Lord of Hawkfell Island (29 page)

“Our runner just brought word. There isn't much time.” Gunleik wanted to tell him then that Mirana was already wedded, that she was not a virgin, but he knew it was too late now. He'd failed Mirana.

“I will prepare my sister.”

“My lord, perhaps Mirana can be spared, perhaps—” He broke off at the look on Einar's face.

“Don't say it, old man. She will wed the king. Aye, Sitric will give her all a woman could want. She will have to suffer his meager fumbling, but not often for he is old and frail. She will take him or I will kill her. Do you understand me?”

Gunleik nodded.

“I would have to kill her if she refused, for I too would die for failure to deliver her to Sitric, and believe me, I will never die alone.”

Einar found Sira in Mirana's bedchamber. She was looking through the gold-banded trunk at the end of the box bed. She didn't look the least bit guilty or worried when he suddenly appeared.

She smiled at him. “I have need of ornaments, Einar, to enhance my beauty.”

“Take what you wish,” he said, and left her. “Have you seen my sister?”

“Your half-sister, my lord. Nay, I saw her earlier with the women, but then she was gone. I know not where.”

He grunted and left her without another word.

Sira stared after him. He was behaving differently. It made her uneasy.

She'd heard that one of the men, an old man with crooked ways and a brutal manner about him, had visited Lella in the storage shed. She wished she'd heard the little pederast scream. She looked into the trunk until she found arm bracelets that pleased her and earrings and a necklace. Aye, she would look much more beautiful than that bitch, Mirana. What would she say when Sira appeared in her jewelry? Would she whine to Einar because she had taken her jewelry? Would Mirana plead that he dismiss her? For a moment, Sira hoped she would. She'd felt her power growing over Einar, and she knew now there was a good chance she would win. She would have him. He was dark and his darkness fascinated her. Aye, she would have him and learn to control him as she would a dog.

Perhaps, when the king came, Sitric would want her, Sira, instead, if she hadn't wedded Einar before he came. She was still humming, feeling quite confidant, when she heard that the king was nearing, that he had come to wed Mirana.

So soon, she thought, then rose. Very well then, she would take Einar. She fingered the beautifully pounded silver bracelet that encircled her right upper arm. Aye, Einar would suit her well enough. He would give her whatever she wanted.

She smiled when she thought of the king's fury upon discovering that his new bride wasn't a virgin. She hoped he would kill Mirana slowly, perhaps strangle the last living breath from her, or perhaps give her to his men and let them ravish her until she was dead. But what of Einar? Would he be in danger too? She smiled again, for she was beautiful, far more
beautiful than that black-haired bitch, and more importantly, she was a virgin. Ah, life was suddenly rife with possibilities.

She decided to take the boy Lella some food. The pathetic scrap just might beg her for it. She wanted to see if she'd scarred the little beggar's cheeks. She wanted to see what the brutal warrior had done to him.

She wondered, as she carefully stepped over cow dung in the outer yard of the fortress, where Rorik was. Surely he would come after her, his family would demand it. She wanted to see him. She wanted Einar to capture him. She wanted to wield a whip and flay the flesh from his back. She trembled a moment at the thought of his treachery, at his rejection of her, at the pain as he'd whipped her.

 

Mirana stood just inside the longhouse entrance, looking toward Ivar, who wouldn't meet her eyes. She frowned, wondering what was happening or what had already happened. Then Einar was there beside her and he was smiling down at her and taking her hand to hold between both of his.

“King Sitric comes,” he said. “He will be here very soon. I will assist you to change into clothes to dazzle an old man's eyes and bring his rod to renewed life. Trust me, Mirana, this is for the best.”

She opened her mouth, but he forestalled her. She heard the fear in his voice. “By all the gods, I pray you are a virgin, that it was all a reckless lie you told—this wedding you claimed between you and that Viking, Rorik Haraldsson. But you have never lied to me, have you?

