Lord of Hawkfell Island (3 page)

“That is true. Ah, Mirana. How is our captive? Has he survived the fever?”

“Aye, and he's resting more easily now. This traitor, Gunleik, you have no suspicions?”

He shook his head. “We will know eventually. Perhaps Einar will know when he returns.”

“What about his other men?”

“Let them remain on the beach. I doubt they'll try to attack us, 'twould be suicide. There is no reason to try another attack on them, even though the storm still rages and we could possibly surprise them. There is no reason to cut their warships away now. Besides, Einar will want to capture those warships and add them to his own fleet.”

Mirana walked to the fire pit and dipped a big wooden spoon into the iron pot. She filled her wooden bowl with porridge. She added butter and walked to the long benches that lined the longhouse's walls. She sat next to a snoring man. She forced herself to eat, calmly, methodically.

What had Einar done to earn this man's hatred?

 

He was awake and he welcomed the pain. The pain pleased him because he knew now he was alive; he also knew he could control the pain and he had, for he'd thought and thought, knowing he was in very serious trouble. He was in a dimly lit sleeping chamber, alone. Then he heard a voice coming nearer and quickly closed his eyes. It was the woman's voice, soft
and quiet, and she was saying to someone, “He's been sleeping for nearly two full days. I've fed him but he hasn't acknowledged me, refuses to acknowledge me. He's just eaten broth and porridge. He should awaken soon for he has slept many hours now. Einar will be here tomorrow.” She gave a short laugh that held no humor at all. “By then he should be well enough for Einar to torture before he kills him.”

“It's the way of things,” a man said. It was the man who'd sent the knife into his shoulder, the man who'd shouted that he wasn't to be killed. He said now, “I must go, Mirana. Take care. No matter his wound, he is still a man and a Viking and he would kill you if he could.”

He heard the rustle of her skirt, felt her hand on his forehead, felt the warmth of her breath on his cheek. He wanted to open his eyes but he didn't. He would wait.

She said, “I've brought you some more porridge. You must eat more and regain your strength. I have put honey on it, 'twill give you vigor and add sweetness to your mouth. I know you're awake. You have but to lie still and open your mouth. I will feed you just as I have before.”

Still, he made no move. She stood there staring down at him, wondering about him, if he had a wife, family, and where they lived. She wished she'd let him die, quickly, honorably, but she realized now that she simply couldn't. There was something about him that drew her. It was odd, but it was true. She would not be responsible for his death. She had always admired strength and courage, and he had that in abundance, but it was something more than that, something she didn't understand. She wouldn't, couldn't, have let him die, for even in the rain-sodden outer yard when he'd
been surrounded with men, Gunleik's knife sticking obscenely from his shoulder, she'd had to step forward, she'd had to stop it, for she knew she couldn't let him die. And he would have died for he was too far into his rage, too deep into the battle and into himself to allow himself to withdraw, to allow himself to realize he'd lost and give up his weapons. He needed strength now and she was determined he would have it, and thus she said again, “Open your mouth and I will feed you.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her. He remembered her now, the witch with all the black hair and the pale face, her hand outstretched toward him. He remembered the rain striking down her face, plastering her hair to her head, rain dripping from her lashes. She was looking at him, her expression calm, unworried. Did she believe him to be so very weak? So helpless?

She sat down beside him and put the wooden spoon to his mouth. He opened his mouth and ate. It was delicious. It focused him momentarily on his stomach instead of his shoulder. He ate all the porridge, feeling the strength flow into him, then said, “Who are you?”

“Mirana, sister to Einar.” His eyes were the color of the cloudless sky in midsummer.

“Einar has no sister.”

“I am his half-sister. We have different fathers. My father was Audun; his was Thorsson.”

“You're keeping me alive so that he may have more pleasure in his torture of me.”

She had no answer to that. It would be the result, surely, but that wasn't why she'd done it. She rose and said, “You must rest. I will feed you again soon. Do you have need to relieve yourself?”

He opened his eyes again and stared at her. “Aye,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

“What is your name, Viking?”

“It matters not that you know. I am Rorik Haraldsson.”

“Why did you come here? Who is your spy? Why do you wish to kill Einar?”

