please. I feel quite odd.”

He looked like a man who was immensely pleased with himself. His blue eyes were gleaming brighter than the sky. He stood tall and straight, the lord of his domain, and said loudly, “I will give you whatever you wish.”

Hafter, who had heard their words, hooted with laughter. He turned to Entti, who was looking at him as though he were naught more than a slug to be ground under her foot. “Hear you that, girl? Rorik is so besotted with her that he offers her anything she wants.”

“Well, you needn't worry, conceited oaf, you are quite safe, for never will she want you.”

Hafter narrowed his eyes, riled instantly at the mocking in her voice—her very intelligent voice. “I hope she won't want me, for I plan to be very busy with you in my bed. I will keep you to myself for a while. Hear you!”
he shouted, turning to the men. “This wench is mine. You will have to wait!”

Entti spat at him. Right in the eye.

Hafter, normally a man of good sense and fine humor, yowled. This girl, this slave, this vicious witch he'd always treated well and kindly, even patted absently, had spat on him. He grabbed her arms and jerked her up against him and shook her hard until her head snapped back. “Damn you, Entti, I've held you in my arms and given you more pleasure than you deserve!”

“Pleasure, ha! You're naught but an animal, a filthy selfish beast who cares only for himself. You pass me around as you would a platter of boar steaks! Take yourself to the Christian's hell, wretched bastard.”

He paused. He frowned down at her. “Do you really think I am selfish?”

“All men are alike, all of you selfish goats.”

“I'm not. Surely I gave you pleasure. Surely you must agree with me. And you said I was filthy. No Viking is filthy. I bathe each day in the bathing hut. Yet you must say that I am filthy. What mean you?”

“Let me go, Hafter. You speak a man's nonsense.”

“Not until you answer me. You are a slave. You will show me obeisance and respect. You will answer me, you will—”

He had no warning, no clue, though he should have been more careful, for she was no longer the innocent child who'd smiled at him so simply, so sweetly. There was no smile now. She brought up her knee and kicked him in the groin. She caught him squarely. He yowled again and dropped her.

Entti heard his raw moans, saw him drop to his knees and hug himself. She started to run. She saw the men staring at her. Then she stopped, frowned down at his bent head. “I'm sorry,” she said, and came
down to her haunches in front of him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. “I'm sorry, Hafter, it wasn't well done of me. You are what you are, after all, and I shouldn't have punished you so severely for it.”

He moaned, his head still down. Rorik grimaced, for he and every other man could imagine the relentless waves of nausea that were holding Hafter bent down like a frail old man.

Finally, Hafter said, panting, “No, it wasn't well done of you. Ah, I wish you weren't so smart now.”

“I'm sorry. I had to protect myself. I will no longer allow you or any man to bed me. I cannot do it. It was difficult for me before, but now, I will not be a whore. If you will promise to restrain yourself and what emerges from your mouth, I promise never to do that again. I am sorry.”

“Do you truly not wish to bed me again? Did you truly never wish to bed me? Did you truly never enjoy me?”

“Everyone is listening to you. Be quiet. I shouldn't have blamed you for believing that I would now willingly bed with any of you louts. But it is so. There will be no more of it. Now, stand up, you've mewled quite long enough. You're a man, stand up.”

Hafter stood, with difficulty, but he stood. “I never thought of you as a whore, Entti.”

“Ha! What then, Hafter? Your beloved mother? A virgin come to Hawkfell Island to be admired and worshiped? Forget not, all you ever had to do was snap your fingers and tell me to part my legs and I did. I will do so no longer. Never again. So, Hafter, if you didn't think of me as a whore, then what?”

He just looked at her. “You were Entti, that's all. You were sweet and gentle and gave me all I wished to have. You never yelled at me in anger.”

Entti snorted and turned away from him. “You're a fool,” she said. “Keep your distance!”

Mirana and Rorik could only stare, as did all their other people.

“This is passing strange,” Rorik said, then clasped Mirana's fingers with his. “Why doesn't Hafter clout her? Why does he just look at her so pathetically? By the gods, he would kill a man if he struck him, much less tried to destroy his manhood.”

“He has a care for his hide, though he did sound as though he were dying,” Mirana said.

“He was, or at least he prayed that he would. The pain is beyond normal suffering. It is worse than belly cramps, worse than a knife wound in the shoulder. I wonder what he will do to her once he recovers himself sufficiently. Unlike Hafter, when you tried to unman me, I was fast and saved myself from dire pain. Poor Hafter didn't have a chance. Entti still surprises me.”

“She cooks very well.”

“That doesn't surprise me at all. All you damned women—”

She giggled. It was an odd sound, an unexpected sound. He stared down at her. Slowly, he smiled, showing his even white teeth. Then he leaned down and lightly kissed her mouth.

“Let us go to the food tables and leave Hafter and Entti to sort themselves out.”

 

It was late. The beautiful day had become somber, with dark storm clouds thickening overhead. The wind was whipping up the crops and making the more narrow fir trees bend and sway. The birds had quieted as had the animals and the children. Even Kerzog was still, lying with his big head on his front paws, asleep,
for he'd eaten every scrap of food thrown to him, and still begged for more.

The rain began. It was quickly dark. Rorik was smiling like an idiot, Mirana walking at his side, toward his sleeping chamber.

He fastened a rush torch light to the holder in the wall, then turned to face his wife. Her face was flushed for she'd drunk a bit of his small store of wine from the rich vineyards south of the Seine herself. She looked beautiful. She pleased his eyes and his senses. At the moment, he didn't care why he'd married her. If something was done it was done and nothing could change it, a philosophy his sire had dinned in his ears since he was a boy.