Lord of Hawkfell Island

by Catherine Coulter

Mirana shrugged. “He is close to his family. He listens to them. He may kill me. Or Merrik, his brother, might or even Sira. She is capable of it, doubt it not. She is a girl of strong passions. She wanted Rorik and I believe she still hopes to have him. Thus, I must be made to leave or die. There are doubtless many who would gladly volunteer for such a task, including any one of the men who came with them.”

  Entti said then, her fingers on Mirana’s sleeve, “Let’s take one of the boats and leave tonight. Let’s leave now. We could make it this time, I know we could.”

  Mirana smiled at that. “A storm is coming, Entti. Remember our last adventure with a storm?”

  Entti moved away from her, closer to the edge of the cliff. She stared down at the roiling water. It looked black, even the froth of the waves. It looked terrifying. She looked beyond, to the south, where the longboats were tied securely to the wooden dock. Even in the protected inlet, the waves were tossing them about like leaves. Still, it made no difference, not now, at least not to Entti. She said, “I can’t stay, Mirana, you know that. If I do, I will have to protect myself from the men, for I will play the dull-witted whore no more. I have no wish to kill one of them.”

  “No one will touch you. I will not allow it.”

  “As you told me, you are in a rather uncertain position right now yourself. I have been left alone because of you. But now neither of us can be certain that you will remain untouched and alive.”

  “You’re right, of course. I’m being stupid, believing that Rorik will realize what is happening, that he will speak to his family, convince them that I am no threat to them, that I am not guilty of my brother’s crimes.”

  “He is your half-brother.”

  “Aye,” Mirana said slowly. “He is my half-brother. But in their eyes, his blood is my blood and thus I am tainted with his wickedness. I am as evil as Einar is.”

  “This is madness. How can Rorik be so blind?”

  “Rorik isn’t blind, girl. Speak not of your master in such a way. Lord Rorik is a man who has suffered grievous pain, pain you cannot begin to imagine.”

  Both women whirled about to see Hafter standing there, still and silent in the black night, a thick wool cloak about him, the wind whipping his dark golden hair about his head. He looked big and strong, his shoulders stiff with anger. Mirana took a step closer to Entti. She wished she had her knife.

  “Aye, I know,” Mirana said, “but I was not a part of it.”

  Hafter shrugged. “His family believe differently. You left them raging, Mirana.” Then he laughed suddenly. “I always believed Sira to be more beautiful than any goddess. With leeks dripping off her forehead, she looked quite human. Aye, a good dose of humility you gave her. She will hate you forever now.”

  “Mirana could have stuck her knife in the girl’s gullet, Hafter. A leek or two atop her head is nothing.”

  “Women see things differently. Sira is after your blood, Mirana. She was calling for your death when I left the longhouse.”

  Mirana didn’t want to ask him but she did. “What of Rorik? Do you know what he will do?”

  He shook his head. “He remains within, with his family. They are very angry.” He turned to Entti and he smiled, holding out his hand to her. “Now, I am here to fetch you. You will warm me tonight and I will take you until I am sated on your soft flesh.”

  Before Entti could speak, Mirana lightly touched her forearm to hold her silent, and said, “Nay, Hafter. No man will touch Entti again unless she wishes it. This is her wish and I honor it.”

  “I will give her pleasure this time, I swear it. I have a man’s needs and she must fill them. She will enjoy herself as she does. She must do as I wish.”

  Entti straightened as stiff as one of the palisade posts. “Take yourself back to the longhouse and stick your head in your mead, Hafter. I will have naught to do with you. Did you not believe me yesterday? Do you wish me to unman you again with my knee?”

  “You said you were sorry. You said you wouldn’t do that again.”

  “Aye, I said I wouldn’t hurt you again if you kept your distance from me. I don’t want you. Go away.”

  “Which of the men do you want?”

  Mirana was fascinated at the sudden very jealous tone of his voice. She saw that Entti was about to laugh, and said quickly, “Entti doesn’t wish any man right now, Hafter. Surely you understand. She has been sorely unhappy. You are a man of sense and kindness, are you not?”

