Lord of Hawkfell Island (19 page)

Mirana stood up and picked more straw from her tunic. She badly needed to bathe. Her beautiful wedding gown and overtunic were soiled and wrinkled. She had nothing else to wear. Old Alna frowned at her, but said only, “Hafter is still sleeping. That Entti, now she's afraid that she really hurt him and he won't ever awaken.”

“Hafter is as stubborn as Rorik. He'll awaken all right and then it will all begin again.”

Old Alna regarded her in rheumy silence, saying finally, not unkindly, “Come, little lamb, 'tis time to return to the longhouse. I don't know what will happen, but you have no choice. Come now. All the women await your instructions. They dance on the fire coals, you know, but 'tis not their fault. They all have great liking for Tora. They don't know what to do.”

Mirana followed her into the longhouse. The people were stirring, the men moaning from the surfeit of mead, the women punching at them, some laughing, for the men had been lusty from drink and thus lusty with the women. “Aye,” Old Alna said, “some of the women—the younger ones—are humming and singing and are ready to begin the day. They chirp like happy hens.
The men have nothing more than they deserve.”

Mirana only nodded. She began the morning tasks, setting the various women to work, careful to avoid looking toward Rorik, who was awake now and speaking to his brother. What else was there to say to him? Or Merrik to him? Were they deciding who was to kill her? Would they draw lots? She was stirring the porridge that was steaming nicely in the heavy iron pot suspended over the fire pit when she felt him near her. He'd said nothing; she hadn't heard him approach; she just felt him there, right behind her. She stilled, waiting.

“I will go to the bathing hut now. There is straw in your hair and on your clothes. Your gown is soiled.”

“I know,” she said.

“My parents still sleep in my chamber. I will fetch you what you need.”

She turned slowly then, looking up at him. He'd said
my
chamber, not our chamber. “There is nothing there for you to fetch. I have no other clothes.”

He looked as if he would say something, then closed his mouth. “The porridge smells good. It is a relief that the food is again fit for men to eat.”

She only nodded.

“Hafter is groaning, only his pain is from an iron pan and not from indulging in too much mead. You will cease your interference. If he wishes to have Entti, he will have her. She is a slave. Before she slept with any man who would bed her, and all wanted her. It is no different now. Indeed, Hafter would have her to himself until he tires of her. I have given her to him. Cease your plaints. You can no longer protect her. It is I who will determine who and what she will be, not you.”

“She won't be a whore again, Rorik.”

“She will be what I order her to be. Nay, now she will be what Hafter wishes. She belongs to him. Do you understand?”

“Do not order her to be a whore. She cannot do it. It is different now. Don't let Hafter shame her.”

“You will not interfere. Gurd is right in this instance. You are the cause of this. You will leave her alone and cease your meddling.”

He left her, saying nothing more. She instructed a slave to fetch him towels and leave them in the outer chamber of the bathing hut.

S
HE WENT ABOUT
her work, every once in a while plucking off another straw from her hair or from her clothing. When Entti began mixing dough for the flatbread—so many loaves needed that it was mixed in a deep wooden trough—Mirana saw that she too was still dressed as she had been the night before.

She went to her and said only, her voice low, “We will leave when it is possible. You were right last night, there is nothing for either of us here now.”

Entti only nodded. Mirana knew she understood, for she'd seen Rorik speaking to her. She knew that she now belonged to Hafter, that no choice remained to her.

“Perhaps tonight when all of the men are drinking again. The storm has blown itself out.”

“Aye,” Entti said. She looked at her straightly now. “You must take care, Mirana. I am afraid one of them might try to kill you before tonight.”

“I will get my knife from Rorik's trunk when his parents leave his sleeping chamber. I will steal one for you, Entti. Also, if you can, set food and water aside for us to take with us. It will be a long journey.”

Entti nodded, wondering where they would go. Certainly not back to Clontarf, for Mirana knew what
awaited her there. She didn't ask. Mirana would decide where they would go, and this time they would succeed.

But an hour later, Rorik came to Mirana and said, “Here is a gown that belongs to Asta. It is now yours. Asta says she and Erna will make new gowns for both you and Entti. Come now to the bathing hut. It is very hot in here and your face is red.”

She didn't want to go with him. She was afraid that when she was naked and vulnerable, when they were alone, he would kill her. Her heart pounded as she walked beside him. But she'd managed to retrieve her knife after his parents had left the sleeping chamber. It was something; she prayed she would be strong enough to use it.

His father and mother had ignored her completely when they'd emerged from Rorik's sleeping chamber, and she'd set a slave to serving them. There had been no sign as yet of Sira. Rorik's brother had left the longhouse not to return as yet.

“You have already bathed,” she said, stepping outside into the bright morning sunlight.

