Lord of Hawkfell Island (31 page)

“Eze,” he said, and held out his hand. The little girl would have gone to him but the Viking held her back, gently, Hormuze saw, but still he wanted to kill the man.

“I have brought your daughter to you, Hormuze,” Rorik said. “I will make a simple trade with you. My wife for your daughter. Agreed?”

“Damn you, both of them are mine!” Hormuze wanted to hurl himself on the damned Viking, so calm he appeared, so sure of himself. He wanted to stick a dagger in his chest, deep and deeper still and twist it. He wanted to pour poison down his strong corded throat, and watch his muscles spasm and tighten until he was naught but a pitiful scrap, just like the king had been.

“Papa,” Eze said, not trying to move from Hafter's side now, for she sensed the pain, the uncertainty, the rage of failure that filled her father. She said in a voice too old for a child her age, “Papa, Lord Rorik has told me what you have done and why. He realized that I have the look of his wife, Mirana, and that you wanted my mama back so badly you stole Mirana. But Papa, she isn't Mama. She belongs to Lord Rorik. She belongs on Hawkfell Island. Papa, please, let her go. Lord Rorik has no desire to harm you or me. Please, you don't prefer her to me, do you?”

Ah, Rorik thought, seeing the anguish distort Hormuze's face. A child's words could cut deeper than the sharpest knife. He held himself still and waited. He saw that Mirana was as silent as a shadow, her face pale, yet her eyes were bright and watchful. She was sitting up on those damned foreign pillows, looking like some sort of sacrifice to an alien god in that white gown that showed her breasts and her belly, so stark against her black hair.

“I have held contempt for most men I have met in this land,” Hormuze said at last, speaking straightly to Rorik. “They are vain and greedy and would kill their brothers if it would bring them gain. But you are different.” He turned to his daughter. “He hasn't hurt you?”

“Oh no, Papa. Lord Rorik and I spoke all the way here to Clontarf. He has been very unhappy without Mirana. Her half-brother stole her back and forced her to wed with the old king. Lord Rorik wants to kill Einar and he wants to have Mirana back with him. He kept telling me not to be afraid, that he knew you were a wise man, not a fool, and that you would quickly come to an agreement with him. You will, won't you, Papa?”

“Aye,” Hormuze said, knowing there was no other answer for him. “Take your wife, Rorik Haraldsson. She is not an easy woman. She speaks the truth even when wiser counsel would be silence. She rejects being my queen and knowing ease and wealth throughout her life. I do not understand her fully. She speaks and questions when she should be silent, but she holds you in honor and she is loyal to you. That, I believe, is very important.”

“I know. I heard what she said. It pleased me. I don't want an easy woman,” he added, speaking to her now, watching her face. “I want a woman who will fight by
my side, a woman who will love me until the day I leave this earth, a woman who will laugh with me or hit me when I treat her stupidly, a woman who will hold my honor as dear as she holds her own.” Rorik turned to Hafter. “Let Eze go to her father.”

The little girl didn't immediately run to Hormuze. She walked instead to Mirana and held out her hand. “I am glad you are all right,” she said. “I don't think you look at all like me. I don't remember my mama so I can't speak about that. My eyes are dark like my papa's, and yours are very green. Lord Rorik hasn't been happy without you.” She held Mirana's hand until they stood in front of Rorik. Eze gave Mirana's hand into Rorik's, then smiled up at both of them. “Do not worry. My father and I will survive. We always have. He is very smart and he won't let anything hurt me.” She smiled at them, then turned to her father, running to him, hurling herself against him.

Hormuze gathered Eze against him, hugging her so tightly she squeaked. “I like you to look like you, Papa,” she said, and he squeezed her again, then he laughed. “I don't like you to be old and fat and ugly. I hated that ugly scraggly beard. Please stay like you are now.”

“I will try, Eze. I will try.”

“I had no wish to kill you,” Rorik said. “I am pleased that you are a reasonable man.”

“I have no choice but reason,” Hormuze said. He saw Mirana held close to the Viking's side, her head pressed against his chest. He felt something move deep within him. By all the Viking gods, she looked like Naphta. He watched her look up at her husband and remembered that look as well. It was the way Naphta had looked at him. He shook his head. It wasn't to be.

Hormuze said to Rorik, “You were lucky. I dismissed most of the king's warriors. I made it easy for you to
board the barge. I have made everything very easy for you.”

“I appreciate the result, though your motives were blacker than a Christian's sins. Aye, the warriors are within the fortress, drinking themselves sodden, I doubt not, so that you were able to kill the king with no witnesses, no interference from his vaunted Viking guard. Aye, I am grateful that Einar does not know I am here. I want Mirana safe before I take him. I assume you have already killed the king?”

