Lord of Hawkfell Island

by Catherine Coulter

  Now the women cheered, much more loudly than the men, full-bodied cheers that rang out over the island, sending the birds winging upward, shrieking wildly. Kerzog barked madly, danced about the two of them and licked Mirana’s feet. She felt pats on her shoulders and back. “Well done,” Entti said in her ear.

  “Thank you, Mirana,” Rorik said. He looked at his men. Then he raised her hand and slipped a small golden band on her middle finger. It was tight. She wondered to whom it had belonged. To his first wife? She made a fist, thrusting her arm high toward the cobalt-blue sky, symbolizing her acceptance and commitment to her marriage with Rorik.

  The cheering began again, but not as loud as it could be. The women were shouting their heads off, making up for the men’s wariness, Mirana knew, and felt a stab of anger for Rorik because his men were holding back, still uncertain of his decision, looking at her and knowing that she was of their enemy’s blood. Rorik took her fist in his hand, gently opened her fingers, and laced his own fingers through hers. He grinned like a happy boy. The men eased, Mirana saw it and felt it. They began to cheer. When Rorik pulled her against him, lifting her high off the ground, his arms wrapped around her, and kissed her long and deep, the men began to laugh and jest. The women giggled and nudged each other. Chickens clucked wildly some feet away. The dozen or so children present looked uncertain, staring from their parents to Mirana and Rorik, then they were laughing and hooting and stomping their feet as loudly as the men and women.

  Mirana felt such relief she would have shouted herself, but then what she felt was Rorik’s mouth, warm and soft and firm. He wasn’t particularly insistent, nay, he wasn’t trying to savage her. He was more like an explorer, feeling the texture of her mouth, letting her learn him, taking his time, moving ever so slowly. Mirana, who had never before been kissed, hung there in his arms, relaxed as she could be with her blood crashing through her body, her hands on his shoulders, not understanding what all this was about, this strange concoction of feelings that were rioting in her belly. He said against her lips, “Kiss me, Mirana. It’s only right that you do so. You are now my wife, before the gods and before our people, who are finally yelling their throats raw.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said, her breath warm against his mouth.

  “Open your mouth and I will show you.”

  She did. His tongue slid between her lips. She gasped, wriggled unconsciously, much to the uproarious delight of all their people.

  “He already makes her wild. Rorik won’t contain his seed until the night falls!”

  This was from Aslak, the only one of Rorik’s men who truly approved his master’s choice, for he’d lived at Clontarf for nearly six months and seen Mirana as she was. He quite liked her, save for her skill with weapons. That, as it should be for any reasonable man, was a bit frightening, for females were unpredictable at the best of times.

  “She wriggled like a happy little stoat, she did. Did you see her bottom?”

  “Rorik will make her scream with pleasure and all of us will be awake to hear it.”

  “No longer will he be a sullen bear in the mornings, envying us the moans wrung out of us by our wives. Not with her beside him, ready and eager to make him smile.”

  Their jests and laughter finally pierced Rorik’s brain. Reluctantly, he eased Mirana down the front of his body until she was standing once again on the ground. He started to release her, realized dimly that she wasn’t standing on her own, and leaned down to say in her ear, “Mirana, sweeting, we must wait. Come now, and we will let them jest with us and give us impertinent advice. They will drink themselves silly and soon we will be free of their attentions.”

  She was breathing hard. It was very strange, this difficulty she was having drawing air in and out of her body. And her heart was pounding as if she’d run farther than her body wished to. Her skin felt hot, particularly where his fingers were touching her bare flesh. All of this from a man who was more a stranger than not, and yet she’d just enjoyed having him kiss her, enjoyed having him hold her, enjoyed the strength in his arms and his body pressed hard against hers, and knowing he wouldn’t drop her. Ah, more than enjoyment, more than the growing insanity, she’d wanted something that was still a mystery, a deep incredible mystery, a mystery she knew was there, waiting for her, to be granted to her by him.

  “Rorik?”

  “Aye?”