“I don't answer questions from foolish women. You annoy me. Leave me alone.”

From beneath half-closed lids he saw her stiffen, even as she repeated his name, but she said nothing more to him. What more was there to say? He wouldn't bend and she couldn't.

She returned later, how much later he didn't know, for he'd slept again deeply. She carried another bowl of porridge. She said nothing, merely sat beside him and began spooning the thick porridge into his mouth. He turned his face away when he was full.

When he turned back to her, his look was speculative, his eyes cold. “I could strangle you,” he said. “You have a skinny little neck. Aye, I could twist it with but one of my hands and you would be dead before any of your brother's men came to your rescue.”

She laughed and he stiffened at that unexpected sound. He'd sounded mean and cruel, he knew well how to use his voice to bring fear, and yet she had laughed at him. He felt anger roil in his belly. His eyes narrowed on her face. “You believe me so very weak still? Too weak to kill a woman? A witch? Possibly Einar's whore?”

“You should not have said that, Viking.”

S
HE RAISED A
very sharp knife, gently touched it to his bare throat, and pressed inward. “It is I who could kill you. Don't think me unworthy as an enemy. Don't think me soft and weak, Viking, with a woman's feeble strength. I could kill you quickly and easily, slice your throat with as little effort as I would a chicken's.” Men, she thought, they were filled with bravado, even when they lay flat in their own helplessness. She admired him greatly in those moments.

“You're naught but a girl,” he said, but he didn't move because the tip of her knife was sharp against his flesh. He felt it prick his skin. “You are worth naught save what you have between your legs and how well you use it.”

The knife tip slid easily into his throat, not too deep, but he felt the sharp sting, felt the hot stickiness of his own blood.

“I think you should keep your tongue behind your teeth, Viking. You push me to anger. It is unwise of you. 'Tis I who have fed you and who bathed the fever from you.”

“You are very young,” he said abruptly, looking up at her. She was very close, the dark green of her eyes clear to him in the dimly lit chamber.

“Not so young. I am eighteen, an age most girls are wedded and suckling their own babes. Since I have no need for a husband, why then, I'm still free.”

“Einar will wed, and when he does you will have naught of anything. He will be pleased to release you to any man who would pay him a large enough bride price.”

She merely smiled and shook her head. “I don't think so. We will see. Until that time, I am mistress here and free to do as I please.”

“No man wanted you? That is the truth, isn't it? You with your knife and your ill-fitting pride and your foolish bragging? Or perhaps you are Einar's whore and he will keep you close until he is bored with your endowments.”

She laughed again and he felt the knife tip ease from his flesh. “You need to measure your words more carefully, Viking, particularly since you are flat on your back. Your tongue is as smooth as the sharp spines on an eel's back. I cannot believe you have managed to hold to your life this long. You must have a legion of enemies, all clamoring to slit your throat. I could slit it now, and it is wise of you to realize it. Do not be a fool and underestimate me. It is a mistake many men make, to their grief. Cease your insults. How old are you?”

“I'm twenty-five.” For a moment, he looked surprised that he'd answered her. Then, “I spoke only the truth to you. Your hands are soft as is your voice, but you are blooded with that vile bastard. Aye, you're no whore, I'll believe you. I would rather you were his whore; then I could pity you. No, you have his blood in you. You have filth in you. It's possible I will kill you after I send him to a soulless pit.”

“You may try,” she said, and there was no expression
on her pale face, no hint of feeling in her voice.

He frowned. “You have healed me. It was your hands on me with the wet cloth to cool my fever. It was your voice I heard. As you said, it was you who fed me when I barely knew I was alive. Why?”

“I don't know.” How could she tell him that if she'd done nothing, she wouldn't have survived it herself. She'd had no choice but to help him, but she couldn't say that to him.

She saw that he would insult her again, and said quickly, shrugging, “I dislike to see animals suffer.”

She saw the cords in his neck swell with his anger. It made her smile and made the cords swell even more, made his skin flush. “You want me to strike you, lady? You want me to kill you now?”

