Lord of Hawkfell Island

by Catherine Coulter

  “No one would dare!”

  “You think not?”

  “You are a warrior, above other men. You are strong and brave and cunning.”

  “Aye, that is true, but the forces against me would be overwhelming, forces even stronger than I, forces even more powerful than I could withstand. Nay, I must have my sister back and very soon.”

  “Your half-sister.”

  Einar calmed himself. He wouldn’t die, for Gunleik would bring her back. As for the golden-haired quite beautiful little savage seated gracefully at his feet, he found he was still amused at the show of jealousy, at the little jabs of impertinence.

  He sat back and closed his eyes. He’d done all he could. There was naught to consider now, and so he smiled, for the aftershocks of pleasure still pulled at him, making him calm and easy, despite the gnawing fear in his belly that grew with each passing hour.

  “I do not like this meal either.”

  “Do you not?” Einar said easily, opening his eyes. “Well, then, why don’t you prepare it?”

  “I have many skills, my lord. Food is something to enjoy, not sweat over.”

  Einar laughed and ruffled his fingers through the golden hair, as silky as a babe’s yet thick enough to wind about his hand many times. “Then pray that Gunleik finds Mirana. She is an excellent mistress to Clontarf. When she returns I daresay she won’t like you at all. Mayhap she’ll even punish you when I am not about to protect you. Aye, mayhap she’ll take the whip to you or set you to working in the fields, ruining those soft little hands of yours.”

  “You’ll not let her touch me. You think I’m beautiful. You won’t let her hurt me.”

  “You think not? Well, perhaps you’re right. We will see, won’t we?”

  He felt slender fingers lightly stroking his inner leg. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes again, and said nothing. But he thought, Were Mirana here I couldn’t have allowed this. There was something about her that always stayed him, something in her eyes, the way she looked at him. But that would change now. When she returned, he would do as he pleased, for she would be gone again from Clontarf soon enough. He looked up now and caught several looks from his men, furtive looks that held surprise and a goodly measure of disgust. She’d never looked at him with disgust, no, it was something else, something deeper, more powerful. But she’d never said anything; he’d always reined himself in when she was about.

  As for his men, they’d said nothing before, they’d kept their silence. Of course they wouldn’t dare say anything. He felt his power over them and was pleased. The soft hand continued upward on his thigh.

  Hawkfell Island

  Rorik was furious. He stared from Sculla to Askhold. Finally, when he had himself well under control, he said, teeth clenched, “Why did you not tell me what you intended? She is my prisoner, my burden, and yet you send her to the mainland to collect herbs with the women?”

  “Rorik,” Askhold said patiently, wondering at him, for surely this was absurd, this worry of his. “Old Alna said she should do some work. Chaining her in your sleeping chamber gains us nothing. Let her be useful. She is a slave—less than a slave. An enemy, a prisoner. Aye, let her work.”

  Rorik cursed. “Neither of you realize that she is skilled with a knife and doubtless other weapons as well?”

  Sculla, bent over to protect his head from a thick fir branch, looked fit to burst with laughter, which he did, loud guffaws that made his lean belly shake. Rorik just looked at him, waiting for him to be silent. When his laughter died down, Rorik said, “Listen, both of you. You underestimate her. It is a mistake.”

  “She’s a small girl,” Sculla said. “She could do nothing against Hafter. He’s a powerful warrior, nearly as skilled as I am.”

  “Every female is small compared to you,” Askhold said, and slapped Sculla on his broad back.

  Rorik said nothing. He wanted to believe what Sculla said was true, but Mirana was smart. And her hatred probably made her even more cunning. He didn’t trust her. “How many women went to the salt marsh?”

  “Asta, Old Alna, and Entti. Hafter rowed them over, cursing the entire time that it was his lot to do it, but he knew that he had to watch the prisoner. He knew you would be displeased had he allowed another to take his place.”

  Rorik shook his head, for a moment distracted. “I pray that Entti understands what it is she is to gather. I fear death at her hands, all a mistake, naturally.”

  “Now you will cease to worry,” Askhold said. “The girl is an enemy. I dislike having my enemies lying about doing nothing, just as the women apparently do as well. You whipped her for insolence, and now she will work or she won’t eat. Old Alna was right to make her work for her food.”