  “I don’t understand. Give me another moment, please. I feel quite odd.”

  He looked like a man who was immensely pleased with himself. His blue eyes were gleaming brighter than the sky. He stood tall and straight, the lord of his domain, and said loudly, “I will give you whatever you wish.”

  Hafter, who had heard their words, hooted with laughter. He turned to Entti, who was looking at him as though he were naught more than a slug to be ground under her foot. “Hear you that, girl? Rorik is so besotted with her that he offers her anything she wants.”

  “Well, you needn’t worry, conceited oaf, you are quite safe, for never will she want you.”

  Hafter narrowed his eyes, riled instantly at the mocking in her voice—her very intelligent voice. “I hope she won’t want me, for I plan to be very busy with you in my bed. I will keep you to myself for a while. Hear you!” he shouted, turning to the men. “This wench is mine. You will have to wait!”

  Entti spat at him. Right in the eye.

  Hafter, normally a man of good sense and fine humor, yowled. This girl, this slave, this vicious witch he’d always treated well and kindly, even patted absently, had spat on him. He grabbed her arms and jerked her up against him and shook her hard until her head snapped back. “Damn you, Entti, I’ve held you in my arms and given you more pleasure than you deserve!”

  “Pleasure, ha! You’re naught but an animal, a filthy selfish beast who cares only for himself. You pass me around as you would a platter of boar steaks! Take yourself to the Christian’s hell, wretched bastard.”

  He paused. He frowned down at her. “Do you really think I am selfish?”

  “All men are alike, all of you selfish goats.”

  “I’m not. Surely I gave you pleasure. Surely you must agree with me. And you said I was filthy. No Viking is filthy. I bathe each day in the bathing hut. Yet you must say that I am filthy. What mean you?”

  “Let me go, Hafter. You speak a man’s nonsense.”

  “Not until you answer me. You are a slave. You will show me obeisance and respect. You will answer me, you will—”

  He had no warning, no clue, though he should have been more careful, for she was no longer the innocent child who’d smiled at him so simply, so sweetly. There was no smile now. She brought up her knee and kicked him in the groin. She caught him squarely. He yowled again and dropped her.

  Entti heard his raw moans, saw him drop to his knees and hug himself. She started to run. She saw the men staring at her. Then she stopped, frowned down at his bent head. “I’m sorry,” she said, and came down to her haunches in front of him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Hafter, it wasn’t well done of me. You are what you are, after all, and I shouldn’t have punished you so severely for it.”

  He moaned, his head still down. Rorik grimaced, for he and every other man could imagine the relentless waves of nausea that were holding Hafter bent down like a frail old man.

  Finally, Hafter said, panting, “No, it wasn’t well done of you. Ah, I wish you weren’t so smart now.”

  “I’m sorry. I had to protect myself. I will no longer allow you or any man to bed me. I cannot do it. It was difficult for me before, but now, I will not be a whore. If you will promise to restrain yourself and what emerges from your mouth, I promise never to do that again. I am sorry.”

  “Do you truly not wish to bed me again? Did you truly never wish to bed me? Did you truly never enjoy me?”

  “Everyone is listening to you. Be quiet. I shouldn’t have blamed you for believing that I would now willingly bed with any of you louts. But it is so. T
here will be no more of it. Now, stand up, you’ve mewled quite long enough. You’re a man, stand up.”

  Hafter stood, with difficulty, but he stood. “I never thought of you as a whore, Entti.”

  “Ha! What then, Hafter? Your beloved mother? A virgin come to Hawkfell Island to be admired and worshiped? Forget not, all you ever had to do was snap your fingers and tell me to part my legs and I did. I will do so no longer. Never again. So, Hafter, if you didn’t think of me as a whore, then what?”

  He just looked at her. “You were Entti, that’s all. You were sweet and gentle and gave me all I wished to have. You never yelled at me in anger.”

  Entti snorted and turned away from him. “You’re a fool,” she said. “Keep your distance!”

  Mirana and Rorik could only stare, as did all their other people.