“Aye,” he said, not looking at her.

“There is no need for you to accompany me.”

“There is.”

He would kill her. His family had convinced him that she was as evil as Einar, as untrustworthy, as foul. She didn't want to die, not by his hand, not now. Nor did she want to leave Hawkfell Island.

But there was no choice for her. She wondered if he would choke her or stick a knife into her heart. She knew, too, that she would protect herself, and that brought her more pain than she wished to consider.

When they were in the outer room of the bathing hut, he told two of his father's men who were there,
naked and still wet from their bath, to get out.

Once alone, he said, “I will help you.” She stood quietly while he unfastened the brooches that held her tunic to her shoulders. She stood quietly when he unfastened her belt and held out his hand for her knife. He said nothing about the knife though he must know that she'd gotten it from his trunk. She looked at his hand, then at her knife. In that moment, she knew she couldn't strike him with that knife. She simply couldn't do it. She handed him the knife. If he killed her, then so be it.

She stood quietly when he lifted her gown over her head. Only when she was naked, did she move. She cried out, seeing him look at her, no emotion in his clear blue eyes, no hint of how he meant to kill her. She ran into the inner chamber and pressed herself against the far wall. Steam rose and she couldn't see him clearly.

“Mirana!”

She dropped to her knees, pressing herself even more firmly against the wall, her hair cascading down to cover her face.

“Come here and I will bathe you.”

Bathe her? She frowned. So he wanted her to be clean whilst he killed her? Or was it a ruse?

She rose, pushing back her hair, knowing that if he were lulled, she could slip by him and into the outer chamber. Her knife was there, lying on the bench with her clothing. She would grab both and run. Surely there was someplace to hide on the island.

But he wasn't lulled. He took her arm as if he weren't aware of her fear, and stood her in front of him. He dumped a bucket of hot water over her, then began to wash her. She was so stiff, so afraid, that she didn't at first realize that he was also now naked.

When she did, she nearly doubled over with fear. He would rape her, then kill her.

“Nay,” she said, but he was washing her face and she got soapy water in her mouth.

“Nay what?”

“Don't rape me first.”

Rorik rubbed his soapy hands over her breasts, then downward to her belly and lower to her soft woman's flesh. His fingers were light and teasing and when he eased his middle finger, thick with soap, upward and high inside her, she jerked back from him, crying out.

“I will rape you if you force me to,” he said, his finger tingling from the feel of her, the heat of her body. He wanted her now. “Come here.”

He felt violent; unreasoned rage flowed through him; he could feel the savage heat of his blood. He also felt more uncertainty than he'd ever felt in his life. He felt as though he were dying, not of wounds valiantly gained, but from deep inside him where there was naught but emptiness and pain and regret and guilt. He hadn't been there to save Inga or his babes. He hadn't succeeded in killing Einar. Nay, he'd wedded Einar's sister, a foul creature who'd worked her wiles on him. He had watched her withdraw from him, watched her blank her expression, watched her pull completely apart from him. She'd remained hidden the previous night, leaving him to deal with the uproar she'd caused. It was then he smelled her fear. She deserved the fear.

“Come here,” he said again, and his body was pulsing with lust, his heart was pounding in his chest, and he was near to panting with need. He was on the edge of violence. He wanted her now, and he would have her.

She didn't move, just stood there, trying to cover herself, shaking her head.

He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the bench against the wall. She was still covered with soap and very slippery. She jerked away from him, but he caught her and slammed her against the wall beside the bench. He pulled her hard against him, forcing her legs to straddle his thighs. He thrust two fingers up into her and felt her flinch with pain. But she didn't make a sound. He was swelled hard, painfully full, and he didn't wait. The violence in him erupted. He lifted her, then violently forced her down onto him, impaling her, pushing into her, his hands digging into her hips, until he was touching her womb, and it was easy, this powerful entry of his, and he didn't hurt her, for she was slick with soap. Then he clasped her to his chest. He worked her, but it wasn't long, just a few strokes of his sex deep inside her, for his lust was part of his violence and he couldn't contain either. He yelled his release, feeling his own pain and fury, the grinding helplessness of it, all pouring out of him.

He lifted her off him. He dropped his hands from her hips as if he couldn't bear to touch her more. He staggered away from her, sat on the bench and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. His breath was harsh, deep and raw. He felt the drain in his body, the easing in his mind. But still his heart pounded so fiercely he wondered if he would die. No woman had brought him to such violence before. He hated himself for it, and her, hated her for who she was and what she'd brought him to. There was no fairness in what he had done, but he didn't care. He was, in these few moments, beyond guilt and thought, emptied of violence and savagery.

