Well, he’d said it, and he knew himself well enough to realize that somewhere deep inside him, perhaps very deep, buried under layer upon layer of cold logic, he must, for some important reason, want her for his wife. He wanted her for himself. It was a mystery. He waited. He refused to think about the Danish king in Dublin, that jowly vein-handed old King Sitric, and what he wanted and what he was prepared to pay Einar to gain.
Mirana didn’t move either. She knew he would say no more. To wed with him . . . He’d shown no caring for her, not really. He’d not even shown lust for her, for when he’d caressed her breasts, it had been his man’s punishment, not for any pleasure either of them would get out of it, not to appease his man’s appetites. She didn’t understand him, but she knew that he was a man she could trust. Looked at from that attitude, it was really quite simple. There was nothing for her back at Clontarf, save Einar, and the thought of being with him again curdled her belly.
Rorik Haraldsson was a man to trust, a man to depend on. She also admitted to herself that he was a handsome animal, lean and strong and powerful. He wasn’t stupid, and he was brave. And he was smarter than other men, despite what Entti had said. He didn’t ever count the cost to himself. He was a man she could admire. His bad habits, his likes and dislikes, weren’t yet all that clear to her. If she married him she would learn them soon enough, as he would hers.
Still, to wed a man she’d only known as her enemy. Was there nothing left to her in Ireland? Was her home irrevocably gone from her? She felt tears building, felt the knot in her throat. She willed the tears away and swallowed the knot.
Rorik understood her confusion, her wariness. He also saw the sheen of tears in her eyes, but he didn’t touch her, didn’t try to comfort her. She was a woman who despised weakness in herself. He wouldn’t shame her by calling attention to what she would see as a fault in herself. She didn’t know him, not really, and Hawkfell Island wasn’t her home. She was a stranger here, and in her mind, how then could she belong?
He wanted to keep quiet, he didn’t want her fear to bring her to acceptance of him, or her seeming lack of choices, but he realized suddenly that he wanted her very much to agree to wed him, he wanted to take no chances. He supposed that he didn’t mind not being certain why she agreed, only that she would agree.
Thus, he said, “My man, Kron, just returned from Dublin. He was my eyes and ears at the court there. I knew that the king had dealings with your half-brother, but I didn’t understand the nature of them. I wanted very much to know.”
Rorik drew a deep breath. “Kron told me that King Sitric has negotiated with Einar to buy you, to make you his wife. If you return to Clontarf, you will be given over to the king and Einar will gain even more silver and slaves and power, and you will be abused by an old man.” She would still be a queen, but Rorik knew that such a thing would not sway her. Strange, but he knew it to be true.
She stared up at him, surprised and horrified, yet it wasn’t so unlike Einar to betray her or anyone else for that matter. But to sell his own half-sister to King Sitric, to that paunchy old man she’d met only once some six months before? He’d smelled of sickness and of age, and any pity she might have had for him vanished when he’d looked at her as would a hungry man at a honey-sweetened almond. He was old enough to be her grandfather; he was old enough to have been dead for many years. She’d borne his fulsome flattery, his old man’s touches on her cheek and on her arm, though she’d hated it. She’d remained polite to him, she’d remained respectful, she’d kept her eyes down whenever possible so he couldn’t see the distaste she felt for him.
There had been the other old man with him, his advisor, Hormuze, an old man with a long gray beard and brilliant dark eyes that seemed to regard the world with deep cynicism, and a belly as paunchy as that of the old king, who never left his side. Did he have a part in this? By the gods, she would never have dreamed that the king could want her for his wife. Why her? She was not a princess of significant holdings, not a daughter of a great household to woo and hopefully gain in an alliance. It made no sense to her.
“I would protect you,” Rorik said, once again speaking when he wanted to keep his mouth shut, but the words just kept rolling out of him. “You would be my wife and safe from both Einar’s plotting and the king’s lust.” He was pleading his case—though he sounded only calm and reasonable—like a lovesick swain, which was ridiculous, but still he didn’t like seeing himself in the role of supplicant to a damned woman. He shut his mouth. He’d said enough, more than enough.
