Lord of Hawkfell Island (4 page)

He looked down at her when he laid her onto the ship's planking next to his feet. She was still unconscious, still bundled in the wool blanket. Her hair was black as a Christian's sins, tangled wildly about her face. Her face shone white as the snow in the Vestfold in the deep of winter under a pale moon. Her coloring was different, intriguing, the white flesh with her black hair and eyes so green they looked like wet moss, not like the light sky-blue of so many of his countrymen. He wondered what race her mother had belonged to. It didn't matter now. She was his prisoner and he would use her as he wished. From her he would learn everything he needed to know about Einar. If she refused him anything, he would kill her.

The night was cool and clear, the sea calm, a half-moon shining overhead, no clouds to mar the purity of the sky. In three days, the seas and the gods willing, they would be home.

Home to Hawkfell Island.

Einar would know his name for he didn't doubt that she'd told everyone he was Rorik Haraldsson. But still, Einar wouldn't know where to find him. It had taken Rorik two years to find Einar.

He allowed himself to ease back against the edge of the boat. The oak was smooth against his back. The lapping of the waves against the side of the warship soothing. He closed his eyes, listening to the men grunting over their oars, talking about their escape
and their hatred for Einar Thorsson, the bravery and skill of Rorik, their captain, their lord. They spoke of Gunleik and of his plan to surprise them on the beach and cut their warships free during the storm and how this Gunleik, surely a man who shouldn't be in the service of Einar, had trapped Rorik and forced him inside, into the inner yard where he was taken. They spoke of the battle, of how Rorik had fought like a
berserker,
how this same Gunleik had thrown his knife into Rorik's shoulder, but hadn't killed him. Rorik tried to smile for he knew that soon a scald would be recounting these feats, but it would become heroic, this failure of his.

He felt pain flow through him, knew that he must rest now else suffer more pain than he deserved later when he must have strength. He looked once again as the woman twisted onto her side, moaning softly, pressing against his leg. He leaned down and pulled the blanket more closely around her. He saw several of his men looking at her too. He said quietly, “She is my prisoner and my hostage. She is not to be raped or brutalized.”

The men mumbled, but nodded slowly, one after the other. Rorik added, “She isn't really a soft woman. She's hard as a man in her thoughts, and she's proud. Leave her be and don't trust her.”

Aslak said, “She leads men and they heed her. She has a woman's parts, but her actions aren't always that of a woman. She disagrees with men if she wishes to, even with her brother, and he allows it. I heard that he whipped her but just once I think. She leads the men in her brother's absence. Both the men and the women at Clontarf respect her and obey her. I didn't understand it at first, but heed what Lord Rorik says and take care, for she is dangerous, despite her small
size, despite her delicate woman's looks. Why did she tend Lord Rorik so gently if not to keep him alive for her brother's tortures? Aye, and he is known to enjoy another's suffering. I wasn't whipped myself but I saw others whipped and he did it with great relish.”

Rorik added, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the lapping waves against the side of the warship, “Attend Aslak's words. He's lived in that fortress for the past six months. Now, you have but three days before your rods can plow any field you wish. Leave the woman alone. We'll be home even sooner if you keep that thought in mind and hold to your oars.”

Aslak laughed. Hafter, Rorik's childhood friend, a man closer to him than his own brothers, said, “Next time, Rorik. Next time you will succeed. At least we've all escaped nearly whole-hided. There will be another time.” But as he spoke he was looking down at the unconscious woman, and there was hatred in his blue eyes. Then he rubbed his head where he'd been struck.

“Aye,” he said. “There will be another time.”

N
EARLY HOME AT
last. Rorik looked hungrily toward Hawkfell Island, his home, the island his grandfather had captured, razing the monastery and killing all the monks who'd lived there thirty years before. His grandfather had also been in the band of warriors who had killed King Edmund and given East Anglia over to the Vikings. All of England was theirs now save for Wessex, which was still held by the Saxons, thanks to King Alfred, that wily old man who had journeyed to his Christian hell some ten years before.

Rorik shaded his eyes. The sun was bright overhead, the day perfect for a homecoming. The island glittered like the richest of emeralds beneath a golden sun blazing in its light blue sky. The island was rich with arable land, wildlife abounded, and the weather was temperate. It was his, granted to him upon his grandfather's death some seven years before. During that seven years two bands of marauders had tried to take the island from him. They'd both failed.

Hawkfell Island, his island, his home now for over two years. Before, he'd left men here and come three
times a year. Now he left only to trade and to go araiding. And every time he returned he thought of the skald, Salorik, a master of the
kenning,
who, in a flight of lyrical fancy had called the island Hawkfell just after his grandfather had captured it. Hawkfell—such a melodious rendering for the hand that held the falcon.