“I should have tied you down and seen to your maidenhead last night, but I was distracted by Sira and
Lella.” He paused a moment, looking toward a knot of his warriors who were preparing themselves for the king's arrival. “Listen to me, Mirana, and listen well, for I give you excellent counsel. I accept now that you told me the truth, that you always have in matters of weightiness. I accept that you are wed, but you must forget the Viking. You will never see him again. Save yourself, pretend to great pain when the king enters you tonight. Suffer loudly and whimper of the agony he inflicts upon you so the king will not doubt your purity. Aye, then he will ply you with favors and jewels in his gratitude. You will see. You must trust me in this.”

He stopped then, and ran his hands down her arms. “Come, I will help you to gown yourself appropriately. Sira was in your chamber, taking your jewelry. I will have her show herself to you, and if there is anything that would become you, I will have her give it to you.”

Mirana nodded. She realized that as long as she was alive, there was hope. She didn't want to die. She'd been a fool to ever consider it. She had no intention of dying willingly even though it might mean her loss of honor. Death was too final to accept because of beliefs that men had fashioned and preached and held so dear, particularly when it came to women. She would survive until . . . She would survive.

“Come,” Einar said. “We have little time.”

“I'm coming,” Mirana said. She didn't look back.

H
E WAS FRAIL
, the flesh hanging from his arms and his jowls, but his eyes flamed with excitement, rheumy eyes, heavily lidded, filled with too many years of living, of too much power and abuse of power, now nearly black in the dim light of the longhouse.

He was smiling down at her. Now he was reaching out his hand to take hers. The backs of his hands were spotted with age and the flesh was slack. There were small knots of hairs over his knuckles.

“Mirana, daughter of Audun,” he said, squeezing her hand, feeling the coldness but believing it from her young girl's excitement over the honor he was conferring on her. “I will wed you and you will be my queen and the mother of my sons. All hear what I say. From this day forward, she is Queen Mirana and all owe her obeisance.” Ah, but it was an old man's voice even though it rang out to every corner of the longhouse, staying strong and certain, not dissipating in the thick smoke that had gathered.

She looked away from him into the black eyes of his advisor, the old man, Hormuze, another whose eyes betrayed that he was something else, something more and mysterious. She feared him. But he was smiling at her, and unlike the king, his teeth were white and
straight and healthy. As if sensing questions in her, he quickly lowered his head, resting his hands on his paunch.

“Say that you will have me, Mirana.”

The king's voice was low, but the command was there, the same timbre as was in Einar's voice. No one would disobey him, no one. Including her. Especially her.

For the second time in her life, Mirana said, her voice calm and steady, “I accept you, sire, and pray that you will know happiness with me. I will be your queen and the mother of your sons. I, Mirana, daughter of Audun, swear it before all our gods and all our people.”

He leaned down and kissed her mouth. His lips were cold and dry. His breath was hot and smelled of his frailty, musty and strangely dry. She made no move, merely stood there, pliant, silent. It seemed to please him, this utter submissiveness of hers.

He whispered against her left temple, “You are shy and that pleases me. You are a virgin, you know nothing of men and what they demand. I will show you, Mirana, and then you will please me, and all will know that you have succeeded, for your belly will swell with my son. Hormuze has promised it. Ah, and when you awaken on the morrow, it will not be this old man's body beside you, but a young man, strong and hale. I will be as I used to be and you will be greatly pleased for it is you who will have renewed me.”

She heard his words but she didn't understand. He believed by tomorrow he would again be a young man? Surely this was madness. Such a thing wasn't possible, not in this world, not with these gods overseeing the affairs of men.

“Aye,” he said, his voice still low and soft, “this is why you are my bride, Mirana. Only you. It is you who will
restore my youth and my strength. Only you. Hormuze has promised and he is never wrong. He is a mystic, a priest of an alien religion, and he comes from a faraway land where such things are understood, where such things are common occurrences. He has promised and you will believe him as I do.”

She looked at Hormuze then. She'd never seen a man more contained, so held within himself. She knew he'd overheard the king's words. Was he frightened of his mad promise? Surely he couldn't possibly believe it. None of it made any sense. Surely upon the morrow, the king would be as he was now, and he would see that nothing had changed. Would he not then kill Hormuze?

