Lord of Hawkfell Island (17 page)

Rorik looked momentarily annoyed, then he shrugged and smiled. He wrapped a long tress of her damp hair around his fingers. “So very black,” he said. “Rich and deep as the night.” He raised the tress to his mouth, stroking it over his lips. He inhaled the scent. “Sweet,” he said. “I dislike the braids. Leave your hair long and free.”

She smiled up at him. “Very well.”

“Ah, she becomes easier than a babe in arms,” Gurd said, chewing on a piece of warm bread. “But be careful of her, Rorik, do not forget that she is capable of killing a man after she bestows a smile upon him.”

“Rorik always tames his women,” Sculla said, looking down at them from his nearly seven-foot height. “This one would be no different.”

“You men,” Amma said, standing on her tiptoes to cuff her husband's head. “I prefer—all the women do—to think it's Lord Rorik who is tamed.”

“Nay,” said Aslak, “ 'tis Lord Rorik who understands where the power lies here, and he will teach his wife obedience even as he gives her smiles.”

“All of you will hold your tongues,” Rorik said. “She
is at ease at the moment, but if you needle her pride, she will stick a knife in my gullet. Show her respect else I'll be the one to suffer for it.”

There was more good-natured laughter. Rorik joined his men. Old Alna filled a wooden bowl with porridge, poured honey over it, and took it to the master. She cackled when she gave him the bowl. “Aye, a fine time you had last night! The little mistress made you into a limp fish, didn't she?”

“How would you know? I saw you snoring in the corner yesterday, your mouth on its hinges so wide flies were buzzing about your remaining teeth. You didn't even awaken when Kerzog barked in your face.”

But Old Alna just laughed and laughed, then spat on the packed earth.

Mirana stood there by the fire pit, the heat pouring off the burning embers making her sweat, uncertain what to do. She was the mistress here, but all had been taken care of. She looked for Entti, finding her at last by Asta, who was standing next to Erna, winding the warp on the upright loom. Entti stood on her other side, loading a shuttle with thread from a distaff. Rorik was with his men. Even Kerzog was at his place at Rorik's feet, his big head resting on his paws. Should she join him? Aye, she thought. She was his wife and mistress of Hawkfell. She belonged here. She belonged next to her husband.

He was seated in his ornately carved chair, his bowl settled on his thigh. She sat next to him on the wide bench that lined the wall of the longhouse, and listened to him speaking with Kron, the man who'd come from King Sitric's court in Dublin, the man who'd told him of Einar's treachery, the man who had probably, with his news, been responsible for Rorik wedding her. She
accepted that. She wasn't silly or a lovestruck maiden. She respected Rorik, even found his body—ungoverned though it be—quite to her liking, and it was enough.

Kron shut his mouth when he saw her.

R
ORIK FROWNED AT
him. “Come, Kron, I wish the details. Tell me.”

Kron merely nodded toward Mirana.

“I wish to hear them as well,” she said, her chin going up. “Since it is my brother's treachery, it is my right.”

“He is your half-brother,” Rorik said. “Do not taint yourself overly with his blood. Tell us both, Kron.”

Kron still looked uncertain. “With her gone, and once the king learns of it, he will kill Einar, or rather his advisor, Hormuze, will have Einar killed. From all I saw, it is Hormuze who decides who is to do what and when, the king included. His influence is very strong, this foreigner with his strange name and his long gray beard and his mystic's eyes.”

“No!” Rorik's anger was clear and bright. He slammed his fist against his thigh. “No, he cannot. Einar is mine. By all the gods, I will have him. I must have him.”

Kron sat forward, his voice pitched low. “Nonetheless, what I have said is true. My lord, I do not believe that Hormuze or the king will accept any excuses from Einar. Sitric grows old and he is greedy, and he is desperate for sons. He is desperate for the renewed youth Hormuze promises him. Hormuze is more a mystic
than an advisor, and he's convinced the king that he will have renewed youth. He has convinced the king that he must have the woman—this woman, Mirana, daughter of Audun—by the first day of the fall, so that her youth and her purity will cleanse him, make him healthy again, restore his vigor. He prophesied that September was the month to wed her. The woman had to be her—Mirana, daughter of Audun—no other virgin would do. He promised the king she would bear him sons, proud and strong and brave. The king believes him, doubt it not, and thus, when you were at Clontarf hoping to find Einar, Einar was in Dublin, at the king's behest, making his contracts and his agreements.

“I chanced to overhear this old man, Hormuze, talking to one of his private guard. He said that he would pay a visit at the end of the summer to Einar and take her then. He doesn't trust Einar either, though he gave no reasons for his distrust. He said he knew she would be safe until the fall. He said he knew Einar could have no overweening desire for her, after all.

“And then he laughed and laughed, an old man's bloated laugh. I assume he laughed because she is of Einar's blood, but still, I don't understand it, not really. There is naught more, my lord.”