She looked up at Rorik, recognized the tension in him, and wondered at it. She also recognized a basic truth deep inside herself. What Einar had done hadn’t really pushed her toward wedding with Rorik. No, she’d already decided.
Rorik was indeed a handsome man. She’d seen him naked and found him interesting, more than interesting, truth be told, fascinating. His body was intriguing, so very different from hers, all bronzed and lightly furred with golden hair, his body lean, his strength exciting as it was deadly, aye, those differences were dazzling, they made her eager to know more, to learn things she’d never really considered significant before. He was dangerous and that made her want to test those boundaries as well, for she imagined that it was all tied up in his warrior’s essence. He was dangerous and he was vital and she wanted to learn about him, all of him. She smiled at him and watched his eyes widen just a bit. Surely he couldn’t know what she’d been thinking.
“I have never before seen you smile,” he said as he continued to stare at her. “It makes you look different, softer perhaps. I would also hear you laugh.”
“Mayhap you will smile for me soon. Mayhap even laugh for me as well.”
He gave her a wary look.
She said now, the smile gone from her face, “You, Lord Rorik, I have tested mightily. The gods know I have pushed you and tormented you and made you want to strangle me. Despite all this, if you wish it, I will wed you, my lord, and I will be constant as the North Star. I will never allow another to harm you as long as I have breath in my body.”
Rorik smiled and Mirana found it the most beautiful smile she’d ever seen in her life.
Suddenly, Entti laughed, slapping her hands on her knees, laughing until her eyes teared.
Both Rorik and Mirana stared at her. She laughed louder. The gown slid off her lap to the ground. “Ah,” she said, gasping for breath, “it is too much. The two of you are like proud yet noble warriors, uncertain that you aren’t still enemies, circling each other. You call for marriage and you strut out all your warrior attributes, admire each attribute in the other, then prattle on about your honor. There is no talk of affection, of caring, only all these manly virtues each of you seek in the other. By all the gods, it is a wondrous amusement, this courting dance you two have performed.” She began laughing again, now hugging her sides.
Hafter heard her, frowned, and roared to his feet, striding toward them. “Has she insulted you, Rorik? Shall I punish her? Where is the rope? I shall tie her to me again and drag her about. But it’s that woman’s fault—she taught Entti bad things, made her smart and loud, then made her hate us and we don’t deserve it, she—”
Entti looked up at him through her laughter-teared eyes. “Ah, another big warrior, intent on his own prowess, his lordly rights. Go away, Hafter, you annoy me. Your tongue flays itself with its own stupidity. But first, wish your lord Rorik and Mirana happiness. She will be the lady of Hawkfell Island and your mistress.”
Hafter stared at Entti, then looked blankly at Rorik.
“You would wed this girl who would have killed you more times than I can count? She who would slit your throat even when you bed her, Rorik? By the gods, she will bite your tongue when you try to kiss her! sHE WILL SEND HER KNEE INTO YOUR MANHOOD AND BRING you low. Aye, she’ll unman you and laugh and enjoy herself whilst she does it. Entti was simple but now she isn’t. You, Rorik, you were of full wit and thoughtful brain, but now you’re quite mad. It is all her fault�
��this woman with her sin-black hair and her green eyes that hold secrets—she has this mystery about her that makes men and women behave differently, makes them do things they shouldn’t do.
“I must fetch your father from Malverne. He will make you see reason. If you lust for her, tie her down to protect yourself, and plow her belly until you tire of her. But do not wed her, Rorik, she will surely do you in.”
Entti rose swiftly and leapt at Hafter. She sent her fist into his belly, shouting in his face, “You fool! You are less full-witted than the stoats rutting in the garden! Kerzog has more wit than have you! Have you no heart, no feelings? Did you not listen to Lord Rorik?”
