She smiled at that, for there was firmness in Gunleik’s voice. Then she said, “I was just thinking of the warrior’s trickery. Conquest wasn’t his plan. He brought only two warships and no more than thirty men. He had no plan to go anywhere but here because Einar was here and he wanted him.”
“Aye, I admire his mind and his guile. He knew of the small rear door all along, and he waited until the storm began and darkness had come to invade the fortress. All his taunting, his curses, and his insults, all was bluster and a sham. He came with only two men. They would come into the fortress and search out Einar and kill him at their leisure. His other men would continue their taunting on the beach, holding all my men’s attention. I admire him, Mirana. He is bold and he was taking a grave risk. But his plan failed and now he will die.”
“There are his men on the beach. Do you believe they now realize that he has failed and will sail away without him? Surely they won’t try to storm the fortress, they would have no chance.”
“Were I one of his men I would wait for him until the Christian’s devil came to take me.”
“I would wait too,” she said, and smiled sadly into the embers of the fire pit. “You know, of course, that this means there is a spy here at Clontarf, a man who is loyal to this warrior.”
“Aye, I know. I will find him. I must find him soon or lord Einar will not be pleased.”
And Einar might punish Gunleik, she thought. Mirana spooned some porridge into a wooden bowl and handed it to Gunleik. “You have not eaten. It is tasty. Here is some honey. Eat. We will find the spy, fret not.”
She watched him fondly, this man who was as close to her as her father had been, dead now since her twelfth year, and she’d been sent here to Clontarf to be in her brother’s guardianship. Her half-brother’s guardianship. And Gunleik had been here and she’d turned to this man who treated her gently yet matter-of-factly, and had taught her how to use weapons because he knew nothing else to teach her. And Einar had approved because she realized it had pleased him to know that she could sew and cook and keep his household and fight like a man. Aye, Einar was like that.
Old Halak stopped beside her and patted her arm. He wished her a good night. She nodded to him, thanking him, for nothing really, but just because he was a good man and had served her well. He had also fashioned a protective shielding around the hole in the roof so no rain poured into the longhouse. It was warm within, a bluish smoke haze hanging in the air, but not so thick that it was uncomfortable to breathe.
She watched Gunleik eat his porridge, slowly at first, then with more appetite when he realized how hungry he was. Just a few short hours ago the warrior had come with his two warships. It seemed much longer than that now. She’d known immediately he was their leader. He’d stood there on the beach, some fifty feet below the Clontarf fortress, his legs spread, his head thrown back, and taunted them from the beach, called them cowards, derided Einar for hiding behind the witch’s skirts. But it had been her responsibility to speak and she had. When she’d shouted down that Einar wasn’t here, he’d laughed, a deep scornful laugh that had rung out loud in the still air. Einar’s men, clustered below in the yard, were furious; she could feel their tension. To have all of them taunted was one thing, but Einar’s sister was another. She’d shouted again. “I am Mirana, sister of Einar. He is in Dublin at the king’s fortress there.” She would never forget his stance, the arrogance of him, when he’d yelled up to her, as she’d stood on the fortress ramparts, “Lady, get you below to your spinning! Prepare your evening meal and keep your tongue behind your teeth where a woman’s tongue belongs.” She’d known then that he wouldn’t believe her, believe anything she said. And his trickery, she had admired that as much as Gunleik did. “Will he live?” she asked him now.
“He is young and strong. If he doesn’t succumb to the fever, aye, I believe so. But you would know that better than I.”
She left him then and walked to Einar’s sleeping chamber where the man lay. The man fascinated her. She couldn’t seem to stay long away from him.
There was only one rush torch lit, giving off sluggish light. The room was dim and warm. There were several thick woolen blankets covering the man. His shoulder was bound tightly with clean white wool. No blood was seeping through the bandage. He was either asleep or unconscious, she didn’t know which.
She eased down to sit beside him on the box bed. She laid her palm on his forehead. He was hot as the coals in the fire pit. She fetched a cloth, dampened it in a bowl of cold water, and began to stroke it over his face and shoulders. Over and over again. He muttered something but she couldn’t understand him. She wondered if he were going to awaken and, when he did, what he would think, what he would do.
Rorik thought he was dead, gone to Valhalla. Aye, surely he’d gone to Odin All-Father because he’d died as a warrior should, fighting with all his might, filled with rage and valor, and there was the soft voice of a Valkyrie above him, her cool fingers on his forehead, and she was speaking words he couldn’t grasp, but it didn’t matter. She was there and thus he was dead, there were no more choices for him now, no more decisions to be made, no more vengeance to take. But he couldn’t see and surely that was odd. Did a man become blind when he died? Nay, that couldn’t be right. A man in Valhalla felt and saw and ate and sang and took his pleasure with any woman he pleased. He didn’t feel like singing. He felt a lurching of pain in his shoulder and it shook him deeply. He didn’t expect pain, surely there shouldn’t be pain after he’d died. The pain ebbed and flowed, and he tried to force his mind to accept it, but it was difficult. Perhaps he was close to death, and thus hadn’t yet gained all that would be his. He felt cool dampness on his face, another odd thing that shouldn’t be. The cool dampness was on his shoulders, his arms, his belly, but no lower.
The Valkyrie’s voice grew dimmer until it faded into the blackness that drew on him. Then he felt nothing.
Mirana rose and stretched. The fever had lessened. He was nearly cool to the touch. Gunleik was right. He would live. He was young and strong. She stared down at him, wondering if she shouldn’t simply feed him some poison and let him die easily. She thought of Einar and knew that he would torture this man, break him until he was naught but a shell, and enjoy himself with every moan from the man’s mouth.
Men and their vengeance. He would die horribly because he’d tried to gain vengeance on Einar. Aye, she should poison him, but she knew she couldn’t, it was that simple. For so long as he lived there was hope for him. A slender thread of hope, but hope nonetheless. She knew deep down that was a lie but she wouldn’t release it.
She frowned down at him, then picked up the damp cloth again. She continued to wipe his face and shoulders, over and over until she was satisfied that the fever was truly gone. She pulled the woolen blanket to his chest, looked at him for a very long time, then left him.
She needed to see Gunleik. He was speaking quietly to one of his men, Kolbein the Ox, who was given the name not because of his size, but because of his droopy eyelids that made him look very foreign and stupid, which he wasn’t. She paused, listening.
Gunleik scratched his head, saying, “There’s a traitor amongst us, you know it and I know it. That man, whoever he is, raised the cross bar on the rear door for him to enter. He didn’t know I had planned a surprise attack on his leader down on the beach, thus he isn’t part of my inner circle of men. He didn’t know I and my two men left by that same rear door, and thus he couldn’t have foreseen that I and my men would have been behind his leader. The spy must have been rotting with fear when the man’s scheme failed.”
“I know not who this man is,” Kolbein said low. “I do not like it, Gunleik. I do not like traitors. Not all that many men knew of your plan.”
“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 eventuall
y. 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.”
3
SHE 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.”
Lord of Hawkfell Island Page 2