  “This is passing strange,” Rorik said, then clasped Mirana’s fingers with his. “Why doesn’t Hafter clout her? Why does he just look at her so pathetically? By the gods, he would kill a man if he struck him, much less tried to destroy his manhood.”

  “He has a care for his hide, though he did sound as though he were dying,” Mirana said.

  “He was, or at least he prayed that he would. The pain is beyond normal suffering. It is worse than belly cramps, worse than a knife wound in the shoulder. I wonder what he will do to her once he recovers himself sufficiently. Unlike Hafter, when you tried to unman me, I was fast and saved myself from dire pain. Poor Hafter didn’t have a chance. Entti still surprises me.”

  “She cooks very well.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me at all. All you damned women—”

  She giggled. It was an odd sound, an unexpected sound. He stared down at her. Slowly, he smiled, showing his even white teeth. Then he leaned down and lightly kissed her mouth.

  “Let us go to the food tables and leave Hafter and Entti to sort themselves out.”

  It was late. The beautiful day had become somber, with dark storm clouds thickening overhead. The wind was whipping up the crops and making the more narrow fir trees bend and sway. The birds had quieted as had the animals and the children. Even Kerzog was still, lying with his big head on his front paws, asleep, for he’d eaten every scrap of food thrown to him, and still begged for more.

  The rain began. It was quickly dark. Rorik was smiling like an idiot, Mirana walking at his side, toward his sleeping chamber.

  He fastened a rush torch light to the holder in the wall, then turned to face his wife. Her face was flushed for she’d drunk a bit of his small store of wine from the rich vineyards south of the Seine herself. She looked beautiful. She pleased his eyes and his senses. At the moment, he didn’t care why he’d married her. If something was done it was done and nothing could change it, a philosophy his sire had dinned in his ears since he was a boy.

  It was indeed done, and now he would have her, surely an excellent consequence of this marriage.

  “I have only one other gown,” Mirana said, fingering the fine cream wool of her overtunic. “This beautiful tunic and gown I will pack in your trunk. I was careful not to stain it.”

  “Aye, you were,” he said. “Let me remove the brooches for you. It is one of Asta’s gowns, from many years ago. She told me she’d been saving it, for what she didn’t know, just that she was far too stout to wear it now.”

  “The women have all been more than kind to me.”

  “Aye. I didn’t understand it. Perhaps someday one of you will explain it to me. But it is good now that you are my wife and their mistress.”

  As he unfastened the brooches, Mirana said, “I have no weapons.”

  “No, you don’t. But I do.”

  “I always had my own knife, since I came to Clontarf. Gunleik gave it to me.”

  “Ah, the one you used to prick my throat?”

  She nodded.

  “If you don’t wish to use it to torment me or to flay the flesh from me, then what is your reason for having it?”

  He laid the brooches on top of his chest, and stepped back to watch her as she eased the tunic down over her hips, stepped out of it, and carefully folded it. He watched her lay it gently in his chest, placing the brooches on top of it.

  She straightened then and turned to say very seriously, “It was just a part of what I wore every day, like my gown or my shoes.”

  “You’re a woman.”

  “Aye,” she said, standing very close to him now, her gown very much still in place. “This is very strange, Rorik. Are you certain about the king? Would Einar truly have dishonored me by selling me to him?”

  “That is what Kron said.” He waited, wishing she would tell him that her fear of that hadn’t pushed her into marriage with him. She said nothing. Well, he’d given her an excellent reason for accepting him, and if it had been her reason, why then, it was his own fault, his own doing. She slipped off her shoes and toed them across the floor until they were lying against the trunk.

  She looked up at him then. “Many girls are sold in marriage, their consent unimportant. Perhaps Einar thinks he honors me. The man is, after all, a king. Perhaps—”

  “Don’t weave a false thread, Mirana. Einar had no more notion of honoring you than would a bear.”

  “You’re right. If he believed it would honor me, why then, he would have told me, bragged of his negotiations to me, of his brilliance. He kept silent.”