“Poison. I would have preferred to kill him more slowly. He was a venomous man, old and rattled in his wits, but his greed was that of a younger man's.”

“Sira is with Einar,” Mirana said.

“I know. Hafter questioned one of Einar's guards. He didn't wish to die. He told us all we wished to know. We will take both of them. But first I would ask Hormuze what he will do now.”

He shook his head. “I must flee, I suppose.”

Mirana said, “Why? You will present yourself as the king on the morrow. Why must you change that?”

“You are not my queen,” Hormuze said simply, finality in his voice, and acceptance of that finality.

Eze said, “Papa needs a queen so we don't have to flee.”

Rorik stared at the child. Mirana said slowly, “Sira is a virgin. If we were to fetch her now, could you not bring yourself to wed her, Hormuze?”

Rorik laughed. “It is indeed a solution to Hormuze's problem, but Sira is a witch—vicious, heedless, beautiful, utterly without honor.”

Hormuze straightened, belting his gown more tightly about his waist. “This Sira, she wants instruction?”

“What she wants is beating,” Hafter said. “But she is beautiful, Rorik is right about that. She needs new
direction. She needs to learn how to control herself. She wants taming.”

“Discipline is important,” Hormuze said, nodding.

Rorik said thoughtfully, “It is not that she is evil. I believe that my parents simply gave her no rules, no boundaries, and thus her wishes always took precedence. No one ever said nay to her. As to honor, I believe the concept foreign to her. She's had no reason for it and thus it doesn't yet exist for her. However, she isn't stupid and she is certainly passionate.”

Hormuze stared at the fallen brazier, deep in thought.

“Papa, are you certain you want to have this woman?”

Hormuze stared down at his daughter with her too old voice and her too keen eyes. “I wish to survive,” he said simply. “If I present myself as the king tomorrow with a queen at my side—the woman who was supposed to bring me back my youth and my vigor—why then, you will be a princess, my sweeting, and I will have a beautiful snake to tame.”

Mirana laughed. “Do you believe it would work?”

Rorik shrugged. “There is only one way to find out. It would be a risk, Hormuze, but you must know that.”

“Aye, I know the risk. I am willing.”

Mirana said slowly, “Perhaps it would be best if Sira had hair as black as mine. You will change. Why not your queen as well?”

“She worships her beautiful hair,” Rorik said. “She will howl to the moon. I should like to see how you deal with her rage. Aye, I like it.”

“I do too,” Eze said. “I should like to be a princess. My papa would be the best king in the world. This Sira, she will come to worship my papa.”

“Aye,” Hormuze said. “She will.”

E
INAR STOOD QUIETLY
beside the sleeping woman. He was brooding and he didn't like it. There was no reason for it. He did as he pleased, always, and now he wanted her. His loins were tight and he ached and he wanted her now. It didn't matter that she was a virgin and that she was a cousin to the king of Norway. None of it mattered. She was a slave, his slave. He thought then of Lella, alone in the storage shed, unless some of his men had decided to rape him. Or some of his women, he thought, and smiled at the notion.

He stared down at that hair of hers. Hair so bleached of color that it was silver in the dim light, spilling over the sides of the box bed, nearly to the floor. She was beautiful, no doubt about that, and he did need sons, many sons. Even though he looked young and strong, he was gaining in his man's years. Aye, he needed a wife in order to have heirs. Why not wed her? He could control her, he didn't doubt it.

She was vicious. He liked that. He also liked that if he disliked any of it, he could strike her and see the viciousness turn to fear. Of him.

But first he would take her. It mattered not if she wished to keep her virginity safe until her wedding night. Her wishes mattered not at all. Aye, once he'd
tested her, assured himself that she would please him, he would marry her and she would breed his heirs. He would continue to do just as he wished to. He would remove poor Lella from the storage shed on the morrow, a long enough time to punish the boy for his imprudence. He rather liked the notion of the two of them living together, each hating the other, each vying with the other for his attention and his affection. Of course there would be others in the future. He smiled.

He thought of Mirana and knew another surge of relief. He'd been worried, he admitted it to himself. Not frightened, no, not that, but concerned that she would not behave as he'd counseled her to. But it appeared that she'd chosen wisdom and life. She'd chosen to be a queen. She'd pretended to virginity. If she hadn't, if the old king had wondered at all about her vaunted purity, he would have raised an alarm, and both Einar and Mirana would be dead now. But there had been no alarm raised. Nothing. Mirana wasn't stupid, and Einar was profoundly grateful that she wasn't. He wished only that he'd had the chance to touch her, to know her as a woman before the old king had come to Clontarf. Einar shrugged. He was a man who didn't dwell on the past. It couldn't be changed or altered. Only the future was important. And thus this sleeping woman.

He leaned down to shake Sira awake.