  But Rorik was gazing toward the mainland, bathed this afternoon in thick low-lying clouds. Mallards and oystercatchers suddenly burst from the gray clouds, as if flung from a slingshot. The clouds would soon become dense, impenetrable fog, he knew the signs. They’d been gone for three hours. He was worried, though he knew it wasn’t at all likely she could do anything. Still, he couldn’t help it. Something bothered him, something that wasn’t right, that had nagged at him for the past two days. He realized in that moment what it was. It was the women and how they had treated Mirana, how they behaved when they came near her. It was as if she were one with them and they looked up to her, which was ridiculous, for he’d kept her chained and alone. But Sculla had said that Old Alna agreed with him, that she considered the woman an enemy. He was creating difficulties where none existed.

  It was late afternoon. Rorik knew his men were eyeing him with some amusement, but he didn’t care. Finally, he lowered his axe to the ground, wiped the sweat from his face with his discarded tunic, and said, “ ’Tis time to go to the mainland. She has done something. I feel it.”

  None of the men argued with him, not even Askhold, who appeared to dislike her heartily, or Sculla, who simply believed that since she was small and female, she was thus of little consequence, since he could, naturally, crush her easily with one hand.

  There were eight men, all of them rowing the second longboat. All of them were armed. There were always outlaws lurking about in East Anglia, just beyond the salt marshes. They always took care. There was only the sound of the water slapping against the sides of the warship and the raucous cries of the black-headed gulls overhead. They rowed into the estuary, strokes strong and steady. They were silent, concentrating on their task. From the thick clouds overhead, dunlin wheeled in tight flocks, disturbed by their presence.

  There were more animals and birds here than on the island, the salt marshes on either side of the estuary pulsing with life and movement, and sudden shrieks of death as well. Rorik listened, trying to block out all the animal and bird sounds. He heard no sounds of people. They drew alongside the other warship, tied to a tree trunk alongside the trail they normally traveled to hunt. It was deserted.

  The men were silent, but they still held no doubts that Hafter would crush the girl were she to try to escape or avoid the work, aye, and the women would help him, for she was a prisoner, an enemy.

  Rorik doubted mightily. He led the men quietly through the salt marsh, knowing from long experience where to find the firmer ground. Suddenly there was the muted yell, a woman’s yell.

  They burst through a dense cover of tangled overgrowth into a small clearing. There was Old Alna, bound to a straggly fir tree, shrieking again around a wad of wool she’d managed to work to the side of her mouth. Beside her, bound to a large yew bush was Asta, her gag firmly in place.

  There was no sign of Entti or Hafter.

  The men rushed forward to untie the two women.

  Rorik remained standing, his hands on his hips. He said to Old Alna, “This was your idea, was it not? You wanted her to work and look what has happened. Tell me quickly. Where is she? Where are Hafter and Entti?”

  It was Asta, Gurd the blacksmith’s wife, who said quickly, working her mouth to regain moisture and feeli
ng, “Nay, my lord, do not blame Alna. She wanted the girl to have some exercise. She was growing weak chained to your bed. We saw no danger—”

  “You are fools,” Rorik said shortly. He watched Asta rub her arms, numb, he imagined, from being bound for so long. He waited, then said, “Tell me and be quick about it.”

  Asta shrugged. “Hafter took Entti with him to dally away the afternoon. He said he feared letting her collect roots and herbs; he said none of the men wanted their bellies to cramp or their bowels to convulse, but he was looking at her as would a hungry wolf at a boar steak. It was after they left that the girl Mirana managed to get a rock without Alna or me seeing her. She hit me on the head and knocked me down. Then she tied up Alna and then me.”

  Rorik felt no surprise at all. Why did none of the others see her as he did? He cursed low and long. “How long ago?” he asked finally.

  “Three hours at least.”

  He cursed again, infuriated with himself and with Old Alna and with his damned arrogant men who couldn’t imagine a woman besting them at anything.