Rorik ate his porridge in thoughtful silence. Finally, he said, “You have done well, Kron. You will visit your family now?”

Kron's wife and three babes all lived just beyond the salt marshes on a large farm owned by Kron's parents.

“Aye, my lord, if it pleases you. When you act against Einar, you will have me fetched?”

“I will.”

Rorik turned to Mirana once Kron had left them. “The porridge is good.”

“Aye.”

“It is odd,” he said after a moment, staring off toward his men, who were eating their porridge or playing with the children or polishing their swords. “The king or this foreign advisor of his, Hormuze, will doubtless kill Einar, if they can, thus saving me from the risk of trying again. Ah, Mirana, I cannot allow it. You understand, do you not? It is I who must wipe his life's blood on my hands. I must be the one to speed him to his coward's death, and spill his blood in the earth. All those he butchered demand that I avenge them.”

She understood him very well. She nodded. She ate her last bite of porridge. “Do you yet have a plan?”

He shook his head.

“It doesn't matter yet. You heard Kron say that the king and Hormuze wouldn't move till the end of summer. Perhaps the old king will die before then. He is very old, Rorik. I met both the king and Hormuze earlier this year. They were both old. Very old. I disliked the king.”

Suddenly he grinned at her. “I've heard he's wicked enough to outlive us all. In wickedness he is old, but not overly so in his years. A man overaged with guile and battles and treachery. But enough of him for the moment. Perhaps you and I could spend a little time learning about each other, about what it is like to have me for your husband. What say you?”

Her voice was firm and strong, her eyes on his mouth. “I would like that, Rorik.”

“Mirana,” he said, his voice low, warning. “Look not at me like that. It is early morning and there is much to be done. I must see to the fields and to hunting. Also when you and Entti stole one of my warships, you damaged it. I must see to its repairs.”

“I know, but it is not badly damaged, merely the one plank came loose when we pulled the boat ashore. Ah, look, there is Hafter going to Entti. I wonder what she will do to him.”

“Or he to her.”

“Do you believe Hafter is agile enough in his brain to outsmart her?”

“You females,” Rorik said, and stood. “None of you is to be trusted.” He grunted, then leaned down and kissed her mouth, and strode out of the longhouse, shouting for his men as he went.

 

Mirana stood still as a statue, staring down the winding path to the sea. Rorik stood on the end of the long wooden dock with a dozen of his men and a dozen more men she'd never seen before, laughing and talking, a line of bass held in his right hand, and in his left hand, he held a girl's hand, a long graceful hand, and the girl was beautiful with her white-blond hair to her waist, thick and curling, nearly silver beneath the brilliant sun, and her slender body that was fully endowed, her breasts so full they strained against the soft linen tunic she wore.

She was laughing as she looked up at him. Behind her were an older man and woman, and one younger man. They all resembled each other, but then again, Mirana thought, they were Vikings and they were all blond and blue-eyed, tall and strong. Only she was the different one—like her Irish mother, short with hair as black as a lump of coal.

“Ah,” said Old Alna, at Mirana's shoulder. “They've come. I wondered if they would visit this summer. That's Rorik's mother, Tora, and father, Harald, and his younger brother, Merrik. Aye, he has only your years, Mirana, but a great warrior he will be. His
passions run strong, stronger than Lord Rorik's, for he yet has to learn to control them. The girl is Sira—look how beautiful she's become. Even more beautiful than before. Ah, a little princess, that one, proud and knows her own worth.”

“Who is she?”

“Rorik's cousin, daughter of Dorn, brother of Rorik's father. Her mother died birthing her, her father was killed on a raid to Kiev. Lord Rorik's parents took her in. She must be all of eighteen summers now. That is your age, is it not? Ah, what a pretty she is.”

“She seems very fond of Rorik.”

Old Alna gave her a sideways look, then gave her now familiar scrappy shrug followed by an arcing spit that landed at the base of a yew bush. She patted Mirana's arm as she said, “She thought to wed with Rorik after Inga died. She was there, wanting Rorik, quite willing to wed with him, aye, I think she even sought out his bed, but his grief held him apart, his grief and his rage and guilt, and he refused to have her. You must never doubt him, Mirana, for now he has you.”

“Aye,” Mirana said, “now he has me.” She turned away and walked down the path to greet her new relatives. She was aware of Old Alna's rheumy eyes following her.

She saw Rorik suddenly pick the girl up in his arms, hug her tightly and whirl her about. The line of bass fell to the ground, to be picked up by his brother, who was laughing and shaking his head.

She watched Rorik kiss the girl on her laughing mouth. She kept walking down the path, feeling very much like an outsider. There was a smile on her mouth. It didn't reach her eyes.