Einar said loudly to all those assembled in the longhouse, “We will have wine and ale and mead now. The women have prepared a feast, sire, and we will eat now until you wish to take my sister away.”

The king smiled at Einar. “You have done well. You are now my brother and you will gain by it, as I have promised you. Once I have regained my vigor, you and I will crush the Irish chieftains who still threaten our lands and our trade.

“But now, I have no wish to befoul my body with drink. I will take your sister—and my wife—away. Hormuze has constructed a boat from his homeland, a royal conveyance that sails upon the Nile. There is a sumptuous chamber on this barge that is furnished with silks and pillows and precious carpets. It is covered as if a fine chamber from the chill of the night and from any rain. It is there I will take my bride now.”

The king was holding her hand as if he feared that to release it would cause his death. The bones hurt from the strength of his grip. Einar came to her then, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. He said quietly against
her left temple, “You will survive, Mirana. Pretend to a virgin's pain and all will be well. Do not forget or we will both know death.”

Hormuze said nothing, merely nodded to the king, stepping back and walking away, an old man who was bowed with weariness, his feet shuffling, his shoulders stooped.

“There will be a feast served us on board the barge,” Sitric said to her as he led her from the longhouse. “Then I will dismiss the servants and you will be able to come to me as I bid you to.”

She nodded. If he believed her shy, so be it. She felt so deep a pain, a helplessness so profound, she didn't know if she even wanted to survive it. But she would, she had to.

She wanted Rorik. She wanted her husband. She had to hold to that else she would go mad, perhaps reach the depth of madness that possessed this old man. She would not allow the thought to intrude that Rorik didn't want her, that he had rejoiced when she had disappeared. No, he had come after her. She clung to that belief even as she thought of ways to escape this old man with his too hot breath and his age-spotted hands.

 

“Ah, Hormuze, you are here. I am glad. Is she not beautiful, this new queen of mine?”

“Aye, sire, she is beyond beautiful. She holds a spiritual beauty, nearly a rebirth of a beauty, so incandescent that it overflows the soul.”

“What you say is poetic, my friend, but not to the point. She is my wife now. It is done just as you said it must be done. It matters not that I wanted her sooner. Once I've taken her maidenhead, once I've spilled my seed in her, I will be young again, and on the morrow,
and all will see me as I was once, as I am now, and as I will be in the future. You have planned this, have you not, Hormuze? All my men will be awaiting my appearance in the morning? They are eager and ready for my transformation?”

“Aye, sire, they are ready. Excitement runs high. All are praying for this. Despite my warnings to you of the misalignment and confusion of the relevant signs and the position of the stars and their houses, I know all will go well. You are a great king; the gods will heed you and not spin things awry.”

“I pray that you speak true,” Sitric said. His eyes narrowed. “Truth, my friend, the ultimate value to a man and to a king. Without it, there would be chaos. Without it, you would be dead. Do you understand me, Hormuze?”

“Aye, sire, I understand you very well.”

Mirana said nothing. She stared from one old man to the other. Hormuze was a priest of some sort, mayhap more likely a wizard, and he'd promised the king his youth. It was amazing. It was also more real to her now than it had been before, for now she was a part of it, an integral part. She felt a spurt of cold, felt the hair on her neck bristle at the strangeness of this. It wasn't customary or expected, therefore it must have come from the gods or from the nether demons. She was to be the agent by which all this came about. She looked again at Hormuze. He was staring at her, his eyes blacker than the night, deep and expectant, and there was something else there, a tenderness, a light of possessiveness, but no, that couldn't be right. How odd that she would think that. No, there was nothing there, nothing save prayer in an old man's eyes that his hide would remain on his aged body when the king remained a frail old man on the morrow.

The king nodded to Hormuze and the old man seated himself at their table. He clapped his hands. Young boys, all clad in white and silver, their hair braided in a dozen slender ropes, their feet bare, brought in silver and gold trays. There was wine from the land south of Kiev, the king told her, as he himself filled her silver goblet. There were grapes as green as her eyes, the king told her, as he insisted on feeding some to her.

The boys were well trained, silent, and all of them looked very foreign.