He felt the damned knife again, caressing the flesh of his neck. He felt a slick of his blood trickle slowly over his throat. Let her feel herself in control, he thought, not moving. Let her feel superior and confident in her foolish bravado. She would learn. He wouldn't mind being the one to teach her. Ah, but she was Einar's sister. She was fouled with his blood.

“You won't kill a mouse unless I give you leave to do it,” she said. “You will lie here and I will tend you unless you would prefer one of Einar's whores. They are comely, submissive as sheep, for my brother prefers women who have nothing in their heads except flattery for his prowess. They undressed and bathed you. They much enjoyed themselves. I heard them speaking of how finely you were made, how your man's rod was thick and how it swelled to a wondrous size as they bathed you. I believe they compared you to Einar and deemed you the more appealing. Of course, they are stupid.”

“I have no memory of this,” he said, and frowned. He
realized then that he was naked beneath the woolen blanket. “You did not touch me?”

“I bathed you, yes, but not below your waist. I have no interest in you like those other two who slavered even whilst they spoke of you later.”

“No interest in men? Are you indeed a witch?”

“It doesn't matter. Now you will sleep. My brother returns tomorrow. Then you are his prisoner, no longer mine.”

“I will never be a woman's prisoner,” he said. She merely shook her head. The knife withdrew from his throat. He watched her pick up the damp cloth, clean the tip of the knife, then wipe his blood from his throat. She was thorough.

“You will pay for that,” he said.

She laughed. She walked quickly to the opening to the chamber then turned. “Your talk is a man's bluster. It is piteous. You were stupid to come here. I was stupid to keep you alive. Now you will die for your stupidity and for mine.”

He lay there unmoving for many minutes, deep in thought. How many times had she told him that Einar was returning on the morrow? Surely more than was necessary. Surely.

 

It was dark as a well in the sleeping chamber. He could hear no voices, no noise from the outer hall. It must be very late. He lay there, still and quiet, but his breath was coming in mewling gasps, and he cursed his body for betraying him. He would wait a few more minutes then exercise again. He was hungry, but he knew that he must pretend to sleep or unconsciousness should anyone come in. Especially to her he must appear weak and helpless. Let her gloat. Let her believe him feeble, powerless even against her and her
silly little knife. Still, he had a slit in his neck from that knife. He unconsciously touched his fingertips to it. No woman had ever done such a thing to him in his life. Then he smiled, a smile that held both amusement and promise.

After some time, he gritted his teeth and swung his legs over the side of the box bed. Pain sliced through his shoulder, but he withstood it. He had no choice. He cursed softly, then stood. His legs held him. He smiled into the darkness. He walked to the entrance of the sleeping chamber and pulled the bearskin aside. He smelled smoke from the now banked fire pit. He heard men snoring. He heard one man and woman giggling, then he heard her moan in her release.

Suddenly he heard a whisper to his right. He smiled into the darkness. Aslak had not failed him.

“Lord, 'tis I, Aslak. We must be away now for Einar arrives on the morrow. I heard Gunleik speaking of it, but he didn't sound pleased. We must go now. Are you strong enough for it?”

“Aye,” he said. “Where are Sculla and Hafter?”

“In the storage shed just outside the longhouse. We will escape through that rear door.”

“The witch, Mirana, where is she?”

“Sleeping in her own chamber. Her brother grants her privacy.”

“I want her.”

Aslak paled. “It is too risky, my lord. Far too risky. There are others to use as hostage, but not Einar's own sister. She is no mealymouthed weakling to gasp and faint. Nay, my lord, she would yell and fight until you had to kill her. She would bring you low, my lord.”

“I want her,” he said again. “No more arguments. She is the best hostage we could take. Give me clothes and fetch rope so that I may tie her hands and feet. If
you can, get my weapons and my helmet. Go quickly.”

Aslak returned within minutes, his hands filled with weaponry and rope. “Here, my lord Rorik. We must hurry. Your men who are waiting below on the beach, I fear they will believe you dead and leave us. Einar will delight in killing both of us. Already Gunleik is questioning all of us to see who the traitor is. It is but a matter of time until I am discovered. Gunleik is no fool.”

“We will leave shortly,” Rorik said as he strapped on his wide leather belt and slipped his sword into its sheath. “Quit your plaints. As for my men, they would await me on the beach until the day of the world's death.”