  He would find her, he didn’t doubt that, but he did doubt he would find her alive. She was a woman and she was young and comely, and that thought froze his blood. If outlaws or Saxon raiders or other Vikings found her, they’d rape her in turn, abuse her endlessly, and probably kill her. He didn’t want her dead. Damnation. He raised his voice and yelled, “Hafter! Come to me now!”

  But there was no answer from Hafter. They found him ten minutes later barely conscious, a large lump just over his right ear, tied securely to a tree with long strips from a woman’s tunic.

  Entti was nowhere to be found. Nor was Mirana.

  11

  IT WAS DARK, the sliver of moon overhead giving little light through the thick fir and pine branches at their camp. Crickets sounded loud in the warm night. There was an occasional splash in the bog just feet from where they sat, for the most part silent. Rorik stared into the small fire, his hands stretched to the flames, feeling the blessed heat warm him.

  His men continued silent. They’d eaten dried fish and apples and hard flatbread. Their bellies were filled, unlike the women who hadn’t even eaten any of the food brought over for the noonday meal.

  Rorik had sent two men back to Hawkfell Island to fetch supplies. He didn’t know how long it would take to find a sign of her. He had no idea of the direction she’d taken. She and Entti. Why had she taken Entti? None of the men had any idea. Surely she didn’t intend Entti to be a hostage, for the woman was a slave herself. Just because all the men lusted after Entti didn’t mean they wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if need be.

  Mirana must have known she was courting nearly certain death if she managed to escape, yet she hadn’t cared. She would obviously rather die than remain his prisoner. She cared that much for that cursed brother of hers. His mouth tasted sour at that thought. He’d made her desperate; he’d made her consider death rather than remain chained to his bed. He spat and continued to stare into the flames.

  The gods knew he hadn’t abused her, not really. She had bitten his ankle when he’d rested his foot on her neck on their voyage to Hawkfell Island. But she could have fallen overboard if he hadn’t held her still, that or jumped from the warship just to thwart him. His mind continued in this vein even though he knew he was lying—and to himself, which was the worst kind of lie there was.

  He’d had to whip her but he hadn’t hurt her and she knew it as well as did he.

  He’d had no choice but to chain her in his sleeping chamber. She would have caused havoc had he allowed her to run loose. She would have run all right, all the way to the dock to steal a warship and try to row it by herself, anywhere. And now she was out there, somewhere, in the darkness, she and Entti, and she had no protection, no food.

  Hafter said, looking into the fire, even as he continued to massage his head where Mirana had struck him, “I had Entti under me. She was smiling and kissing me, her legs already around my flanks. I was just ready to come into her body when the witch struck me hard on the head.”

  “You’re a fool, Hafter,” Rorik said, his voice emotionless. His rage, his fear that Mirana was already dead, all that he felt, he would keep to himself.

  “I know,” Hafter said and sighed deeply. “My head is killing me. I have a lump here that does naught save grow and grow.”

  “You deserve it,” Gurd the blacksmith said, and chewed on a cord of dried fish. “She could have killed my Asta if she’d had the notion to do it. And then I would have had to kill you for allowing it.”

  “Aye,” said Sculla. “ ’Twas your responsibility and you failed because you wanted to stick your rod into Entti. Your lust has brought us all low. Now we must needs track two women, one of them a prisoner, the other one—well, I’d not believed her ruthless and cold as any witch that lives under the earth, but now perhaps I must change my thinking.”

  “She stole my sword and my knife,” Hafter said. “She’s not completely without protection.”

  Rorik cursed. Hafter hadn’t told him that before. By all the gods, this added a new danger, both to the women and to Rorik and his men when they caught up to them. He rubbed his fingertips over his throat. He asked now, “But why in the name of Odin All-Father did she take Entti?” He didn’t look at any one of his men, merely stared beyond their camp into the dark forest beyond.

  “Aye,” Askhold said, shaking his head. “It makes no sense to me either, Rorik.”

  “Who can understand the mind of a woman?” Gurd said. “ ’Tis of no real importance. We must needs sleep now. We can begin to track them at dawn. The two of them trekking inland curdles my belly. They’ll not make it far, that’s certain.” He paused a moment, then said, “I want Entti back. Now that you’ve broken the women’s rebellion, Rorik, I can take her whenever it pleases me and Asta will say nothing about it or I will whip her, just as you said.”

