Lord of Hawkfell Island (20 page)

Merrik said slowly, his eyes on his cousin, whose features were twisted with hatred, “I had considered wedding with you for I believed your beauty great. But now you have no more beauty for me, for you have no more kindness of spirit. I don't wish to have you now, Sira.” He turned then and walked away from them, his mother staring openmouthed after him.

“I didn't realize he wanted you,” she said to Sira. “Now it doesn't matter, for you have lost him.”

“I care not,” Sira said, her eyes still on Mirana. “I will have Rorik once she is gone.”

“I don't think so,” Mirana said. “Alna told me that Rorik wouldn't have you after his wife was killed. Why would he have you now?”

Sira's breath came out in an ugly gasp. She jumped at Mirana, her hand hard and flat striking her cheek, throwing her from her stool and onto her back on the ground. She was on top of her, straddling her, slapping her, sending her fist into her breasts, her belly.

Mirana heard Tora yelling. She felt Sira's blows, then the rising of tears in her eyes. She had to stop this. Quickly, in a move Gunleik had taught her years before, she brought her knees up, striking Sira hard against her back, and at the same moment, she sent her fist into the girl's throat. Sira gave a strangled
cry, grabbed her throat and fell off Mirana onto her side, gurgling and clutching her throat, for she couldn't breathe.

Mirana rolled to the other side and came up to her knees, panting as she stared at Sira, knowing that within a few moments, she would be all right again, and wondering if she would attack her again. She slowly drew her knife from its sheath at her belt.

When Sira regained her breath, when the pain in her back receded, when she looked at Mirana, she stilled at the sight of the knife.

“You filthy slut.”

“Come here, Sira,” Mirana said, her voice low and dangerous, beckoning her with her hand. “Aye, come here, and this time I won't be so very gentle. I will stick this knife into your cheek—aye, I'll mark you so you won't believe yourself such a goddess among women any longer. I will make you as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside. Aye, come here, Sira.” Mirana tossed the knife from her right hand to her left, and back again. She knew she was taunting her, but she didn't care. She didn't want to be a victim, not anymore.

“So, you will knife my cousin?”

It was Rorik, fetched by his mother, and she was panting beside him from exertion.

“Aye, if she forces me to.”

“Give me the knife, Mirana. I should never have allowed you to keep it. You stole it from my trunk and like a fool I allowed you to keep it with you. You are too ungoverned in your passions, too unpredictable, mayhap too vicious.”

Mirana stared up at him. Without a word, she gave him the knife, sticking it toward him, its handle first. He took it, staring at her, surprise in his eyes. In the
next moment, Sira jumped at her, sending her fist into her jaw.

Rorik wondered if the world had always been mad or if the gods had plunged him into a nightmare that would never end. He tossed the knife to the ground, grabbed Sira beneath her arms and dragged her off Mirana. She was panting with rage, and he shook her.

“Stop it! Enough!”

She cried out and twisted in his arms, wrapping her own around his back, pressing herself against him. “Oh Rorik, she is vicious, evil. I was but protecting myself. She hurt me. I couldn't let her believe me a coward. Save me, Rorik!”

He pressed her hard against him. He looked at Mirana and saw that her face was pale, without expression. He watched her slowly rise, feel her jaw with her fingers, then work it open and closed a few times. He saw her pick up her knife, sheath it again at her waist, turn without a word, and walk away. He started to call after her, demand that she give him back the knife, but he said nothing. He remembered thinking on their wedding night that he should return her knife to her, remembered being surprised that she—a woman—would consider a knife as part of her clothing, but he'd forgotten it in his need for her. He watched her walk away from him, walk away from the madness that was within him and surrounded him and seemed to infect the very earth he stood on. Her shoulders were as square as a quarried stone.

Aye, he thought, the world was surely mad, at least his world was, so mad in its madness that sense was nonsense and nothing had meaning anymore, nothing
at all. This mad world was also without hope. He held Sira whilst she sobbed, aware of her body against his, aware that he felt no desire, no burgeoning lust, nothing but immense pain that wouldn't go away.

“T
ONIGHT
,” E
NTTI SAID
quietly to Mirana as she passed her, a platter of boar steaks on her arms.

Mirana merely nodded. “When all are asleep. But what of Hafter?”

Entti shrugged but Mirana wasn't fooled. There was both worry and another emotion in her eyes Mirana couldn't identify, but it puzzled her. Entti said, shrugging yet again, her eyes on a boar steak that was close to the edge of the platter, “I will deal with the lout if he forces me to.” She turned, and began serving with the other women.

And what of Rorik? Mirana thought. She looked across the longhouse to see him sitting between his brother and his father, only this time they were all silent. He wasn't eating, merely sitting there, drinking the sweet red wine from the Rhineland his father had brought him as a gift. She wanted to tell him not to drink too much of it, for it would make him ill. Ah, but she could imagine how he would look at her if she even approached him, much less expressed concern for him. She felt sorry for him, but there was naught she could do. He'd avoided her since the scene several hours before. As for Sira, she was seated next to Rorik's father, head down, picking at her food, her
beautiful hair clean and glimmering again in the rush torch light.