* * *

Mirana slowly walked inside the low timbered barn that stood just behind the longhouse. There was sufficient hay for the six cows, the two oxen, the two horses and three goats. Ploughshares were stacked neatly against one wall. There were iron blades for the ploughs and axes to chop wood and clear the fields. She'd escaped here, she knew it, freely admitted it to herself. She stood there in the middle of the dimly lit barn, simply staring at the hay spilling over the top of the wooden troughs. It was early summer, warm sunlit days, with enough rain to make the crops grow fully.

“You are wed to Rorik.”

Mirana looked up to see Sira, so beautiful in her fairness, her face framed in a fall of silver hair, that it hurt to look at her. She was alone. She must have followed me here, Mirana thought. “Aye,” Mirana said, “we were wed only yesterday.”

“I know. I had wished to make our yearly visit earlier this time, for I am old enough to be wed, but Rorik's mother fell ill and thus . . .” She shrugged, but her eyes weren't at all accepting. They were deep and hot with rage. She looked Mirana up and down, and the rage was momentarily banked. “You look like a foreign slave. I have never cared for dark-haired women. I have always believed they look coarse, overly used.”

Mirana walked back outside, Sira on her heels. She looked beyond her toward a splendid flock of goldeneyes, ducks who dove into the sea with more skill than any other bird. “I am pleased that Rorik's family is here. They seem kind.”

Suddenly, without warning, Sira grabbed Mirana's wrist and jerked her toward her, twisting viciously. She was stronger than she looked. Mirana was but inches from her face, and so surprised by the girl's actions that she didn't move.

“Listen to me, slut, you have somehow tricked Rorik into wedding with you. You are coarse and common and you parted your legs for him and now you carry his child and that is why he felt he had to marry you. But he will see what you are, he will realize that his parents—aye, his entire family—hate what you are, whose blood it is that flows through you, and he will send you away, very soon now. His parents were kind to you, for they were pleased that at last Rorik seems content with life, and they want him to be content, to find some peace, but at the same time they will never forget their grief for Inga and his babes, and nor will Rorik, not really, not in the depths of him. They won't allow him to either, not until the man who butchered them is dead.

“Even though they wanted me for their new daughter, they were willing to accept you until they realized who you were—the black-haired witch who is blooded with our enemy, aye, they know now who you are, they ask themselves if you knew about your brother's deeds, if you approved of them. They will see to it that you are returned to your brother.”

She leaned closer, and her breath was hot and sweet on Mirana's face. “Or perhaps Rorik will kill you. Perhaps I will kill you. But you will be gone, witch, soon you will be gone. Then Rorik will be mine as he should have been.”

Sira flung Mirana away from her, turned on her heel and walked back to the longhouse. She didn't look back.

Mirana stood there rubbing her wrist. She realized quickly enough that Sira had spoken the truth, for when she returned to the longhouse, knowing it was her responsibility to see that a feast was properly prepared for her new family, she saw it on their faces
when she came inside. There was coldness now where there had been warmth and acceptance before. There was now contempt and hatred where there had been smiles and kind words and welcome.

Rorik's brother, Merrik, filled with passion, Old Alna had told her, looked on the edge of violence as he gazed at her. He stopped his talk with Gurd and stared at her, his look malignant. His hand went to the knife belted to his waist. Harald and Tora, Rorik's parents, stopped speaking to Rorik when they saw her, and there was stillness on his mother's face, utter frozen stillness. Harald's face, so much like Rorik's, lean and strong and expressive, was now empty of any feeling that she could see. He lowered his blue eyes—eyes the same vivid bright blue as Rorik's—as if he couldn't bear to look upon her.

She waited for Rorik to do something, anything, to stop this madness, this injustice, but he remained still and silent as his parents.

Entti came to her, and smiled. “I have seen to the preparations of the boar steaks and the hare and line of bass. We also will have a lot of beer and a bit of wine from the Rhine. There are vegetables aplenty—stewed onions and mushrooms, cabbage, and turnips that Utta—that sweet child and now your little sister—seasoned with cloudberries and a strange liquid she squeezes from the roots of this bush whose name I don't know. She just smiled and wouldn't tell me, said it was one of her mother's secrets. Ah, and there is flatbread, hot and ready for thick goat cheese—”

It was too much. Mirana laid her hand on Entti's arm. “Thank you, Entti. You are kind, but it won't help.”

Entti cursed softly, saying, “It was Gurd who told them. He is angry with you, afraid that you will keep
him from taking me. He rants on about how he is a man and you are naught but a woman and I am naught but a slave.”

Mirana said nothing. She was watching Rorik, who had turned away from her and was speaking low to his parents. His younger brother had joined them. Sira stood nearby, a wooden cup of mead in her hand. She was smiling as she stared into the cup.

Old Alna came to Mirana then and said, “We will begin to feed everyone shortly. Lord Rorik will give his chair to his father. And then—”