  “I had not meant that exactly,” Rorik said, and frowned at the blacksmith. He was remembering Mirana’s words, words that had riled him, had made him shake with anger at her. She’d asked him if he’d been faithless, demanded to know if he approved married men bedding other women in front of their wives. He didn’t approve, but damnation, he couldn’t dictate to his men, couldn’t demand they not bed Entti. Mirana had been right, damn her. The women had few choices; they’d punished the men with inedible cooking and he’d threatened to whip them for it.

  “Asta will obey me,” Gurd said. “She is a good wife. She must obey me, her husband.”

  Aye, Rorik thought, that was the crux of the matter, but still, it didn’t settle well with him.

  Mirana laughed softly. All men were gullible. She’d proved it yet again. Even mighty Rorik, ah, she’d fooled him and his damned men.

  She and Entti had cut the second warship adrift and settled down in the other one. Now they were quietly rowing toward the mouth of the estuary. It was just before dawn. She’d wanted to leave hours before but knew they couldn’t possibly navigate in the sea and they couldn’t take the chance that Rorik would send men back to Hawkfell Island again. They would see that the other warship was gone. Thus, Mirana and Entti had spent their night within twenty feet of Rorik and his men and they’d heard all their talk.

  Gurd, Mirana had decided, needed more lessons in how to properly treat Asta, a woman of whom she was very fond, a woman filled with laughter and joy and kindness. She hoped the bonds hadn’t hurt either Asta or Old Alna. She’d had to take them by surprise because she couldn’t depend on them agreeing to help her escape. If she had asked them and they had agreed, then she would be endangering them, for she imagined if Rorik were to discover that the women had helped her escape, he wouldn’t have shown much kindness to them. He might have had them whipped. He might have done even worse.

  She and Entti had watched the other warship return to the island, both Asta and Old Alna aboard. She’d said a silent good-bye to them both. They’d watched it return with more men and provisions. And they’d wait
ed.

  “I doubt they’ll come back this way,” Mirana said now in a low voice, pitching it to the night sounds surrounding them. There was the soft slap of the water against the sides of the warship, the occasional sound of a frog or cricket, a slithering sound near the side of the longboat that made Mirana’s flesh pucker and crawl. Once, something long and solid had bumped against the longboat and Mirana had had to stifle a yell.

  “Nay,” Entti said, satisfaction in her husky voice. “They believe we fled like empty-headed females through the salt marshes deep into East Anglia itself. They’re fools to believe us such empty-headed fools. But they are naught but men, after all.”

  Mirana smiled at her new friend. Entti was no simpleton, she thought again as she turned to look at Entti’s vague outline in the darkness. What a wondrous surprise that had been when she’d snuck up on Hafter and Entti had stared up at her, and smiled and nodded, bringing Hafter’s head down to hers, holding him tightly against her chest, wrapping her legs around his flanks, so Mirana could slam the rock against his head.

  “There is still grave danger,” Mirana said. “It would be foolish of us to be overly confident. By all the gods, Entti, I don’t know. Perhaps you were safer staying on Hawkfell Island. You were not abused. The women were kind to you, they protected you.”

  “Aye, they were,” Entti said, “but the act was growing more and more difficult.” She fell silent as she drew again on the oar, her motion steady and smooth. “You believe pleasuring one man after the other not to be abuse, Mirana? They had endless appetites, and a few were animals. They believed they were doing me such a favor, giving me such joy, the rutting stoats. Hafter was different, but still, the chance to escape, the chance to be free once again, it is worth all the danger to be rid of even him.”

  “And Rorik?”

  “I never bedded Rorik. I tried to gain his attention, but he kept to himself. I had hoped that if I bedded him, he would keep the others away from me. But it never worked. I realized that he felt sorry for me, for my simpleness, for the innocence of my mind. I believe he thought to bed me would be like bedding a helpless child.” She laughed softly. “I wasn’t wise. I decided to play the lackwit shortly after the Vikings captured me. I decided I could bear the men bedding me, that I would be able to suffer it and keep my mind and soul free of them, but it became more and more difficult, as I told you. I would rather die now than return to Hawkfell Island. I would rather die than be a whore again.”