He dressed, gritting his teeth against the grinding pain in his shoulder. At least the bandage fit tightly, thanks to the damned witch and her strong hands. “Now,” he said, “I will get her. Keep watch.”

Mirana was deeply asleep one moment; the next moment she was wide awake and she knew he was there, in that brief instant, standing over her. But how was it possible? He was so very ill, so very weak. It had to be another, but it wasn't, she knew it was he, Rorik Haraldsson. But she felt his breath on her cheek. She recognized his scent. She opened her mouth, felt the stark pain of his fist against her jaw. She was unconscious, her head lolling on her bed.

Rorik saw she was wearing only a light linen shift. This small chamber wasn't a dark pit as was Einar's and for that he was grateful. He quietly opened the trunk at the foot of her box bed and rifled about until he found a gown. He jerked it over her head, smoothing it down over her hips. There were leather shoes and he quickly slipped them on her feet and tied the leather cross straps. Aslak came into the small chamber and
handed him the rope. He tied her hands behind her, her ankles together. He stuffed one of her shifts into her mouth then tied it securely about her head with another shift. He wrapped her in her wool blanket and hefted her over his shoulder. The pain nearly brought him to his knees.

“So much for her conceit,” he said under his breath, his teeth gritted against the pain, and he said it again, and he remained upright and he carried her.

They were quiet as the now dead coals in the fire pit. Smoke still hung thick in the air and Rorik felt it curdle in his throat. He wanted to cough. He nearly crossed his eyes with the effort to keep quiet. He didn't want to die here in the middle of this longhouse all because of a cough. A man jerked upright, stared at them, then grunted, and fell again onto his back. Rorik didn't see Gunleik, the man who'd sent the knife through his shoulder. He would like to kill him. But he would like to thank him before he did kill him. He and the witch had kept him alive—for Einar to torture—but still Rorik had lived and because of them. Because of them he was now escaping.

When Aslak managed to pull the cross bar up on the double-thick oak doors, Rorik's heart was pounding so loud he feared the enemy would hear it. In those few moments, he wasn't even aware of any pain in his shoulder. All his concentration was on escape. On not coughing. On holding the woman steady on his shoulder.

They were outside the longhouse. There were still the dogs and the other animals to get past and the half-dozen or so guards.

Suddenly, a man was standing directly in their path, his mouth open, gaping in disbelief at them. He opened his mouth at the same time Rorik dropped Mirana.
Rorik was on him in the next instant, his hands around his throat, squeezing until the man's eyes bulged and his tongue burst from his mouth. He released him and watched him gasp and heave on the ground at his feet. He pulled his sword from its sheath. He leaned down and struck the man's head with the smooth handle.

“Kill him, my lord!”

“I have no need of a stranger's blood on my hands,” Rorik said. “He did not fight me. He does not deserve to die.” He hefted Mirana over his shoulder again, settled her to his comfort, then motioned for Aslak to continue. He took two steps before he felt dizzy with the pain from his shoulder. He paused a moment, shaking his head, forcing himself to block off the pain. He breathed deeply and slowly and soon the pain was manageable. His father had taught him this. His father had also taught him that vengeance was more important than his life, that to live without seeking vengeance reduced a man to pitiable nothingness.

They reached the small shed where his two men were being held prisoner. There were two guards lolling on the ground in front of the shed, both of them sleeping soundly, their snores filling the night air. They were wrapped in wool blankets, their swords and knives at their sides.

Rorik again dropped Mirana to the ground. He struck each man's head, then sheathed his sword once more.

Sculla and Hafter were in better condition then he was. They weren't surprised to see him and that made him feel better. They'd trusted him to save them and he had. His small band, the still unconscious woman over his shoulder, left through the rear door of the fortress. The plank was still over the ravine, thank the gods, for Rorik had forgotten about it.

Rorik Haraldsson and his thirty men and the one
woman were rowing toward the open Irish Sea within ten minutes.

Rorik looked back at Clontarf, at Einar Thorsson's fortress. He'd lost this time. Next time he wouldn't. There would be vengeance. For now, he had her, the witch, the woman who'd dared stick her damned knife into his throat.