Hormuze dismissed them, finally. He seemed content to sit back in his chair, watch the king act like an old besotted fool with his young bride, and sip at his wine. Hormuze rose finally and poured the king another glass from a bottle beside him.

“I bid you drink this potion, sire. It will aid you in your dealings with this woman. It will begin your ascension.”

The king laughed. He was giddy with his power, with the anticipation of what would soon be his. He looked at Mirana, then grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap. His hands found her breasts and began to knead them furiously. His mouth found hers, and again, it pleased him that she was quiescent. In truth, she wanted to kill him, but she knew she had to bide her time. She had to wait until they were alone. Then she would act. What she would do, she as yet had no idea. But it would be something. She wouldn't lie under this old fool like a lump, whimpering away her courage. She would kill him if she had to.

“Sire, you must drink.”

Hormuze sounded to Mirana's ear to be impatient, nearly angry, but that was surely odd. She waited until the king was finished with her. She gave him a scared
look that pleased him, she could see that it did, for he looked as proud as a new father.

He set her back into her chair. His hand skimmed over her breasts to her belly. She drew back, but he said, “Nay, stay still.” He massaged her belly through her gown, then lowered his hand to cup over her. She wanted to scream at him, she wanted to fling herself at him, for she was the stronger, she knew it, and she could kill him with her own hands, but she held herself perfectly still. Not yet, not yet. Then the king raised the goblet and lifted it to her and then to Hormuze. “My old friend, all will continue. Your rewards will exceed your dreams.”

“I pray it will be so, sire. Indeed, I am certain that it will be so.”

He drank deep, his throat working, the flaccid skin folding and pleating with each swallow. When he finished the potion, he wiped his hand across his mouth and slammed the goblet onto the table.

“You said you had to prepare her, Hormuze. Do it now, for I do not wish to wait longer.”

He turned to Mirana. “Go with him, my beautiful child. He will tell you what you will do. I wish you to wear the white gown, for it is pure, like you. Pure like you will render me. Hormuze, the gown is beyond, lying on the pillows. I put it there myself, just as you told me to.”

Hormuze merely nodded. He stretched out his hand to Mirana. She looked at that hand, looked closely. There was an odd sort of smear all across the back of his right hand. He followed the line of her vision. He jerked back his hand, but said nothing.

“Come,” he said, his left hand still there, waiting for her to take.

“Hurry,” the king said. “Hurry.”

Mirana didn't touch him. She rose quickly, and looked up. Hormuze was frowning at her. She quickly dropped her gaze. She followed him through a doorway hung with silk draperies. She stopped dead in her tracks.

The small chamber was like nothing she'd ever seen in her life, or imagined. All the walls were lined with red silk. The floor was covered with thick wool carpets, all patterned with deep reds and blues and creams. And there were thick soft pillows upon which to recline, all of vibrant colors. Upon which she would recline with the king, who believed he was her husband, but he wasn't.

Hormuze picked up the white gown and handed it to her. “Take off your clothes and put this on,” he said.

She stared at him, then at the sheer white silk gown. “I will but you must leave.”

He smiled, and not an old man's sour smile. No, there was a flair of triumph in his black eyes.

“I won't look at you, but I won't leave,” he said. He sat down on one of the thick pillows. His motion was graceful and quick.

Mirana picked up the white gown and stepped as far away from him as she could.

“While you change, I will tell you what will happen,” he said. Did his voice sound somehow deeper? She shook her head and quickly stripped off her clothes. The silk slithered over her head and down her body. It felt obscene against her cold flesh.

He turned and fell silent staring at her. “Loosen your hair,” he said.

She unbraided the thick coils and smoothed her fingers through her hair, but the deep ripples remained.

“Aye,” he said. “Just a bit of kohl at your eyes and you will look just like her. She was as soft and gentle as a summer rain that dampened the earth of the Lufta
Valley. She gave me all I ever wanted.”

“What are you talking about?”

He rose gracefully to his feet. She knew then as sure as she knew herself. This was no old man who faced her, triumph gleaming in his black eyes.

“The king expects me to instruct you, to teach you how to arouse his old manhood, but I won't. He will never touch you, I swear it.”