In that instant, a thin rope went around his neck, digging into his flesh, breaking through the skin, tightening even as he struggled to get his hands beneath the rope to ease the awful pressure, even as he tried to yell, even as he tried to jerk about to face his assailant.

The rope tightened more, twisting and gouging in
very strong hands, unknown hands, and his flesh shredded and he felt the stickiness of his own blood. He felt the blackness coming closer now, so close that he knew he had just moments before he was unconscious, just moments beyond that before he was dead. Had the old king discovered the truth? Surely not. But who was trying to kill him?

He kicked back with all his strength, struggling as hard as he could against the blackness. He heard a grunt of pain but the rope merely pulled so taut that Einar would have screamed with the pain if he'd been able to. He wanted to give in to the blankness, to end the unbearable agony, and soon he did. He slumped back against the man who held him.

Rorik smiled as he eased Einar onto the ground. “Bind him securely,” he said low to Hafter. “And stuff something in his mouth.” Rorik then turned to Sira. He stopped, for Hormuze was bending over her, and he was touching her hair. He realized that Einar's struggle had been silent, utterly silent. He stared down at his hands. Einar's blood was on his palms.

Suddenly, Sira bolted upright. She stared into the face of a stranger, then saw Rorik standing behind him and opened her mouth to shriek, but Hormuze was faster. He smiled at her and struck her jaw with his fisted hand.

She sagged back onto the bed.

“She is beautiful,” he said to Rorik. “Such hair I've never before seen and I have seen my share of Viking women. Ah, but her hair is splendid. It is like silver silk, an odd thing to say, but it's true. I will have her and that magnificent hair of hers will grow black overnight.”

“Let us out of here then,” Rorik said. “Gunleik, are we still clear?”

“Aye, Lord Rorik. The men are sodden and snoring loudly.”

“You weren't asleep, Gunleik,” Rorik said. “Nor sodden, and I thank the gods for that and your unexpected presence outside the fortress.”

Gunleik shrugged. “I was worried about Mirana, yet there was nothing I could do. Einar isn't a fool. He knew the direction of my thoughts, knew that I was ready to go aboard that heathen barge, and thus stayed with me until just a few moments ago. He struck down Ivar to keep me here, and bound the lad. I thank you, Lord Rorik. Now, let us out of Clontarf before one of the warriors awakens.”

Rorik smiled at Gunleik, a man he knew would be loyal to him and then to his sons and daughters. “Aye, let's away from here.”

He hoisted a bound and gagged Einar over his shoulder. “He's heavy,” he said. “The murdering savage.” But there was joy in his voice, joy and triumph.

Hormuze had quickly bound and gagged Sira. However, she weighed just as much as he wished her to weigh. He was pleased at it. A pity about her hair. But he would allow her to return to her silver hair sometime in the future, if she obeyed him with grace and surrendered to him in all things. When she awoke, she would very likely shriek when she saw herself. But he would be there to explain everything to her, to tell her what she would do and how she would do it. Aye, unlike Mirana, this one would enjoy being a queen. She would enjoy having a man stronger than she. And he would beat her witless if she ever dared to set herself against him or his wishes.

Gunleik saw one of his men stagger to his feet and weave toward the closed doors of the longhouse. He was obviously going out to relieve himself. Gunleik
waited, then quickly unbound Ivar and motioned him to follow. Gunleik quietly followed the man out, Ivar on his heels. He spoke to the man, then gently, as the man turned to away to relieve himself, he struck his left temple with his knife handle. He quickly turned back and motioned to Rorik to follow.

Mirana waited with Eze just outside the fortress walls in the deep shadows. She was furious with Rorik, but she understood some of what he felt, and had thus contained her ire. Had he not said that he wanted her to fight beside him? Ah, but not this fight. This, he'd said to her, was his fight, and his alone. Besides, she must stay with Eze and protect her. An afterthought, she knew, and had wanted to kick him.

When she saw him, she nearly cried out with relief. Then she saw Gunleik, and she smiled. Thank the gods he was still with Rorik. Without him, she wondered if Rorik would have succeeded in getting Einar and Sira out of the fortress. But there were both of them, unconscious and bound.

When Rorik had leapt out of the shadows and brought Gunleik down, his arm snaking out of the darkness to go around his neck, Mirana had stayed his arm and his strength. “It is Gunleik,” she'd whispered. “He's coming for me. He's coming to the barge to save me.”

Once Gunleik had regained his breath, Mirana hugged him and told him what had happened. Then she'd stepped back, saying little as Rorik and Gunleik had weighed each other and assessed the other's strengths. Then Gunleik had nodded. Now they were safe, thank the gods.

Mirana saw now that Ivar was on Gunleik's heels, looking a bit dazed, but nearly whole.