Rorik's warship,
The Sea Raven,
took the lead into the narrow protected harbor. There was a single long wooden pier, its pilings built of sturdy oak. He watched men, women, children, two chickens, and one goat running and scrambling down the path from his farmstead atop the highest point on the island. Not all that high, really, just a gentle sweep upward, the flat land at the top covered with crops of barley, wheat, and rye. Thick copses of pine and fir and abundant low tangled shrubs formed nearly impenetrable protective boundaries around the fields.

The men who reached the quay first grabbed the lines thrown from the warriors on board and tied them securely. The chickens retreated and the goats just stood there looking for something to chew on. The women and children stood back, waiting. They were always waiting, Rorik thought, scanning their faces and those of the children, and sometimes when they returned it was with fewer warriors and he would see those faces turn from anticipation to despair.

Rorik's men jumped onto the pier, stretching and shouting to their comrades, hugged their wives and threw their shrieking children into the air. A familiar scene, Rorik thought again, one repeated each time they came home, and this time there were no tears, no laments. Two wounded men and their hard heads were healing. As was he.

Except there was no wife or child to greet him. He shook his head, damping the echoing and familiar pain, a pain so much a part of him he doubted a time would come when the pain would not be there, deep and constant. His shoulder ached and pulled. He saw others racing down the path from the farmstead to greet them, calling out, shrieking.

When the last man had jumped from
The Sea Raven,
Rorik said to the silent woman at his feet, “Come along. This is my home, the entire island belongs to me. There is no way to escape, as you can see. You will not try to. Now, keep your mouth shut and get onto the dock.”

Mirana, who hadn't said a word since early that morning, managed to struggle to her feet and hold steady, despite the gentle rocking of the warship. She greatly admired the island, its location, and its strategic advantages—not that she would ever tell him. The island's natural harbor made it a possession of great worth. No storms would destroy the ships in this protective inlet. From the arm of land that curved outward into the sea, an enemy could be seen from a goodly distance and warning given in good time. She looked at him straightly, and said, “It isn't a very big island, barely a speck in the sea. I don't know why you're braying on so about it. It's just a chunk of land, a small chunk. I wouldn't want to live here. Why do you choose to live here instead of on the mainland just yon?”

He was tired, his shoulder throbbed, and he wanted to sleep until his muscles eased and he healed. And now she must question him and mock him, her sarcasm thick and double-edged.

“Hawkfell Island is big enough for me and my people. I willingly leave East Anglia to those who enjoy worrying about Saxon marauders poaching onto their
lands and into their towns. Now, be quiet.” He jumped onto the dock. He turned to look down at her. She was in pathetic condition. Her face was burned from the sun, her gown was filthy and wrinkled and damp from sea water that had splashed her for the past three days. Her hair was tangled and matted to her head. However, as he'd just seen, her tongue was mean as a demon's. “You look like a hag,” he said, and offered her his hand. “If I wanted to sell you, I doubt I could find a man who would be willing to buy you.”

She looked at that hand, strong, deeply bronzed by the sun, then looked away. There was black grime beneath his fingernails. It pleased her. She climbed onto the dock by herself. She immediately staggered for her legs wouldn't hold her. She'd been tied down to the plank by his feet for nearly the entire voyage. She would have sprawled on her face had he not grabbed her arm.

“You smell vile,” he said, and dragged her after him along the dock. “I hadn't realized it aboard
The Sea Raven,
for the blessed sea breezes wafted your odor away.”

“It wafted yours away too.”

He turned back to look at her thoughtfully. “I thought at first that my men would try to ravish you, despite my warning to them. After all, you were somewhat comely with all that black hair and that white skin, unique perhaps, and a man enjoys trying something that is unusual. And those green eyes of yours, strange eyes, the color hints at mysteries and secrets. Aye, that's what I thought they'd see when they looked at you: a new sweet, a new animal to pet. I venture they wondered at the hair between your thighs, if it was as black as the hair on your head. But they kept their thoughts to themselves. There's been no danger of them
wanting you for the past two days, has there? Why, they would have tossed you overboard had I allowed them to so do. You've given nothing. You did nothing save take up precious space. You smell like a gutted fish. You ate our food, drank our precious water, and reviled me until I wanted to strangle you.”

“I only told you that Einar would find you and butcher you like the miserable bastard you are.”

“You said it more times than I wanted to hear it.”

That was true, she thought, but only during the first day, those first interminable hours when her anger had overcome her fear of him, her hatred had been stronger than her good sense, when exhaustion hadn't yet dulled her mind or her will. No, her strength hadn't yet been sapped, she hadn't yet slept like a dog at his feet for endless stretches of time, huddled and bound. Many times he'd even rested his foot on her neck, then on her back, for his own pleasure or to punish her, she didn't know. The two were probably one and the same. So many hours had passed that her brain refused to count them, to even recognize them as day shifted into night and back again. She was so tired, so stiff, she just wanted to sit down and never move again. But he just kept dragging her along, and she knew if she did fall, he would simply drag her along the ground.