Hafter was again distracted by this new Entti. “Shut your mouth, woman! You are the stupid one. Nay, not stupid, you aren’t that, are you? The woman saw to that. You are simply unaware of the woman’s hatred for Rorik, for all of us—except she seems to like you and the other women overmuch—which I still don’t understand.”
“Hafter,” Rorik said quietly. “That is enough. I do not need your defense. Enough.”
“Nay, it is all passing strange, and you, Rorik, you will awaken on the morrow and wonder what demons possessed you and then you will—”
“Hafter, it is done.”
Hafter stared at his friend, a man who was closer to him than his own brothers, a man he’d known all his life. “Rorik, you do not jest?”
Rorik shook his head. He smiled. “Nay, jests are far from my mind. Mirana has accepted me. We will wed on the morrow. We will have a feast and all will be well. You must trust me. If she is willing to, why then, for you, it should be nothing more difficult than breathing. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“But her half-brother slaughtered Inga and your children and many of our people!”
“Aye, but she didn’t. Why should she shoulder any of the blame? She accepts what Einar is now. She gives her loyalty to me.”
But Hafter couldn’t accept it. Loyalty from a woman? It sounded preposterous. The woman had been nothing but a thorn, nay, more a bramble or an entire forest of thorns and brambles. He said, “Kron told all of us about the king and how he wants to have the woman as his wife. She could be a queen, Rorik! Why would she want to wed with a simple man like you when she could be a queen and have everything a woman could ever want?
“It makes no sense. So what if King Sitric is old and repellent and will give her no pleasure in her bed? He is still the king and he has power and wealth. You must think about her motives, Rorik. I do not trust her any more than I trust this new Entti the woman created.
“You are being noble, Rorik. You do this only to protect her, don’t you? It is nonsense. She needs no protection. Send her back, use her as a lure to get Einar, or is that what is really in your mind? Tell me true, for I must know.”
“Hafter, were you to plead my case for me to Mirana, I should have her trying to kill me rather than accepting to wed me. You will be quiet. I have told you the truth. I want this woman. She will be my wife and the mistress of Hawkfell Island. She will be loyal to me, to you, to all of us. I trust her, as you must also. She isn’t deceitful, she is honest. She doesn’t want to be a queen.”
“Ha! You aren’t stupid, Rorik, at least you weren’t before we had the misfortune to voyage to Clontarf. You captured her and everything has changed. It is beyond too much to understand.” He closed his mouth then, only to open it once more, saw Entti frowning at him, and closed it again. He looked at Mirana, who’d said not a word. He really looked at her now, and he saw a young woman who was passing pretty, quite lovely really, small and fine-boned, her flesh as white as newly fallen Vestfold snow, her hair thick and black as a midnight revel. Her eyes were a green color that looked like dark moss, beautiful eyes that were soft and mysterious, aye, there were secrets in those eyes of hers, with the thick black lashes that added to their mystery, and he wondered how he would feel if she looked back at him with warmth and caring in those eyes, and with desire. And she was brave and smart. Ah, but still . . . it wasn’t right. It wasn’t smart. But there was naught he could do about it. He prayed that Rorik knew well what he was doing. He himself didn’t really believe Rorik was doing this to protect her or to somehow use her to capture Einar. Rorik wasn’t that kind of man. On the other hand, Hafter had been wrong about a number of things of late. He’d humiliated himself in his wrongness and his head still hurt from it. Only the gods knew what was in the woman’s mind and in Lord Rorik’s mind.
He looked at Entti, still frowning at him, tense, ready to attack him again, and scratched his head where she’d struck him. Yet another one whose mind was now hidden from him. He didn’t like this new Entti. He turned away, shaking his head. He heard Entti say behind him, “That’s right, you lout, turn away, go hide, don’t face the truth that’s staring you in your goat’s face!”
He said nothing, though the irritation at her words was great. He walked away, silent and thoughtful.
But it was Hafter, only minutes later, who yelled for silence and gave all their people the news. He sounded enthusiastic. He looked over at Entti and she smiled at him, making him feel like a trained pet who had performed just as she’d wished.
