Lord of Hawkfell Island (25 page)

“Please listen, all of you. If you do take me back, then the king will discover that he's been deceived, and all of us will die, me, Einar, perhaps even all of you. Don't look away from me, Ivar. I'm not a virgin. I'm a wife. I'm the mistress of Hawkfell Island. By all the gods, if I weren't Rorik's wife, why then would I be out freely walking about for Ivar to find me? Why would I lie to you, men I've known half my life?”

Gunleik looked at her for a very long time. She saw uncertainty in his eyes. She felt sick. He said finally, sounding very weary, “I will think on what you have said, Mirana. Einar never said anything about the king wanting you though, and that is a fact.”

“That's because he's a snake and cruel and a miserable bully. It pleases him to make people jump and crawl according to his wishes.”

Emund struck her clean across her cheek. Then he smiled at her. “Ingolf told you to be quiet. Now you will obey.”

Gunleik flung himself on Emund, his hands around his throat, squeezing, until Ingolf struck Gunleik and he slumped to the bottom of the boat. Ivar grabbed for the knife at his belt. “Oh nay, boy, you keep your sticker sheathed. I didn't hurt your hero, Gunleik, even though the old fool would have sent us all into the sea with his violent attack on Emund. Mirana deserved the slap. She deserves more, but she is Einar's half-sister, and thus I had to show restraint. But to speak of her half-brother like that deserves much more than a mere slap and Emund would agree. Einar would whip her back raw. Now, row, boy. We have many leagues to cover before we rest.”

Mirana huddled next to Gunleik, her palm on his heart. Thank the gods it was strong and steady. She fell asleep finally, so exhausted she could no longer keep her eyes open. As she slipped away, she heard Sira singing softly, her voice lilting, a siren's song in the still night. She heard Ingolf speaking quietly to Sira. His voice wasn't that of a man to his newly captured slave. No, his was a lover's voice.

Why had Sira lied? What did she hope to gain?

 

Rorik felt the grinding fear miraculously vanish when his brother Merrik said, “We can't find her. She isn't on the island. It's as simple as that. Neither is Sira. Both of them are gone. I'm sorry, Rorik.”

He was sorry? By all the gods, why? Rorik wanted to believe it, but he was afraid to. He'd seen her in his mind's eye, dead, killed by an animal or mayhap even by one of his family. And so, he was still silent, simply staring at his brother who said again, “I'm sorry, Rorik. I know you wanted the woman, but she is gone. She is dead.”

Rorik had been so weary he'd wanted to fall down and curl against Kerzog, but now, with this wondrous news, he was once again filled with energy, he wanted to shout and to plan and to gain hope because now he knew, now he was certain.

Harald laid his hand on his son's shoulder and looked into blue eyes that held the same summer blue of the skies. “There were no boats missing, Rorik. She was very unhappy, son. Mayhap she jumped from the cliff. Mayhap Sira attacked her and both of them fell. Aye, that was probably the way of it. Both of them dead, washing out to sea.”

Rorik smiled, straightened to his full height, and breathed in the fresh warm summer air. “Oh no,
Father, not that. It's very simple, really. Her half-brother, Einar, discovered she was here and he took her. He probably took Sira as well. It is too late to leave tonight. We will prepare and leave on the morrow.”

He rubbed his hands together, leaving his father and brother standing there, staring after him. But he knew, he knew it deep within himself that he would find her. He just prayed it would be in time. As he released his mind to sleep, he realized that he would have given his own life were she not found because she would have been dead and lost to him forever. But now the gods had given him hope, and a new chance. He would find her. He reached over to put his hand on Kerzog's neck, but the dog wasn't there. He was probably with Entti, the damned disloyal hound, but still he smiled. She was alive, and as long as she was alive, he would know it and there would be hope.

Rorik's last thought was that he had to find her before Einar or the king discovered she wasn't a virgin, that, or worse, that they discovered she was his wife.