Mirana filled her own plate and joined the women. Asta said, “The gown becomes you more than it ever did me, Mirana. I think it's because of that black hair of yours and your skin that's whiter than the goat's milk I'm drinking.”

“You just wait until she finishes the blue wool I gave her,” said Old Alna. “Your gown is poor and miserable when compared to that blue wool. Aye, it's the color my eyes used to be when I was young. Then I was more beautiful than the lot of you.”

Erna said, giggling through the fingers of her one good hand, “There is no one to tell us if she speaks the truth, for any who would know are all dead now.”

“The wool probably has holes in it you've hoarded it for so long,” Asta said and laughed, poking the old woman lightly on her scrawny arm. “Aye, I believe you had it when you were young and had all your teeth and a man about to warm you, but Alna, none of us can remember, it was so many decades ago, just as Erna said. How can you remember?”

“You'll talk and talk, won't you, Asta! Well, look you to Gurd, a mangy one, that man.”

“Aye, but he's strong and hard in my bed, Alna.”

“You'll grow old and lose your teeth, you'll see.”

Asta laughed and laughed.

So very normal, Mirana thought. It was as though this part of the longhouse was in a world completely apart from Rorik's. These women didn't hate her. It seemed too that they'd made a choice. They'd chosen her over Tora. She looked over at Amma, the leader of the women's revolt, a woman she'd trust with her life. Her husband, Sculla, so tall Mirana felt like a child
standing next to him, wasn't always a reasonable man, though he hadn't even slept with Entti. She wondered if there was still acrimony between them.

Utta said shyly, “Your recipe for the sauce is delicious, Mirana. Would you let me watch you make it next time?”

Mirana smiled and nodded. She looked over at Entti, silent as a stone, and she knew she was forcing herself to eat because she knew she would need her strength. Her rich brown hair hid her face, a long thick curtain falling forward to touch her forearm. Hafter was also staring at Entti, like a hungry goat, Entti had told her earlier, her voice sour and frustrated.

Mirana forced herself to eat as well. She knew that Entti had stolen food and water and hidden it down near one of the smaller longboats. Mirana still had to steal another knife, but she knew it would be no problem. Once the men were asleep, many of them sodden with drink, she would easily be able to slip a knife out of a sheath. Rorik had let her keep her knife to her, saying nothing, and for that she was grateful. She wondered why he'd let her. Didn't he fear that she would slip it between Sira's ribs still?

She ate and sipped sparingly at the rich mead. She listened to the women talk of smoking herring, arguing over which wood smoke was the most flavorful—oak or fir. She watched Rorik's parents and his brother, Merrik, and Sira, the violence in them silenced now, but for how much longer? It was like an armed camp, and she was the enemy, just out of reach, but not for long. Every once in a while, Sira raised her head and looked straight at Mirana. Tora was silent, withdrawn. Mirana ached for the older woman. Her position in all this was damnable.

Mirana oversaw the cleaning of the plates and pans and pots. There was always a seemingly endless supply. Finally, she dismissed the slaves and sent the other women off to their beds. She sought out Entti and the two of them took blankets to the far corner of the longhouse, not far from the front doors.

Mirana lay there, her heart pounding, wondering what would happen. In her experience the gods didn't suddenly smile upon a mortal's plans and allow them to act and succeed. The gods weren't like that. When she looked up to see Rorik standing over her, she wasn't surprised. He was either here to rape her or to kill her. She had rather hoped that his mother would keep him away from her. Tora believed she would leave, trusted her to leave.

Had Merrik said anything to Rorik about her promise? Had he told his brother that he didn't believe her, that he knew she was lying?

“What do you want, Rorik?”

“You. Come with me. We will sleep in the barn.”

Entti stiffened beside her but remained quiet, pretending sleep.

He continued, “As for her, Hafter will come for her shortly. He won't bear with her woman's deceit any longer.”

He reached out his hand to her. Mirana looked at that hand, strong, browned from the summer sun, a large hand, a man's hand that could soothe as easily as it could kill.

“I want to stay here, Rorik. I wish to sleep.”

“I care not what you want. Come.”

Mirana came up onto her knees. Her knife was at her waist. She would do what she had to do.

He took her hand and pulled her upright. He held her close, staring down at her. His eyes darkened, then
cleared. “Come,” he said again, and pulled her after him from the longhouse.

They were nearly to the barn. The moon was bright overhead. Mirana knew they must leave this night. There would be no better chance, but Rorik . . . what to do with her husband, a man she no longer knew, a man whose every action frightened her?

He pulled her into the barn and closed the door. The animals were silent. He said nothing, merely pulled her down atop a pile of straw. He didn't bother undressing her. He merely pulled up her gown to her waist and shoved up her shift. He sat back on his heels and stared at her.

“You are beautiful,” he said, frowning. He laid his palm on her belly, then let his fingers widen outward to touch her pelvic bones. He massaged her for a long time, his gaze intent, saying nothing more, then his fingers went lower, found her and she sucked in her breath at the feel of him against her flesh. She'd not imagined anything like this. It was near pain, it was so intense, and she wanted more of it, until . . . until something happened. What that was, she didn't know, but she wanted it. She felt hot and damp-fleshed and it was disconcerting, this reaction of her body to his fingers. It was wonderful.