As for the women, they surrounded Mirana, hugging her and kissing her loudly, telling her that finally Lord Rorik had shown good sense. “Aye,” Old Alna said, trying to look wise, “finally he’s wedded a woman like his mother, wise and kind. Aye, and strong. ’Tis a strong woman Lord Rorik must have for he is a warrior, a Viking, and at the bottom of things, he is a man, and thus rough and untidy, sometimes unmeasured in his talk and actions.”
“A good thing I say,” Amma said. “You didn’t really bind Alna or Asta very tightly, so you don’t need to feel guilt about it. They understood. All were proud of you and your cunning.”
“Now Gurd will keep to me at night,” Asta said, laughing and hugging Mirana. “I am very fond of the new Entti and know now that you won’t allow any more married men to abuse their wives with their infidelities.”
“I will do my best,” Mirana said, smiling at all of them, these women who’d taken care of her and fed her and treated her as one of them, without question. Mirana felt very lucky. She saw Utta standing at the edge of their circle, and quickly drew her in. “I thank you, little one. I am nearly as good a cook as you are.” And Utta hugged her close. “Aye, Utta, you and I will deal very well together, never doubt it or my affection for you. Would you be my sister or my daughter?”
All the women laughed at that.
And there was Erna, drawing back, as she always did, but she was smiling, moving slowly closer, her face softly pretty. “Utta must be a sister, I think,” she said, looking from little Utta to Mirana, “for none would ever think you her mother.”
That night Mirana slept in Rorik’s bed. He slept in the outer hall, wrapped in a wool blanket. She happened to see the chain lying next to the bed on the floor. She just looked at it. She didn’t touch it.
She smiled. What she was doing was right, she felt it deep inside her.
15
THE FOLLOWING DAY dawned warm and sunny. More birds than Mirana had ever seen in her life seemed to have visited the island for their wedding, flying overhead, swooping downward, spinning through the clouds, their keening cries filling the air. It was magical.
It was a perfect day to be married.
Mirana stood opposite Rorik, beneath a sweet-smelling apple tree, her hand held in his across the space between them. His men flanked him, with Hafter at his right hand. The women, led by Old Alna, stood behind her, Entti at her right hand.
The women had done wonders. They’d sent Mirana off to bed the previous night, and immediately made their plans.
Mirana was now wearing a gown of the softest wool, dyed a rich saffron. Her tunic was a pale cream, fastened at her shoulder with two beautifully pounded silver brooches, a gift from Rorik. She wore soft leather slippers on her feet, a gift from Erna, who’d said softly, “I haven’t two good hands, but I do hav
e two good feet and they are just your size.”
The slippers fit her perfectly. Mirana’s hair was loosely plaited, as one would a belt of soft leather, and wound up onto the top of her head with pale saffron-colored linen ribbons threaded through the thick coils.
She felt calm. Her decision was a good one. Even if Rorik were marrying her to forward his revenge against Einar, she didn’t care. She still believed him honorable. She held to that thought, now looking at Rorik, who said slowly, his voice deep and sure, “I will take you to wife, Mirana, daughter of Audun. I give you all that is mine and promise you my honor and loyalty and fidelity until I die. Before all our gods and all our people, this I vow.”
Some of the men cheered, several slapping him on the back, but most were silent, their eyes on the ground, uncertain and wary. When there was again full silence, all eyes went to Mirana.
“My Lord Rorik,” she said, looking up at him, and now she smiled, for he was looking very serious, overly serious, and it charmed her. She’d thought about what she would say to him and to his people, words that were critical to all of them. Her fingers tightened about his. “I come to you with naught save myself and what I am. I will be faithful to you and to your people for as long as I live. I swear to place your welfare above mine own, to honor you as my husband and as the lord of Hawkfell Island, and hold your interests first in my mind. I will never betray you. This I vow before our gods and before all who are here with us.”
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