He considered several alternatives as they rowed back toward Hawkfell Island, Mirana on the planking, hands and ankles bound, his left foot resting on her neck.
It was but moments later when she said, her voice vicious and low, “Get your foot off my neck.”
He heard her easily over the slapping of the waves against the side of the longboat, over the smooth motion of the oars dipping into the water and rhythmically drawing hard, over the talk of the men, over the whipping wind and the cawing of gulls overhead, for her voice was mean and hard and furious, and it pleased him very much and, too, he’d been waiting for her to speak, even looking forward to it. He’d won and he knew that she knew it. Aye, it made him feel quite good. He left his foot on her neck. This time, he placed his foot so she couldn’t manage to bite him again.
He leaned down and said quietly, right into her ear, “If I do, do you swear not to try to jump overboard again? That or try to push me over the side?”
“I wasn’t trying to jump. Do you think me witless? I don’t want to die—”
“Ah, so you were trying to shove me out of the warship. I should have known. I wouldn’t have bound you if you hadn’t tried violence again. But you forced me to tie you up. You forced me to fling you at my feet. Well, at my foot, really, since my other foot is on your neck. You do look uncomfortable. Actually, you’re looking very miserable. There’s water in the bottom now. Soon it will come over the planking and splash in your face. That will be true misery, won’t it? Saltwater in your mouth? Well, do you swear to lie still if I remove my foot, if I untie you? No more violence?”
She nodded. He saw she didn’t want to, but his foot must be quite heavy on her neck and her wrists and ankles must be growing numb. Also, there was the water in the bottom of the warship and he knew that probably decided her, for soon it would reach her face. Aye, he’d won.
He lifted his foot. For a moment she didn’t move. He wondered if she was able to move. Just before he would have helped her, she shook herself and sat up. She stared at him, holding her bound hands toward him. He untied her hands and ankles. She rubbed the back of her neck, then her wrists, then massaged her ankles. “I will pay you back for that,” she said, not looking at him.
Rorik merely smiled, not at all disappointed. He looked over at Entti. Hafter had tied a rope about her waist and the other end was about his waist. Perhaps that’s what he should do with Mirana. She looked calm now. No, defeated was the word. Her shoulders were slumped and she merely sat there, staring at nothing in particular, her eyes dull and indifferent, methodically rubbing her wrists. Rorik discovered that didn’t please him. She was utterly withdrawn. He frowned.
It was raining hard when they returned to Hawkfell Island. All were soaked to the skin by the time they reached the dock. Mirana said nothing as she trudged beside Entti back up the trail to the longhouse. It continued to rain, heavy thick rain, hard and cold, a rain that the high winds gusted about, making it impossible to go out of the longhouse. Everyone was inside, even the pets and two goats. Smoke filled the longhouse, turning the air blue, making it difficult to breathe. Ah, but the food was delicious, the mead sweet and warm. The women were quiet, the children played and chattered and argued. Kerzog barked madly when one of the children threw a leather ball, then raced after it. The huge mongrel never tired of the game, spinning the ball over and over with his nose. There was the long constant sound of the loom and spinning wheel. One of the goats was chewing on a rope. All was normal.
Entti sat beside Mirana, both of them altering gowns Old Alna had given them. The men gave them both wide berth. The women did as well, but not because they were angry but because they were wary of the men if they came too close. Still, Erna had brought them food balanced on her left arm, the withered stub of her right arm up to steady the platter if it slipped.
“Raki told me what happened,” she said very quietly. “I am proud of both of you. You tried.” And then she was gone, saying nothing more, leaving Mirana and Entti to stare at each other.
Mirana supposed that Rorik and the men had made it clear the women were to keep away from them. Mirana caught Amma’s eye once and saw her wink. She then looked at Entti and smiled widely. So the women knew now that all Entti had done had been naught but an act. Soon, surely, once the rains had stopped and the men were out of the longhouse, the women would come to her again. She wanted to make amends to Asta and Old Alna for tying them up. They hadn’t seemed angry with either her or Entti, more accepting than anything else, for Mirana had been bound to try to escape, hadn’t she? As for Entti, Mirana thought the women believed her very smart.