  “Enough of your half-brother. There are other things I wish you to consider this night.”

  She started to pull off her gown, then stopped. She looked at him straightly. “When you brought me here you stripped down my gown and looked at me. You played with me, but there was no enjoyment, either for you or for me. It was awful. Will you do that again?”

  He gave her a fascinated look. He was remembering her breasts, their softness, their weight. “Aye, but it will be different this time. There will be play between us, but it will give you much pleasure.”

  She was silent for a long moment, standing motionless. Then she waved her hand about her, toward the bed, toward the clothing trunk that stood at the foot of the box bed. “You have been married before. You had a wife and babes. You know what all this is about. You slept with a woman every night and awoke with her every morning. You must have known her habits and everything else about her. You understand things that I don’t yet even comprehend. It makes me nervous, Rorik. It makes me feel as helpless as a warrior who has no weapons.”

  He saw Inga in that moment, her hair a rich golden blond, shining as brightly as ripe barley in the bright sunlight. She was frowning at him, her pale blue eyes narrowed fiercely, angry at something he’d done or something he’d said. He couldn’t remember. Odd that he would remember a frown and not a smile, but the gods and men knew that life was filled with both. Should he tell Mirana that? They would fight, but they would hopefully find pleasure and joy in each other as well. No, she would discover it for herself. She’d already known rage at him. If he gave her joy with him now, it would balance the scales. And he wanted those scales balanced. He wanted them well tilted.

  “What did you say? Oh, you speak of intimacy between a man and a woman. You worry about my experience and your inexperience. It will not matter in a little while, for we will begin that intimacy right now, Mirana. Come here and I will help you off with that gown. It is lovely and you are lovely wearing it. I do not remember Asta ever being so slender, but I suppose she was when she was a girl.”

  Mirana didn’t want to be naked in front of him but she didn’t see there was a choice. Too, since he’d already had a wife, he knew what was to be done and when it was to be done. She would have to trust him. Once the gown was neatly folded in his trunk, once she stood there wearing only a soft cotton shift, he smiled down at her. “Sit on the bed and I’ll free your hair from the ribbons and braids.”

  She did as she was bid. His fingers were gentle, and when he splayed his fingers to comb them through the braids, smoothing her hair into loose ripples down her back, she smiled up at him.


  “That feels better. My head feels lighter.”

  “Now your shift.”

  “I would prefer it if you would take off your clothes first, Rorik.”

  He grinned at her, stepped back, and stripped off his clothes very very quickly. He stood there naked, letting her look her fill at him. “You’ve already seen me,” he said, when she remained quiet and staring for a very long time. He began to fidget. Did she find him repellent? He drew himself up straighter. He was a man and his body was very different from hers. He was large and hairy and his rod, swelled now and jutting toward her, might frighten a maid.

  “But it is different now,” she said, still staring at his belly and his groin.

  “I suppose it is,” he agreed, and kept his arms at his sides, but it was difficult to remain still with her just looking and looking at him, unmoving. His member swelled more, he couldn’t help that, and seeing her looking at him so intently, so very absorbed in what she was seeing, made him only bigger. “Your shift, Mirana,” he said at last.

  “Could you please douse the rush light?”

  He shook his head. “Nay. A husband has rights. One of them is to see his wife, to see all of her, in every fine detail, to study her and her endowments, so that he will have no questions, no doubts, about his acquisition.”

  “Just as you’re letting me see if my acquisition pleases me?”

  “If you will, though the comparison isn’t much to my liking.”

  “Nor to mine.”

  “Then neither of us will be acquisitive this night,” he said, and walked to the bed. “We will be a man and a woman coming together for the first time. There is magic in that, Mirana, and in the future if we are fortunate.”

  “I think it is good fortune that brought you to me,” she said, and held out her arms to her husband.

  For an instant, he thought of the misery that had been responsible for bringing him to Clontarf. But that was over now and he wouldn’t let the past touch them.

  He smiled at her, at his wife.