Lord of Hawkfell Island (9 page)

She shook her head.

He took both her arms in his big hands and shook her hard, snapping her head back in her neck.

He leaned down, his breath warm on her cheek and said low, just for her ears, “Don't force me to whip you in front of them. Don't be unyielding about this. Don't wallow in your damned pride. It will gain you nothing but pain. Don't be stupid. Say it now, loudly, so they will hear you. Say ‘my lord.' ”

“I cannot,” she whispered. “You know I cannot.”

Rorik cursed. “How like a woman you are, when all is said and done. You have lost because you lack judgment, because you don't understand how to reason properly. You must learn to pick your battles. This one you couldn't win. It is already lost. Now, say it.” As he spoke, he turned slightly to see that his three men were watching him avidly. He cursed again. He'd done it to himself and now she would suffer for it. He'd told her the truth. There was no choice for her or for him. But she'd made the decision not to obey him. It was her fault, after all. He waited. She said nothing.

“I will give you one more chance. Say it.” He shook her again. Kerzog wuffed again, but still didn't move.

She looked at him helplessly, then shook her head.

He cursed very softly. She knew only she had heard him. He held her right wrist and took off his belt with his other hand. She stared at it. It was wide supple leather. It would hurt, for he was very strong. He grabbed both her wrists and held them high with his right hand, bringing her to her tiptoes. He wondered briefly at her passivity, but only briefly. In the next instant, she spun about, jerking her hands free, and sent her fist into his belly, her knee toward his groin. Her fist in his belly hurt but he was quick enough to have her knee land hard against his thigh. She was on him, her fingers going for his face. He cursed her, dropped the belt, and managed to grab her quickly enough. Still she fought him with amazing strength and agility. Well, why not? She, after all, had been eating like a stoat for the past day and a half. She was no longer weak, curse her and curse the women for seeing to her needs and not his. “You will only make it harder on yourself. Hold still, damn you.”

He ended up binding her wrists together, then holding them high in his right hand. She struggled, but she couldn't break free of him. She cursed him now, vicious curses that impressed him with their range and intensity.

He turned her so that her back was to him, her face to the three men. He knew he wouldn't hurt her badly for he had no leverage, though his men wouldn't realize it. He picked up the belt and swung it, wrapping it around her back.

She jerked, but didn't make a sound, not even another curse. She didn't struggle anymore. She looked over her shoulder at him, and her eyes were deep and calm,
as green as the moss grass in the salt marsh. “You are naught but an animal. I will kill you if I have the chance. I should have killed you at Clontarf when I had you caged. Aye, I just pricked your pretty throat to give you a taste of pain and the sticky feeling of your own blood, but I should have sunk my knife deep.”

“You didn't, so it doesn't matter what you spout out now. I am your lord. Say it.”

He gave her several moments, wishing to Thor, to Frey, to Odin All-Father, that her stupid pride would bend. But she remained silent. He saw her tense for the next blow, but she didn't try to escape him again. He swung the belt. It stung her back harder this time, he knew it, he felt her shudder, heard her sharp intake of breath.

“Say it.”

She remained silent as a tomb. He stopped after the fourth swing of the belt. He'd given her only a small jolt of pain, nay, not really pain, just the warning of it. She'd given him more pain when she'd stuck her damned knife in his throat, and she had the gall to call it naught but a prick.

What he had forced on her was the knowledge of her helplessness against him. That humiliation wouldn't leave her for a very long time. He turned her about and looked silently at her pale face.

He released her, hooked his foot behind her leg, and sent her sprawling to the ground. Again, there was little or no pain, but another dose of humiliation, which for her was a more powerful lesson. Slowly, he fastened his belt around his waist. “Get up,” he said. “Go bathe. Your smell offends me.”

The men were nodding in approval. She got to her feet, felt the pulling in her back, but walked away, not speaking, not looking at him or the men. She heard
Kerzog wuff to Rorik, as if in agreement with what he'd done, she thought, anger flooding through her, momentarily blocking out the pain in her back.

She heard one of the men say with great satisfaction, “Aye, no more from her. Well done, my lord. She is only a woman and she is our enemy. She deserved a lesson. She will know better next time. Let her tell of her beating to the other women. If they were wondering whether to obey you, they won't wonder now. Aye, they'll now do as you bid them to do.”