“I should have killed him,” Entti said now as she looked over at Hafter, who was drinking a wooden cup of mead, laughing at something Askhold was saying. She speared her needle viciously into the wool.
“Even if you had,” Mirana said, not looking up, “we couldn’t have disarmed Rorik. He’s too smart and he’s very strong.”
“He isn’t all that smart,” Entti said. “Certainly no smarter than Hafter, who is a witless fool. ’Tis just you who believe Rorik to be close to perfect, and that only because he continues to prevail over you. But it’s true, if I had killed Hafter then your Rorik probably would have killed me. He would have had no other choice.”
At that, Mirana looked up. “Surely you don’t believe that I see Rorik as smart only because he beats me? The sun beat too brightly on your head, Entti.”
“It rained constantly, Mirana.”
“No matter. Now, what do you mean he would have no other choice? He doesn’t need choice. He doesn’t need any sort of excuse. He would kill you because he would enjoy it, he would savor his revenge for the killing of his friend. Most men are like that. They bring misery because it pleases them to do so.”
Entti shook her head. “Nay, Rorik isn’t like that. Before you came, I heard talk about what had happened in the Vestfold. Everyone always spoke freely in front of me because they believed me simple.”
Mirana sat forward, her eyes on Entti’s face. “Please tell me,” she said. “Rorik has said naught about it.”
Entti stabbed the needle into the material and laid it on her lap. “Your half-brother came to Rorik’s farmstead when Rorik and many of his men were trading in Birka. They killed everyone they could find, including slaves, old men and women and children, the reason being, so I heard, that your half-brother had been told that Rorik was hiding much silver. But I don’t know if this was true. It didn’t matter. Some, like Old Alna, were hiding in the forest beyond the barley fields, and thus were alive, when Rorik returned home only hours after the slaughter, to tell him what had happened. They murdered Rorik’s small twin son and daughter and raped and killed his wife.
“Shortly after that, Rorik moved here to Hawkfell Island, all his people with him, those who had survived the slaughter, that is. Even some of his father’s people came as well. They rebuilt the longhouse, planted the crops, and strengthened the island’s defenses. Then Rorik began his search. It took him nearly two years to find Einar. He heard of him quite by chance through a traveling scald, who sang of his heroic deeds at King Sitric’s side against the treacherous Irish chieftains.”
“I don’t believe that,” Mirana said slowly. “It is beyond vicious. If Einar had heard about hidden silver, then he would have known who Rorik Haraldsson was, but he didn’t know his name, not until Rorik told me at Clontarf and I told Gunleik. And since Rorik wasn’t there, why would Einar kill everyone so cruelly? Nay, it makes no sense, surely Einar wouldn’t—” Her voice dropped away. She felt his presence before she raised her head to look at him. Rorik was standing directly in front of her and he was pale as death, his hands fisted at his sides.
“It is all true,” he said, and she hated the roiling pain she heard in his voice even though she guessed he was trying to sound calm and emotionless. Ah, but the pain and his fury sounded through, at least to her ears. “I would impale your half-brother through his miserable guts on a dull-tipped stak
e and let him squeal like a pig. I would let him die slowly, and I would feel joy at his every scream.”
She was shaken. She just stared up at him. He hadn’t lied. Not for a moment did she believe that he lied. Perhaps Old Alna had exaggerated. No, she didn’t believe that either. She closed her eyes against the knowledge. She’d seen Einar in his rages, though he was careful to hide most of them, both from her, and from his most powerful men and allies. He laughed even as he wielded a whip. The louder a victim screamed, the more he delighted in it. He was ungoverned; he lost control. He was frightening. She allowed herself to remember all of it now, to see him now with clear eyes.
She stared up at Rorik. She felt the tension in him. Then, finally, when the silence grew too painful for her, she said, “What would you have me do? He is still my half-brother.”
