Lord of Hawkfell Island

by Catherine Coulter

  “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 h
im 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.

  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.”

  4

  Hawkfell Island

  Off the coast of East Anglia

  NEARLY 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 advantag
es—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.”