“I also told you I would kill you,” she said, drawing on a shred of strength she didn't know was still within her. Ah, that had been during those endless hours during the second day. For punishment, he'd kept water from her until her tongue was swelled in her mouth. He'd moved his foot from her back to her neck.

“Aye, my men thought that amusing.”

“So you didn't tell them how I held my knife to your throat, and when you displeased me, I eased it through your tender skin?”

No, she saw, he hadn't told them that. A man's pride could only suffer so much. His hand went to his throat, to the healing ridge of flesh where her knife point had gone deep enough to draw his blood.

He realized what he was doing and dropped his hand. There was fury in his eyes, but he said quite calmly, “Can you walk without me supporting you now?”

“Of course.”

He released her and she promptly collapsed.

He stood over her, watching her rub her legs through the filthy wool of her gown. He grunted, leaned down, and hefted her like a haunch of beef over his shoulder.

She jerked upward, and he said, “Lie still else I'll drag you by all that hair of yours.”

She tried to lie still, she truly did. He walked up a narrow snaking path that was paved with quarried stones. Her stomach clenched and heaved at the constant jostling. She closed her eyes against the pain, only to hear bird cries, more cries and calls and shrieks than she'd ever heard at Clontarf. She opened her eyes. From upside down, she saw several birds scurrying about just off the trail—ah, so many. An oystercatcher, a half-dozen dunlin, and a pair of curlews. She liked birds, she always had, since she was a child. Birds, she thought, gritting her teeth against a wave of intense nausea. Only someone losing their mind would think of birds at a time like this. She saw a ringed plover nestled down in the thick loam beside the trail, admired it, and knew she must be nearly dead.

He continued to climb. She counted ten more steps up the deep-set quarried stones. By the eleventh, she was trying to rear up on his shoulder to relieve the pressure on her belly. He slapped her buttocks.

There was no hope for it. She yelled, “Let me down! I'm going to vomit!”

With no hesitation he dropped her on the sloping side of the path into a low scrub bush that scraped across her exposed arms. Mirana rolled over, feeling the pain from the harsh scrub needles, to come up onto her bruised and torn hands and knees. She retched and retched. There was no food in her belly to come up, thank the gods for that. She felt sicker than she'd ever felt in her life. She hugged her stomach and continued to retch, dry heaving that felt like her belly was being ripped apart. Her throat was dry, and hurt so badly she didn't want to breathe. At least he couldn't see her face for her hair hung like a filthy black curtain to the ground.

She felt him behind her then, saw the slant of his shadow over her left shoulder through the matted strands of hair.

“There's nothing in your belly,” he said, and she wished she had her knife. She would have stuck it deep into his groin.

“What's wrong with her, Rorik?”

It was Hafter who had come up to stand nearby. Some six other warriors were behind him, all standing there, all staring down at her. She could hear women talking too, even a child saying loudly, “Who is she, Papa? Is she a new slave? What is wrong with her? Will she die?”

They were all looking at her and she wished both for their deaths and for her own.

Rorik said to Hafter, “I was carrying her over my shoulder. She's weak, being a woman, and couldn't walk by herself. Now this—puking her guts all over my island. Perhaps it's all an act to gain sympathy. I should have let the men throw her overboard.” He
sounded like a man put upon, a man upon whom the gods had visited the worst of punishments.

She looked up at him and said clearly, “I hope your man's parts rot off. I hope this wretched island sinks into the sea and you with it.”

There was dead silence, then he threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rich laugh filled with malice and fury, a laugh that should have warned her.

“I hate you,” she said, unwarned, then leaned over and retched again. “You're naught but a brutal animal. You chain me like a wretched dog for three days, use me to rest your filthy feet upon, then expect me to dance about when I'm finally allowed to walk.”

He grasped her beneath her arms and half dragged, half carried her back to the wooden dock. He swung her off the ground and flung her far out into the water. The shock of the cold water drove her breath from her body and sent her under. Her mouth was open on a scream and water rushed down her throat. The water was cold, too cold for the warmth of the day, the mildness of the spring air. She flapped her arms with her little remaining strength, but it did no good. Her efforts did nothing. Her wool skirts dragged her down. It was then she decided she preferred to sink like a stone to the bottom. He would kill her anyway. This way was quicker, easier. She ceased struggling and fell cleanly downward.

The men were laughing. That was the last sound she heard as she went under the water—that gleeful laughter of theirs. Rorik was massaging his shoulder, looking at the rippling water where she'd gone under. Time passed, too much time. She didn't come up.

He cursed and jumped forward to the edge of the dock. Then her head cleared the water, bobbing up as if pushed from below. She was choking, thrashing the
water with her arms, and he realized then that she couldn't swim, that or she was too far gone to keep herself afloat.

“You damnable witch!” he yelled at her. “I might have known you'd do this to me!” and jumped into the water beside her. He grabbed her, but she flailed at him, striking his face, his bandaged shoulder, choking and coughing up the water. Pain from her blow to the shoulder nearly sent the breath from him. He struck her jaw and she sagged unconscious against him.