Rorik dropped to his haunches beside her. “I would have told you had Entti not done it now. When my foot was on your neck and I was goading you, mocking you with my sarcasm, I knew I couldn’t allow this to continue, this unending tug of strength between us. Aye, it was my decision to tell you, for I could determine no other way to gain some loyalty from you, to keep you with me of your own wish perhaps, to keep me from having to chain you to my bed. I cannot allow you to escape and return to him, to tell him of Hawkfell Island. He holds powerful sway with King Sitric in Dublin. Do you understand? I must find a way to get to him, some way to use you to help me get to him.”
He simply stopped talking and looked at her, studying her now pale face, her every expression. Finally, he said, “Do you believe me, Mirana?”
“Aye,” she said with no hesitation. “I believe you, but I don’t believe this tale of hidden silver. Einar is many things but he isn’t stupid. But, why then did he attack your family and your farmstead? Vikings don’t raid and plunder and kill other Vikings, at least it is not the common practice. And he went to the Vestfold, and he would know it would enrage Harald Fairhair, the king. He couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t be recognized. He even killed your slaves instead of capturing them. It makes no sense. Einar isn’t wasteful. He wants more slaves, as would anyone with power and holdings. Why did he do it?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it amused him, all the pain and death gave him a sick pleasure. From what I know of him, he would find enjoyment in causing all that suffering and death. Is the tale about the silver true? I don’t know that either. But I do know that Einar is a vile man. I don’t understand such a man or such a mind.”
Rorik paused a moment, looking at a rush torch light just beyond Mirana. His voice was low and deep and hoarse as he said, “He raped my wife, making a big show of it, having all his men and all my people who weren’t yet dead stand in a wide circle and watch him do it. She fought him, mayhap even hurt him a bit, and so he had his men hold her arms and legs away from her body and watch her and him whilst he raped her. He laughed as she screamed. Then he gave her to all his men. And he laughed whilst they raped her. Then he killed her. Old Alna was one of those who saw him rape her and beat her, then stick his knife through her heart.
“Then he had my twins brought before him. They were babes, not yet two years old. He spitted them both on his sword.”
She felt bile rise in her throat and quickly swallowed. Entti looked from Rorik to Mirana. “How could a man be so very evil? Mirana, did you ever see such viciousness, such cruelty, in your brother?”
Slowly, very slowly, Mirana nodded. “I refused to recognize it as such. I looked away. I pretended all was well. Einar is like his father, Thorsson, a man who nearly beat his wife to death—our mother—before a slave killed him to protect her. Einar killed the slave, of course, to give a show of revenging his father’s murder. He wanted what was his father’s. He didn’t care if his mother lived or died. When she married some months later, my father took her away from Clontarf. She must have known even then that Einar had grown crookedly. I went to live with Einar when I was eleven years old, upon the death of both my parents. An Irish chieftain looted our holdings and killed them.” She spoke calmly, with acceptance. Life was many times violent. There was nothing to be done about it. The pain of her parents’ death had dulled over the years. She could sometimes remember her mother’s scent, a soft fragrant rose smell, and the sound of her voice when she was humming.
Rorik frowned at her, saying, “I’m sorry. It was a bitter thing for a child to see. Did Einar treat you well enough? He didn’t abuse you, did he?”
“Nay. At first he simply ignored me, but when I showed interest in weapons and in the war games he and his men played, he allowed Gunleik to train me. I think it pleased his conceit to have a sister who could both fight and kill and cook and sew. I think Gunleik wanted me to learn all I could so I could protect myself. He is honorable. He knew all about Einar, but still, he looked away. I know from Gunleik what happened to Einar’s father and what Einar felt about it.”
“Gunleik,” Rorik said. “He is the man who sent that knife into my shoulder.”
“Aye. He could have killed you but he is not like that. I regret that he was left at Clontarf to brave Einar’s fury when he discovered you’d taken me.”
Rorik said nothing, but Mirana saw him rubbing his shoulder, doubtless an unconscious gesture. She wondered if the wound was completely healed.
“I wonder why this Gunleik told you so much.”
“He cares for me.” She added, “I believe he told me so that I would have some understanding when and if Einar turned on me.” Mirana paused, then looked up into his face. “I fear that Einar has probably killed him because he allowed you to escape and to take me.”