Mirana, free of him, stumbled, nearly falling, as she turned to run. She stopped suddenly. She felt his seed
on her legs, could still feel the pounding of him so deep inside her. She grabbed more soap and scrubbed him out of her body, scrubbed herself until her flesh was raw. Then she took buckets of hot water and rinsed herself thoroughly. She looked up then to see him staring at her. There was no smile on his mouth, no expression in his eyes, languid now, even dazed. Then he slowly straightened. He would kill her now. He raised his arm, thick with muscle, deadly with strength. She cried out and raced out of the inner chamber.

Rorik didn't move for a very long time.

 

The afternoon was warm, the sun bright overhead, the storm but a memory now. Mirana sat outside the longhouse, in the shade of the overhead beams. She looked to see Tora, Rorik's mother, walking toward her. She was a tall woman, hair so blond it shone nearly white beneath the bright afternoon sun. She was deep-bosomed, her face once lovely, but now there were bitter lines scarring the flesh about her eyes and mouth. She looked hard and unforgiving.

Tora's shoulders were squared, her step firm, her lips thin in their meager line. Mirana drew herself up, knowing that she was to be attacked, but knowing too there was nothing she could do about it. She set down the gown she was stitching. It was a pale blue wool and she thought the material beautiful, a present from Old Alna, who'd been hoarding it for herself for more years than she could count.

Mirana stared at Tora, wishing she could make her believe she wished her or her family no harm, wishing she could convince her that she was innocent of her brother's crimes. She opened her mouth, but Tora forestalled her. The woman stood in front of her, blocking out the sun.

“I have come to warn you,” she said, nothing more, just those few stark words.

Mirana merely nodded.

“Sira will kill you, very soon now. I cannot stop her.”

“You warn me so that I will leave?”

“Aye. Leave. Now. If you die, my son will feel but more guilt. He is innocent of any evil. He is a good man and I don't want him hurt more or beguiled by a woman with no honor.”

Mirana looked away from Tora, out over the water, which was a glittering blue-green under the bright sun, and calm, for there was little wind today. For an instant she smiled, for there were pinwheels spinning and diving over the water. “Do you now believe that I didn't trick Rorik into wedding with me?”

“Of that crime, you are innocent. Rorik said that you came to him a virgin, and that on the night of your wedding. No, you are not a slut, more's the pity. Sira still refuses to believe it. Leave, Mirana, else she will kill you. Or you will kill her because you must save yourself. To kill her would destroy Rorik. He has known her all her life, has known that she loves him and wanted to wed him, but he wed you and thus he hurt her badly. It would force him to seek but more vengeance were you to kill her. Stop it, Mirana. Leave now.”

“Very well.”

The woman looked stunned. “You agree?” she said, uncertainty and surprise in her voice.

“I want no more pain for Rorik. He doesn't deserve it.”

“No he doesn't.”

Then there was a shadow behind Mirana and she turned, afraid it was Sira, a knife raised, but it was
Merrik, Rorik's brother. He was broad-shouldered and tall, and would become as large as Rorik when he gained his full man years. He was hard, no warmth in his eyes, no giving in his mouth.

“Don't accept her lies, Mother,” he said, so much rage in his voice that Mirana knew in that moment that his family would never change, that there would never be any hope for her, for Rorik.

“She will leave, Merrik. She has agreed to.”

Merrik looked around quickly, then said, “I'm pleased that Rorik isn't here. I don't know what he would do if he heard she was willing to go. But I don't trust her, Mother. She probably lies. She will go to Rorik and plead and cast her woman's spells over him and make him forget what he owes to Inga, to his dead babes, to us.”

“What does he owe to them, Merrik?” Mirana said, her voice low, steady.

“He owes them vengeance!”

“I agree. But why do you think I am deserving of punishment as well?”

“You will be quiet, you damned slut! You have torn my brother apart with your lies and your promises and your false understanding.”

Mirana sighed. There was no hope for it. “That isn't true, Merrik, none of it. However, as I told your mother, I will leave. I don't want Rorik to be hurt any more than you have hurt him by bringing him back such pain.”

“My two small grandchildren were impaled on your brother's sword! Such beautiful babes, so happy and full of life, and your brother butchered them!”

“I know,” Mirana said. “But heed me. I am Rorik's wife. When I leave I will still be his wife. He needs children, Tora. He needs happiness. He needs a union free of guilt and pain, one blessed by the gods. What will
you do for him then? Give him more reasons to hate? More reasons to keep remembering that awful time? More guilt until he manages to kill my half-brother? When will it stop, Tora?”

“Your death would be a start,” Sira said, coming to stand beside Tora. “I don't want you to go, Mirana. I want you to die. By my hand, by Rorik's, I care not.”

“Be quiet, Sira,” Tora said, shaking off the girl's hand. “Your vengeance is mixed with jealousy; it isn't pure or noble. You speak with a mouth full of envy.”