Rorik didn't say anything. He wondered what she had wanted to speak to him about.

To her surprise, Mirana heard another man say, “Nay, Askhold, she's a small girl and proud. Her pride does honor to her parentage. Despite her brother's dishonor, she has honesty. She's a true Viking woman. She shouldn't be abused, Rorik, she should be protected.”

Mirana resolved to discover the man's name. Unfortunately she couldn't turn around to see him.

She heard Rorik curse.

What she was, she thought, wincing with each step from the stinging in her back, was stupid. He'd been right. Her pride had kept her silent. Her pride had seemed her only choice until he'd struck her back with his belt. All she'd had to do was bend, just a small yielding, but she hadn't. So simple really, just say
my lord
to him, nothing more, just a simple
my lord,
for it meant naught, she could even have said it with revulsion in her voice and he would have known she didn't mean it. But she had to be stubborn.

What had Einar done for the man to call him dishonorable?

A
STA RUBBED THE
white medicinal cream into her back, made from the oily tender root. The belt hadn't broken the skin, had only sliced through the tunic and gown in two places, and the material could easily be mended. There were only welts on her back, Utta said, as she watched Asta rub the cream into Mirana's flesh.

Mirana would have choked before she'd have told anyone, but Utta had come into the sleeping chamber when she was naked, holding the gown in her hand, examining the damage.

But the girl had said only, “I will fetch the healing cream from Old Alna. It will take the stinging away.” She paused in the doorway and added, “I will tell her I have a bee sting and it pains me.”

Mirana had smiled at her, wondering at her wisdom, at her youth, remembering herself at twelve years old, a lanky, proud girl, ready for any mischief, ready to fight any boy. She'd not had a dollop of wisdom. She smiled at her now. “Thank you, Utta. Do you have thread and a needle so that I may mend this lovely gown?”

But Asta had come with Utta, Asta, the woman married to Gurd the blacksmith, the man who had insulted
his wife before all the assembled company this morning. To Mirana's surprise, Asta was smiling at her, soon laughing as she told her of the old shoe the goat had chewed and chewed until the women had stirred it into a stew for the men. Before she'd left the chamber, she said, “Don't worry. Both Utta and I frequently suffer from bee stings. You try to rest now, Mirana. I thank you for what you tried to do, as do all the other women. We believe that Rorik spoke so quickly because he dreaded doing it and just wanted it over and done with. But you tried, and we do thank you.”

Mirana just shook her head. “I did naught of anything. I'm not sure, though, if that is why Rorik made his speech so very early, even before he tasted the wonderful porridge. It doesn't make sense to me, but perhaps you are right.”

Both Utta and Asta just sighed and left her alone. Asta said from the doorway, “I will tell you later what the women are thinking. Amma is very angry, but I know she must be calm for us to determine what is best to do now.”

 

Mirana was sitting on the side of the bed, wearing the gown again, now mending the tunic, when Rorik walked in. He stopped and looked at her.

“Utta told me she'd rubbed cream into your back.”

“Aye,” Mirana said, her eyes on her mending.

“She said there were only red welts.”

“That is what she said.”

“She said I wasn't to tell anyone else. She said that would shame you.”

Mirana said nothing. So he didn't know Asta had been here as well. She wondered why they hadn't told him. To protect her, she supposed, but didn't understand how it could. Then it struck her. They'd had Utta
speak to him. Surely if there was guilt to be felt, he would be made to feel it from an eleven-year-old girl. She wanted to smile, but she didn't, for he said in the next moment, “I didn't hurt you. I was careful.”

At that she did look up. She said mildly, “If I had my knife with me, I should show you how I can slice you nicely without much pain. Shall I thank you, Rorik? Is that what you want? You want me to kiss your hands for whipping me in front of your men? For proving to me that you are the stronger? For humiliating me? That final move of sprawling me to the ground was well done of you, Rorik, and I doubt not it was also important for your men to witness.”