“If he has killed him, he is a fool. Gunleik is an excellent warrior. That is more wasteful than I can comprehend.”
She sighed then, deeply. “I have not looked at Einar straightly. I know now that he would kill Gunleik for letting you escape. It wouldn’t matter to him, no it wouldn’t. He was only seventeen when he became master of Clontarf. He has become very strong over the years. Those who have known him since he was born would say that he has gained his mature years, for he is thirty-five years old, but he looks much younger, not much older than you, Rorik. He is very handsome. Gunleik has only forty years, yet he looks old enough to be Einar’s father.”
Rorik looked away from her. There was rage in his eyes, clouding them. She knew that he must be picturing this handsome half-brother of hers raping and killing his wife.
“What will you do?” she asked finally. There was fear in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. She despised herself for letting him hear it.
“I will decide soon what I will do.” He paused a moment, looking beyond Mirana to the weapons fastened to the wall of the longhouse. His grandfather’s sword hung there, still gleaming, its silver bright, for Gurd’s father had fashioned it and Gurd cared for it. He looked away, thinking now about Kron, a man who’d just come home today, the man who had been his eyes and ears for six months in the king’s garrison in Dublin. What he’d told Rorik made him realize he had to act, at least he had to do something about Mirana, and quickly. He’d been very surprised to learn the nature of King Sitric’s dealings with Einar, surprised and disgusted. Aye, he had to act soon. Should he tell her? He nearly shook his head, but kept himself still. No, now wasn’t the time.
He said, staring again at his grandfather’s beautifully wrought sword, not looking at her, “I have told you the truth. I can do no more. Can I trust you now? Will you remain here with me?”
Mirana rose from the chair and stood beside him, lightly touching her fingertips to his forearm. It forced him to look at her. She said very matter-of-factly, “You kidnapped me. You treated me like you’d treat a frenzied dog. You showed me no mercy. You forced me to remain chained in your sleeping chamber. You whipped me. You set your foot upon my neck.”
He was silent. It was all true, except perhaps for his lack of mercy. He would have to ask her to be specific about that.
“However,” she continued after a moment, her v
oice clear and low, “had I been you, I would have done the same.”
This was unexpected. And to hear such words from a woman’s mouth was beyond Rorik’s experience. It sounded odd, but somehow, it sounded true and he realized it and accepted it as well, and knew he was pleased with his acceptance. He felt the strength of her in those words, felt the honesty of her. Fidelity from her would mean something very rare, something valuable, something, he realized, he wanted very much.
He said again, “Will you remain here? Can I trust you?”
14
IT WAS MIRANA’S turn to look away. She looked at Entti, who was still seated on the bench, mending the hem of the gown, seemingly paying no heed to them now. She was even humming to herself. It didn’t matter. Mirana drew a deep breath, and said, looking at Rorik’s left ear, “If I say that you can trust me, if I promise I won’t try to escape you—”
“You mean try to escape me again.”
“Aye, again. Well, what will you do? Will I still be your slave? Your prisoner, your hostage?” Even as she spoke, he was shaking his head, but she couldn’t prevent the questions, for they welled up in her. “Will I remain an outsider, to be despised and hated by all your men? Will you chain me to your bed? In the warship, will you set your foot on my neck? If I refuse to call you lord will you whip me and fling me to the ground?”
“Nay,” he said, and nothing more.
She waited, but he remained quiet.
“I do not understand you,” she said at last. “You say you won’t hurt me again, but what will you do?”
“I would have you wed with me.”
The words, completely unplanned, lay heavy between them. Rorik sucked in his breath, but no more words came out. By the gods, he’d said it, asked her to be his wife—surely he’d known he would have to take another wife again before he was too old to beget sons and daughters. Nay, but with her that wasn’t all there was to it. He wanted a family again—the warmth, the giving, the joy and the pain. He wanted all of it. It had been so damned long, too long. He hadn’t realized until the words had come out of his mouth how very much alone he’d been, how inward he’d grown, how empty he felt. But to take to wife this woman who’d come to him in such a way? This woman he’d stolen? This woman whose half-brother was his sworn enemy?
Lord of Hawkfell Island Page 13