Mirana said nothing. She saw flashes of fear on some of the women’s faces, on others’, outrage, and utter defiance, and challenge. She saw the little girl Utta look at her father and frown. Amma looked defeated, but only for a moment. She was a determined woman, and very soon, her shoulders were squared and she was staring first at her husband, Sculla, then at the other women. Mirana knew there would be a meeting as soon as the men had left for the day to hunt. She wondered if the women would include her. She’d done them not a whit of good as of yet. She cursed quietly.
She left the longhouse. They would tell her if they wished her to be involved further. She hoped they would. She would enjoy teaching them the use of weapons. The prick of a knife was a more lasting memory than a pot of bark-filled stew. Aye, a man who knew that a woman could slice up his manhood with skill and no hesitation, that was a man who wouldn’t be so eager to brag about his rights and his power. Ah, but she was naught but a prisoner. How could she have forgotten that, even briefly the previous evening? There was nothing she could do for herself, let alone the other women.
It was a bright warm morning, the smell of the sea strong on the gentle breeze that was blowing from the east. Gray plovers, redshanks, and curlews flew overhead, dipping low, then soaring toward the white clouds. She smiled at their antics, identifying each one, savoring each one’s existence. There were so many of them, some she didn’t recognize. She drew a deep breath and looked for Rorik. He was at the palisade gates, speaking to several men. Probably telling them to fetch out their whips, she thought. She wondered how they would like it to have a whip slash across their backs. Kerzog sat beside Rorik, looking up at him, his fur ruffling in the breeze.
Mirana combed her fingers through her hair, then tied it back at the nape of her neck with a string Old Alna had given her. She wanted to bathe; she wanted to relieve herself. But more than that, she wanted to know what Rorik planned, if he truly meant he would whip the women if the food continued badly prepared. And why had he acted so quickly, even before he’d eaten the morning porridge? It didn’t seem right to her.
She walked to where Rorik was standing and stopped not two feet from him, her arms crossed over her breasts. Kerzog looked at her and wuffed softly. He didn’t move from Rorik’s side, but he began to wag his tail.
“Thanks be to Frey,” one of the men said gratefully. “They’ll obey you, my lord, aye, the women know you can only be pushed so far.” He grinned, then added in a wistful voice, “I wish I could have been there to hear you, to watch their sly expressions turn fearful.”
Rorik didn’t say anything to that, but remarked instead, “Yet I look at Kerzog here and he’s not suffered a bit. They fed the animals, themselves, and the children good food, and us, they gave swill.”
That, Mirana thought, was because Kerzog and the children didn’t bed with Entti.
The other man whistled. “Aye, the women played a deep game. I hope our food isn’t filled now with crola berries, ’twill send our bowels galloping to the mainland. We’d be too weak to punish them. Think you they’ll try to poison us in their anger?”
Rorik shook his head. “I will inform Old Alna that tonight we wish to have boar steaks.”
Four widgeons flew over. Kerzog wuffed at them, then sprawled down, his head resting on his front paws.
One of the men noticed Mirana. He nodded to Rorik, who turned around very slowly.
He took one step toward her then stopped. “Who unchained you? What do you want?”
He sounded mildly annoyed, as if she were naught but a dog who’d chanced to come upon him at a time that wasn’t convenient to him. No, he would have been delighted had it been Kerzog that came to him. No, he viewed her as less than his damned dog. Her chin went up and she said sharply, in a voice filled with unconscious arrogance, “Come here, Rorik. I would speak to you now.”
He stiffened as straight as an oak tree. He was still furious at the women for their duplicity, still smarting from his feelings of outrage that they would dare do such a thing to him and to his men. “You dare? You will show me proper respect. You will say, woman, ‘I wish to speak to you, my lord’ or ‘If it pleases you, my lord, I beg a moment of your time.’ ”
She just stared at him. It was true; she hadn’t sounded at all conciliating, at all willing to compromise with him.
“It is my title. Say it. Change it, if you wish, to your own words, but you will show me respect and obeisance. Now, say my title.”
She shook her head. “You aren’t my lord. You aren’t my master. You’re the enemy, nothing more. Ah, I forget. You’re also a vicious monster who threatens women who nurture you and care for you and feed you and—”
“Feed, ha! I counted my ribs this morning. I was starving last night, you saw it. No more of it, so I have told them and so it will be if they dare to disobey me again. Now, Mirana, say my title. Address me as your Lord Rorik. Be quick about it for I grow weary with the taming of you.”
The moment he shut his mouth, Rorik realized he’d gotten himself in a situation that wouldn’t win him a thing. He’d given her an order in front of his men. Had he given it any thought at all, he would have known that she’d stand stubborn as a mule before paying him any homage. Still, he couldn’t let it stand. Not in front of his men. By Thor’s hammer, he’d ordered her to say it. He could still hear the damnable arrogance in her voice, ordering him to come to her. It galled him to his toes. In addition, she’d sided with the women, calling him a vicious monster, when all he’d done was bring it to an end.
He said slowly, as if to a witless child, “I am your lord and your master and your enemy—all of those things. Right now, I am your lord. Say it.”
She turned on her heel and walked away. She heard one of the men suck in his breath and say, “Lord Rorik won’t let that pass. He can’t.”
“Aye, I pray he won’t kill her.”
Kerzog wuffed softly but didn’t move.
She wasn’t at all surprised when she felt his hand close over her upper arm and jerk her to a stop. He whirled her around to face him with such force that she would have fallen had he not held her upright.
He said low, “Listen to me, Mirana. You will obey every order I choose to give you, just as will every other damned woman on Hawkfell Island. I am the lord and master here. You will temper your voice and the words that come from your mouth. You will treat me as you would a god. You must, there is no choice. My men have excellent hearing and I am their leader. Do you understand me?”
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 h
er 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?
9
ASTA 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 yo
u 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.
Lord of Hawkfell Island Page 8