He wasn't about to admit to the truth of her words, and said firmly, “ 'Twas your own fault. All you had to do was bend that damnable pride of yours just a bit and say the truth—for I am your lord, damn you. All you had to do was say it. I can even hear the words on your tongue now, all dripping with hatred and scorn and contempt. If you'd but said them I wouldn't have been forced to whip you. I wouldn't have been forced to do any of the other. Your fault, not mine.”

She wondered if he truly believed that. Her fault? Of course, Einar whipped women or slapped them or hit them with his fists whenever he wished to. It never required much provocation. He also beat those men who were weaker than he was, and slaves of both sexes whenever the urge claimed him. He'd whipped her several times. He'd tied her to a pole because she'd fought him the last time he'd whipped her. She'd even hurt him, though he would never have admitted it. He'd swung the whip with great relish, slicing open her back with the strength of his blows. He'd said to her when he'd tired of wielding the whip, “Now, my girl, you won't ever try to protect someone from me
again. I gave you a good lesson, don't you think? Aye, you should thank me for this valuable lesson, but I won't force you to. I know you won't, and I have no wish to kill you. My men wouldn't be pleased, though only the gods know why you have their loyalty.”

Mirana clearly remembered the young man, a boy, really, who had displeased Einar. She couldn't remember what he'd done to anger Einar, if indeed she'd ever known. But it couldn't have been anything severe, nothing all that bad. She'd taken the boy's side and hidden him. That's what had provoked Einar's fury. He'd had her whipped and as she lay on her belly, gritting her teeth against the pain in her back, she was told the boy was dead. Einar had come in then and looked at her bare back, at the ugly welts, and said, “Aye, 'tis a pity.” She never knew if he was speaking of the dead boy or of her back.

“What are you thinking? You are silent too long. I don't like it, for your thoughts are dangerous even though you are but a woman and ungoverned.”

She shrugged. “Bad memories, nothing more.”

“Is that all?”

“Very well. I was remembering that first day in the warship when you put your foot on my neck and I bit your ankle. You yowled, I hurt you so badly. I saw my teeth marks there for two days.”

“Aye, you hurt me well enough,” Rorik said, remembering mainly the shock of her act. She'd been screaming at him that he was naught but a vicious animal, that she should have plunged her knife through his neck. Aye, she'd still had her fury and her strength to sustain her that first day out of Clontarf. To punish her, he'd pressed her face to the plank and held her down with his foot on her neck. She'd turned red with rage. The bite had hurt. He said only, “I can't see that
it would be a bad memory for you. That memory would make you laugh with pleasure. Thus, you are lying to me. Tell me the truth now, what were you thinking?”

“If you would know, I was also wondering if it really bothered you to whip me. I doubt it. Men are violent. They enjoy hurting those weaker than themselves. I was thinking of the times Einar whipped me. And now you did. Both of you said it was my fault.”

He grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. The tunic slid to the ground. He shook her. “Don't compare me to your brother, ever again. You gave me no choice but to whip you and you know I stayed my strength. You know well enough that I could not allow my men to see me as bending to a woman's wishes, particularly after I've been played the ass by the women since our return to Hawkfell Island. I am their lord and their leader and I cannot be seen to be weak or irresolute. I had no choice. Damn you, admit it!”

He'd done it again, given her an order. She stared up at him, fury banking in her eyes, and this time, he just shook his head at himself.

“Finish your mending.” He released her, leaned to pick up the tunic and threw it at her. He shoved her down onto the bed. She made no move to escape him.

Her hands were quiet in her lap. She stared up at him, and said, “Were you unfaithful to Inga?”

His face, deeply bronzed from the sun, paled at her words. His hands fisted at his sides. He raised his right arm, and she knew he wanted to strike her. She knew too that he would control himself. She didn't know how she knew it, but she did. She had no doubts at all. He did. He turned on his heel and strode away from her. She called out, “I think you must have been, for you threatened to beat the women just because they don't want their husbands to be unfaithful to them. What
power do they have save ruining your meals? Were you my husband and you bedded another woman, I would kill you, not just give you belly pains from eating swill.”

He jerked, then strode from the sleeping chamber, never looking back.

 

Rorik drank deeply of the mead. His belly was full and now his mind was fast dulling with the drink. He heard his men laughing, bragging of their victory over the women, and, indeed, it was truly a victory, for the meal had been the best any of them had eaten in a very long time. The boar steaks had been broiled over the pit fire, wrapped in oiled tartar leaves. The herring and bass, both baked to tenderness, turning to tender flakes in the mouth, had made them groan with pleasure.