M
IRANA STARED AT
her brother. He was drunk, his clothes disheveled, his young, too handsome face set in mean lines. He saw Gunleik first and yelled, “Well, old man? Did you find her? Where is she? If you didn't bring her back to me, I'll flay the flesh off your back.”

“She is here,” Gunleik said. He took Mirana's hand and gently pulled her forward.

Einar simply stared at her for a long time, finally saying, “She looks like a filthy slut.”

Gunleik frowned at his master. “We have been voyaging hard for nearly four days. We are all exhausted, dirty, and tired. She is alive and well, Einar. She is here. We have brought your sister back to you.”

Einar sat forward in his high-backed chair, his fingers curved over the beautifully carved chair posts. “Well, dear sister, you are with me again. It has been a long time. Clontarf has missed its fine mistress. I trust you have missed me equally. Come here and let me embrace you.”

Mirana was so tired, her mind so fouled with fear and exhaustion, that she merely stood there, unable to walk to him, unable to say anything, nor did she want to.

“Come here, Mirana,” he said, his voice low and so soft her skin crawled. She hadn't feared him before,
even when he'd struck her for her sharp tongue, her occasional disobedience, but now she did. Now she saw clearly that to show him any fear at all would be a grave mistake. He wanted to see fear, she realized suddenly, and wondered why she'd never realized that before. He reveled in it. It was an aphrodisiac to him, a spur to his passions. It made him feel powerful, strong. It made him feel more a man. Odd how she realized that so easily now, how she saw him so clearly. It had been the distance from him, she saw now, and Rorik, a man clean of mind and of spirit, a man untouched by any blackness. Aye, she could fear Einar all she wished to, but she had to hide it deep inside her. She realized now the path she must trod with him, and she prayed she could do it.

She smiled, a smile so brimming with falseness he surely would see it, but he didn't seem to. “I give you greetings, Einar. Forgive me for looking like a slut, but Gunleik is correct. It has been a hard journey.” She made her voice mocking, difficult that, because she was shaking with fear. “Even you, my handsome brother, would look less like a god were you to live in a boat for four days. There was even a storm but we survived it with Gunleik at the helm.”

Einar eased. She recognized the signs. She realized he was staring beyond her, and slowly, she turned. It was Sira he was staring at.

“This one,” Einar said, pointing to Sira, “who is she? How did you come by her? By the gods, look at that magnificent hair!”

“We captured her,” Ingolf said, stepping forward, pulling Sira with him. Immediately, Emund took her other arm, like two dogs fighting over a prized bone.

“There is much to learn here,” Einar said, stroking his long fingers over his jaw. “Mirana, take the woman
to the bathing hut with you. Both of you will come to me again for the evening meal.”

Mirana didn't want to go anywhere with Sira, but she knew there was no choice. She turned to Sira, unwillingly, and Sira said low, “I hadn't expected this. Einar trusts you. How odd, and you a woman, and you obviously despise him, rather you are not obvious, at least to him.”

“I hope that I am not obvious about anything, Sira. Aye, certainly Einar trusts me. Why would he not? I am mistress here. He is my half-brother. Come, we will bathe. I, for one, am in sore need of it.”

“I too,” Sira said.

Suddenly it seemed that all the women surrounded Mirana, laughing, touching her, hugging her despite her filth. They were all talking at once.

Finally, Mirana held up her hand. “I am glad to see all of you. Now, I am so tired I fear I will fall at your feet and surely that would not be considerate. Sira and I will bathe now.” She turned to Tanna, a woman who was prized at Clontarf for her beautiful weaving. “Please have clothes fetched. My gowns should fit Sira well enough.”