She stared toward Rorik, who was carrying an unconscious Einar over his shoulder. She'd known for
so very long that Rorik must kill Einar, but when the moment had come, she'd known terror so deep she'd nearly choked on it. But she also knew that she couldn't dissuade him or attempt to use his love for her to stop him. She had no right to try to change his mind about her half-brother. He had to avenge his people, his wife, and his babes.

What would Rorik do now?

 

They left Eze and Hormuze—now King Sitric—with an unconscious Sira. She'd come awake and Hormuze had poured a liquid down her throat to make her sleep. He was now very calmly mixing a potion of nut meats and borla roots and a purple plant that Mirana couldn't identify. Soon he would dye her beautiful hair a dark, dark brown.

“I am unable to dye it precisely black,” he'd said. “But this will be sufficient. 'Tis a pity she is so much larger than you, Mirana, but we will make do. Once she is conscious again, I will begin teaching her the responsibilities of my wife and my queen. If I succeed, you will doubtless hear about it. My rebirth is the stuff of legends and this one will be sung by your Viking scalds far and wide. If I fail, why, you will hear about that as well.”

Rorik took one last look at Sira, and smiled. “I had worried about her,” he said to no one in particular. “She was so ungoverned, her passions so very unbridled. But now, with Hormuze's assistance, she will become more reasonable, I doubt it not. My parents will be pleased that she is become a queen, despite her temper and her resentments.”

“What of all Einar's people?” Gunleik said. “They know who she is. They won't be fooled.” He had grasped
what had happened and what they planned to have happen, but the shock of it was still writ clear on his face.

“Aye,” Rorik said. “Those who chance to see her will surely wonder, but Einar will be gone. There will be disarray. There will be chaos. Sitric plans to remove himself and this barge and all his warriors quickly on the morrow.”

Rorik hugged Eze good-bye, telling her that Sira was a witch but that her father would doubtless bring her to reason. Eze said in her too old child's voice, “I will help Papa. Between us, she will make a fine queen. Take care of your wife, Lord Rorik. I hope she is worthy of you.”

Rorik looked over the child's head at Mirana. She was grinning at him. He felt his body tighten, and he felt remarkably fine. Then he looked over at the bound and gagged Einar. He was awake. There was hatred and venom and a goodly dose of fear in his eyes. He was staring at his half-sister.

Soon thereafter, Rorik guided the two longboats into the Irish Sea. The night was clear and warm, only a slight breeze ruffling the hair on Mirana's forehead. She stared at her husband, standing at the stern, his legs spread, his hands on his hips. He'd come for her. Not for Sira, no, he'd come for her.

She heard a muffled grunt over the smooth dipping of the oars and the conversation of Rorik's men. She looked down at Einar. He was at her feet.

She saw the hatred in his eyes and smiled at him. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her foot and rested it on his neck.

“My wife has worried about you,” Hafter said to her above the sound of his oars.

There was pride and some humor in his voice and
Mirana smiled. “I look forward to seeing Entti. I hope you have made her happy?”

“I had little time, for you were taken so quickly. However, she did not complain. We will see if she complains to you.”

That had a sour sound to it and she laughed. Mirana realized in that moment that they were indeed going home—to Hawkfell Island. To her home. She stared toward her husband. At that moment, he turned. She saw all she needed to know when he looked at her.

 

Toward the following evening, Rorik put them ashore on a small island just off England's western coast. It was barren, save for a few scraggly sea shrubs, but the sand dunes curved one after the other, thick and deep and high, providing shelter and protection. There was no one around, no light, no dwellings, no other camp fires.

Rorik allowed Einar to relieve himself, then had Hafter bind him again. He kept him gagged. He didn't wish Einar to torment Mirana, and he knew he would try if allowed to. He left Mirana in charge of the camp whilst he and his men scouted the area. They'd already caught several large sea bass for their dinner.

Einar was fed, then bound again and left in charge of Gunleik and Ivar for the night. “Let him speak tonight if he wishes to,” Rorik said, staring down at Einar. “Mirana won't be here to listen to him.” In addition, all his men slept in a wider circle around Gunleik and Ivar.

“Watch him well,” Rorik told them. “I have no respect for his honor but I have a great deal of respect for his skill.”

“Aye,” Hafter said, “but he isn't a magician. He can't fly away, Rorik.”

Gunleik gently eased his knife blade across the pad of his thumb. “I should like him to move,” he said. “I should like him to speak, perhaps give me orders, tell me how he will beat me bloodless if I don't release him. Aye, let him speak.”

Einar remained motionless and silent.

Mirana felt shy and strangely nervous when she saw Rorik walking toward her like a conquering prince, two blankets over his left arm, and a look of hunger in his blue eyes.

“Come,” he said only and reached out his hand to her. “We will seek some privacy.”

She took his hand silently, following him, careful to watch where she stepped, for there were half-buried rocks in the deep shifting sand.