Rorik finished the mead in his cup. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The woman was chained in his sleeping chamber. He'd refused to have food sent to her. Let her suffer as he and his men had, damn her. She'd already eaten enough—given to her by those damnable treacherous women—to hold her steady for a good week.

She'd dared to demand if he'd been unfaithful to Inga. He'd wanted to kill her, at least to strike her at the sound of Inga's name on her lips.

He heard someone approach, and slit open his right eye. It was Entti, and she was holding out a pitcher of mead. He allowed her to fill his cup again.

She was smiling at him, a very sweet smile that added warmth to the near vacant expression in her eyes. She was simple, this girl he'd captured on a raid the previous summer in the Rhineland, but kind. She harbored ill will toward no one. There was no malice
in her. That she was a slave to a Viking seemed not to bother her at all. She seemed to enjoy the men who had bedded her here on Hawkfell Island. She'd not drawn away or screamed and pleaded. Even the women were kind to her despite the men's lust for her. Their revenge had been against the men, not against Entti. Rorik thanked her. Her smile widened, showing dimples, and he realized that she wanted him to bed her. She was really quite pretty, with her thick rich brown hair and her brown eyes, but those eyes were too childlike for him to appreciate, too blank in their intent, for him to consider bedding her. She was tall and slender, full-breasted, really quite lovely, but still, he couldn't bring himself to want her. It would be like taking advantage of a child even though she was a woman grown, all of eighteen, he was certain. Hafter had taken her first upon her capture. Rorik wondered if she'd been a virgin.

He said quietly, his voice low and gentle, “Nay, Entti, not tonight. I must attend our prisoner.”

Another female would have shown displeasure, but not Entti. She said, looking down at his empty plate, “The food is delicious. I am so glad.”

He laughed at that. “Aye, all of us are glad. Seek out your bed, Entti, you have labored enough. I am sorry. I had not realized the women had fed you the swill they'd given to us.”

She lowered her eyes and her fingers began plucking at her gown sleeve. He realized that she didn't wish to sleep. She wanted a man. He saw Hafter looking at Entti with more interest than a man should show a woman who wasn't his wife, and said, “Hafter looks unhappy. I release you from your work. You may see to him.”

She nodded happily, and left him.

Rorik rose, felt the chamber spin around him, shook his head as would a mongrel hound caught in the rain, and walked toward his sleeping chamber, Kerzog at his heels.

Ottar called out, “Lord Rorik, do you go to whip the prisoner again?”

Hafter laughed and called out, “Oh nay, Ottar, he'll plow her belly, that's his thought.”

Sculla raised his head from his conversation with Old Alna and said, “Rorik is too sodden to plow a field, much less a woman.”

Old Alna cackled.

Sculla's wife, Amma, said, “He isn't used to so much drink like the rest of you louts. His belly won't like him for this.”

Rorik turned and said, “All of you, keep your tongues behind your teeth. You chatter because your bellies are content.”

“Aye, that's the truth of it,” Askhold said. “Beat the witch, Rorik.”

Rorik didn't hear him. He was thinking about his belly and his dulled head. He prayed Amma was wrong in her prediction but knew that she wasn't. He didn't hold drink well.

The sleeping chamber was dark as the deepest pit. He brought in a rush torch and fastened it into its holder on the wall. He saw her on the floor, on her side, her legs drawn up to her chest. He couldn't see the chain, but he knew it was there, wrapped around her wrist.

She was awake. She hadn't moved, hadn't breathed, it seemed to him, but nonetheless, he knew she was awake. He didn't care.

He pulled off his clothes, doused the rush torch, and flung himself down onto his bed.

“You drunken lout. You disgust me.”

He laughed, a drunken laugh that sounded demented. “I begin to believe you have missed me, Mirana.”

“I would that you had rotted, you and all your vicious men.”

“You have been left too much alone,” he remarked to the darkness. “Even I am welcome after your overlong solitude. You obviously have grown bored with your own company. Aye, that's a woman's plaint, isn't it? She cannot bear to be alone.”