“By the gods,” Sira said as she walked beside Mirana to the bathing hut, “it was just the same with Rorik's people. The women worshiped you and there was no reason that I could see. And here they treat you like a queen. Just wait until they hear the truth, that their little queen will soon be gone from them.” She laughed, then said, “Your brother is very handsome. That is a surprise. In truth, I had expected a black-haired witch like you, but he isn't. He's got pure black hair, but it isn't coarse like yours, it's flowing and soft and looks made of silk. And his eyes are such a lustrous green, not muddy like yours. He is not as large as Rorik,
but his body appears fine enough. There is no fat in his belly. And he is very young, not much older than Rorik. Aye, he is a man who draws me, he is a man who knows what he wants. Perhaps I will have him. Perhaps I will become mistress in your place.”

Mirana was too tired to tell Sira the truth. Why warn her in any case? Let her learn for herself the kind of man Einar was. She would learn soon enough that Einar had charmed the years away from his face and body, mayhap through magic, mayhap through potions, mayhap because evil preferred to reside inward and not leave its mark for all to see. She merely stripped off her filthy clothes and began to bathe.

It was dark outside when Mirana entered the large central hall of Clontarf. She was dressed in her favorite dark green linen gown with its lighter green overtunic, fastened at her shoulders with two finely beaten silver brooches. Her hair was clean and brushed smoothly to nearly her waist.

“By the gods, you look incredibly beautiful. When I first saw you, I feared that your beauty—unlike mine—was forever gone.”

It was Einar and he was smiling at her, his hand held out. “Come, little sister, and sit with me. The women have prepared your favorite dishes—look, 'tis roasted hare and mushrooms. And your wild apples, Mirana, all covered with nuts and cloudberries. Come here, aye, that's right.”

She sat beside him, giving him a mocking smile. “As you will, brother.” She knew she would have to speak to him, she would have to find the right words to convince him not to sell her to the king. She would wait to judge his mood. She would have to wait for him to speak of it first.

Sira entered then, and she was more beautiful than a princess of myth. She wore one of Mirana's gowns. It was too short for her, but the pale pink wool made her blond hair turn silver in the rush light. She looked slowly about the room, as would a queen surveying her holdings, saw Ingolf rise, then quickly turned to where Einar sat, now staring at her.

Sira walked to him, smiling now, shyly as a Christian nun, and said, “I am pleased with your hospitality, my lord Einar. May I sit here beside you?”

He raised a brow. “You are now a slave,” he said. “You are a relative to Rorik Haraldsson. Ingolf captured you on this Hawkfell Island, both he and Emund told me of it.”

“Aye, it is true enough that your men did capture me, but do I look like a slave to you, my lord?”

Mirana watched her with some detachment, as Einar weighed Sira, assessed her endowments. What would he do? She looked over at his two mistresses to see their reactions, but their heads were bent over their plates.

Einar did nothing for the moment, merely shrugged. “You will eat. I will decide other matters soon. Sit down, Sira.”

The slaves served her. Einar cuffed one small girl for no reason that Mirana could tell. She bit down on her tongue. She wouldn't argue with him, not yet. Time passed. She ate and listened.

There was loud and boisterous talk and jesting. Men were always men and always the same, she thought, staring about the smoke-hazed large hall. The women drank as well, but they sat apart from the men, speaking quietly, occasionally giggling. The children were asleep long before.

Gunleik sat in the center of his men, but he was silent, eating slowly and methodically. Mirana had to speak to him alone. After Ingolf had struck him down, he had taken command of the longboat. It was only when they hit the storm that Ingolf realized he must recognize Gunleik's authority, for he didn't want to die. Gunleik looked better now, though his head still hurt him severely. She had to speak to him alone. Mayhap she could see him later when all were asleep.

Even after the long meal Einar wasn't drunk, but most of the men were. Ingolf came to his lord and said, his voice slurred with too much mead, “I have come for the woman, my lord. I captured her. I want her. I would have her now.”

Einar spared a glance toward his minion. He steepled his fingers in front of him.

“I want her,” Ingolf said again, his jaw thrust forward, and this time he sounded more belligerent in his drunkenness.