“I don't know what to do,” he said suddenly, his voice filled with anger. Without another word, he pulled open his trousers and fell over her. He was pressing at her, opening her, and she began to struggle against him, all the intense feelings swamped in fear.

In that moment a cramp seized her belly and she cried out, trying to lurch up.

He came up onto his elbows. “Stop fighting me.” She was breathing hard, truly frightened now, but not of him. “What is wrong?”

“My belly,” she managed, shoving at him. He rolled off her and watched as another cramp doubled her over. She rolled to her side, her arms locked about herself, crying out softly.

He frowned. “What is wrong?”

“I don't know. It hurts, Rorik.” The cramps came more quickly now, more viciously. Suddenly, she gagged, and came up onto her knees. She vomited her dinner, vomited until there was naught left in her belly and still she shuddered and gagged and heaved.

He held her shoulders, keeping her hair away from her sweating face. He felt the bone-deep shudders in her, the wrenching of her belly that spread throughout her body, making her weak.

Still she heaved until she was so weak she fell back against his chest.

“ 'Twas something you ate,” he said. “There must be others who are ill. Lie still. I will fetch you some water to clean out your mouth. Don't move, Mirana.”

When Rorik returned, he held her against him and slowly fed her water from a wooden cup. She spat it out, then swallowed some. Her belly cramped immediately and she moaned.

“Asta is sick,” he said. “No one else.”

Mirana said nothing. She just wanted to die. She closed her eyes, her head lolling against his chest.

“I'm carrying you back to my sleeping chamber. My parents will sleep in the outer hall.”

But then it would be more difficult for her to escape, she thought, but it wasn't a strong thought, merely a vague thought that went softly through her mind and was soon gone. A cramp twisted inside her and she knew then she would die. She couldn't bear this sort
of pain, no one could bear it. It was beyond anything she could have imagined.

She was ill throughout the night. She was aware that Rorik's mother was there, and she put a cup to her lips and told her to drink, that it was an herb—the root of the brawly bush—that would help settle her belly, that it would calm her. She wondered if it were also poison that would make her sleep forever, but she didn't care. She drank it. It tasted sour, of old milk, but it did settle her belly, and she slept until the belly cramps woke her again.

Old Alna was beside her this time, wiping her face with a cool damp cloth, and it felt wonderful. She spoke of the cheese making that would soon begin in earnest, of the growing crops that were flourishing with the rain that had fallen so heavily during the past days, of Sculla, so tall that he would walk amongst the rows of barley waving his arms, and surely this scared the birds and animals away. Mirana listened and wondered why she should care. Surely she would die soon.

She awoke once and believed she was floating above herself, feeling light and insubstantial, as unfettered as a cloud or a western breeze. She felt a strange emptiness and sought to fill herself with something that would give her meaning again, that would give her substance. Then she was within her body again and she wanted to die at the twisting, roiling cramps.

And Rorik, he was always there, either lying beside her on the box bed or speaking softly to whoever was in the chamber with them. He would hold her, lightly rubbing her back, massaging her belly, holding her when she retched and shuddered and fell against him in exhaustion, the spasms temporarily ended. But they always came back and she knew she was growing too
weak to fight the pain in her mind. Her body would give up because her mind would have no more will to combat the pain.

Near dawn she fell into a deep sleep, her head lolling in near unconsciousness against Rorik's chest. She slept until midday and awoke with no more cramping, no more pain. She lay there, waiting, distrusting, too afraid to move, but she was as she had been. Just so very weak. Her ribs hurt as did the muscles in her stomach. She had no more strength, no more will. She felt like an old woman, surely older than Alna. She wanted only to sleep.

She opened her eyes at a sound from the doorway. There was Rorik, standing there, looking at her. He said, “I have a bowl of broth for you, made by Utta. She said that her mother loved the broth and it was the only thing she could eat without vomiting before she died.”

Mirana shoved herself up in the bed. It took all her strength. How, she wondered suddenly, now firmly back into her body and into the present with all its vast complications, would she and Entti escape now?

Rorik set the large wooden tray on her lap. Steam from the broth curled upward. It smelled delicious. “Do you want me to feed you?”

“Nay,” she said, and took the spoon from him. She managed one bite, then dropped it. Her hand was trembling and her forehead was damp with sweat. Rorik took the spoon and pressed her back against the pillows. She wondered at this new gentleness in him but said nothing. There'd been none in him the previous night before she'd become so ill.

“Open your mouth.”

She did. She ate the entire bowl of beef broth. It was the best broth she'd ever tasted in her life. Her
stomach felt bloated and very content.

“Why didn't you let me die?”

“You weren't ready to die. You're young and strong. Speak no more about dying, Mirana.”

“Was anyone else ill besides Asta and me?”

He shook his head. He looked away.

“How is Asta?”

He was silent for a very long time. She felt panic well up. “Asta! How is she?”

“She did not survive the night. She is dead.”