“Mayhap I want her too,” Einar said slowly. “Surely she would not prefer your ugly face to mine, Ingolf. What say you to that? Would you still insist in the face of your lord's spoken desires?”

Ingolf began to laugh. Mirana saw that the mead he'd drunk had not only given him more confidence than was wise but that it also loosened his tongue. He said, “I've seen you with your new slave, my lord. Aye, a pretty one this time, so very pretty.” He laughed louder when Einar merely looked at him, a brow raised in question. Ingolf belched. “Nay, it isn't Sira you want,” he said again, and Mirana knew that his drunkenness had made him forget who and what his master was. He looked over at a beautiful young girl, sitting quietly and alone, pointing a shaking finger at her, and laughed and laughed.

It was the last sound he made. Einar rose in a single fluid movement, quickly unsheathed his knife and slipped it into Ingolf's heart. Just one swift movement inward then a slight twist upward. Ingolf stared at him, then sighed softly, and sank to the floor.

No one said a word. The air in the vast room seemed to have been sucked out. There was no sound, even the dogs were quiet. It was a terrifying silence, a disbelieving silence.

Mirana had despised Ingolf, had come to fear him on the four-day journey back to Clontarf, but to see him struck down as if he were naught more than a rabid animal, of no account at all, made her gag. If nothing else, he was loyal to Einar. He'd drunk too much mead, spoken too much, and now he was dead. Simply dead. He'd said something about a new slave, nothing more. He'd laughed. Why had Einar killed him? Just because Ingolf had laughed at him? Just because he knew Einar had another new mistress? She looked at her half-brother's serene expression, aye, serene save for his green eyes that gleamed with a ferocious light. She was frightened, very frightened. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

Einar said, “Get him out of here. We don't wish his spirit to remain with us. He was foul in thought and his spirit would be no different.”

She didn't watch the men remove Ingolf's body. She looked at Sira. To her astonishment, there was a smile on her mouth. She was staring at Einar and she was smiling. She leaned slightly forward so that her radiant hair fell over her breast.

The men went back to their drinking. The women couldn't seek out their beds until the men stopped their drinking, which it didn't seem they would do for a good many hours yet.

It was some time later when Einar called out, “All of you, my brave men, the best warriors in all Ireland, listen to me. Some of you know my wondrous news, others don't. I said nothing until my dear sister was returned to me. Now all of you will learn of it. Our King Sitric wishes to wed her. Aye, our family will be allied with the royal family. Her sons will rule Ireland. It will be done soon now, the first day of fall. We will all benefit from this alliance, doubt it not. We will all add riches to our coffers.”

It was done. She wasn't surprised. She looked at Gunleik. He looked pale and ill. He would help her, he had to. She realized suddenly—with a clarity and certainty that left no room for doubt in her mind—that if she told Einar she didn't want to marry that old man, that she was already married, that she wasn't a virgin, he would stick his knife into her heart.

He'd killed Ingolf with no hesitation, and the man had really done naught to anger him. But if she told Einar the truth, she couldn't begin to imagine the depths of his rage, or his disappointment. He would surely kill her for ruining his grand plans. She didn't doubt him capable of it for a moment.

She held her tongue. She couldn't plead or beg, although she imagined he would be amused by it.

There was much toasting and cheering. She noticed the women looking at her. They weren't cheering.

Sira was smiling and drinking the sweet mead Mirana had made the previous summer.

Einar continued speaking to his men, his closer friends, those men who hadn't drawn back when he'd so swiftly and easily killed Ingolf. Those same men were now drawn close, listening avidly to his plans of greater wealth and power and how they would all profit. For the most part, they were simple men, strong
men, fighters all of them, but wealth and power and slaves beckoned to the most honorable of them.

Finally, Einar turned to her. He clasped her hand tightly in his and drew it up to his mouth. He kissed her fingers. She didn't move, didn't draw back, remained still as a statue.

“I trust this will please you,” he said, looking at her directly.