  “Aye. Mayhap. Not in this instance. I want her, Mirana. Don’t interfere, it is not your right.”

  “If you force her, Hafter, she will kill you or hurt you badly and then she will have to die and all because she was protecting her honor. Do you wish her to die because of your lust?”

  Hafter had no real thoughts, only a burning need to bed Entti. He didn’t want another woman, only her. He stared at Mirana, the woman who was the wife of Lord Rorik, a woman who could possibly be dead soon by the hand of one of Rorik’s family. He said slowly, turning now to face Entti, “I don’t want you dead.”

  “What do you want then, you boorish lout?”

  “Speak not so meanly to me, Entti. I am a man and you are naught but a slave. It is I who am in the right. You will do as I bid you.”

  Entti shook her head at him, so frustrated with his stubbornness she wanted to hit him. “You are more obtuse than the goat who must eat cow dung! I will not be your whore, Hafter. Understand me, for I grow tired of repeating it. I will not be your whore or any man’s whore. No more.”

  He looked perplexed. “But no other man will have you. I’ve seen to that. I have told them that you are mine and they are to keep their distance. I am protecting you.”

  Entti said to Mirana, “It is of no use to speak to him. All men are dull-witted goats when lust possesses them. He is no different from that man Erm who wanted to rape me.” She turned then and walked away, pulling the ragged square of wool more closely around her shoulders.

  Hafter said, “Entti is wearing a rag. It isn’t right. I don’t like it.”

  “Aye, you are right,” Mirana said. “I will see to it that both of us have better clothes to wear.”

  “She’s leaving me and I am not done with her. Entti! Come back to me! I will give you a new cloak. Just come back here, now.”

  He gave Mirana a distracted frown, then turned to run after Entti. Mirana didn’t think he would catch her.

  It was so very cold and yet it was a summer night and she had pulled hay over her to keep warm, but it wasn’t enough. It was still dark, so she didn’t believe she’d slept all that long. The wind was howling outside the barn and she wished she could stuff her ears to keep out the loud dinning of rain, the cracks of thunder that made her jump. She remembered the storms at Clontarf, vicious and unrestrained, tearing the sod from the roofs of the huts, making the cattle bawl in fear.

  It was so very cold.

  She burrowed deeper into the pile of hay. A cow shuffled nearby, but made no sound. The oxen stood with their heads down, sleeping, she supposed, oblivious of the storm. The goats were trying to eat the leather straps that held them tethered in their stalls.

  What would happen on the morrow?

  It was Old Alna who found her, curled into a tight ball, only her head showing from the pile of hay.

  “Aye, mistress, ’tis time for you to rise, for the sun is climbing in the sky and there is much to be done. The storm is done and it will be a hot day, both outside and inside. Aye, his family is like a pack of wolves, unheeding of naught but their hatred, a festering thing it is, deep and burning, and they’ve not let it go. They’ve not healed since your half-brother killed Inga and the babes. They’ve gotten but more bitter. It is not a good thing. And they believe what Sira told them—you seduced Rorik, claimed you were with child, and he was honorable.”

  Mirana sat up and began picking off straws of hay. Her hair was stiff with it. So this had added fuel to their hatred. They believed the tale Sira had spun for them. She should tell them
how long she’d known Rorik. Why had Rorik not told them that she’d come to him a virgin? She said without looking up, “There is no reason for me to return, Alna.” She looked toward the goats for a moment, then added, her voice so wistful that Old Alna frowned, “Unless Lord Rorik sent you to find me?”

  The old woman spat as she shook her head. She scratched her shoulder. “Nay, the master has said naught of anything. He is different. Last night he was different, this morning he awoke with the same blind pain in his eyes. They came and poisoned him and he is different. Lord Rorik spent the night next to his brother and some of his father’s warriors. They spoke long into the night to him. They drank too much mead, and Lord Rorik doesn’t hold mead or wine or ale well. It makes his bowels churn and his head ache fiercely. He pukes up his guts. You’d best come into the longhouse now. You are still mistress. It is your responsibility to oversee the slaves and the chores and the comfort of his family.”

  “Have you seen Entti or Hafter?”

  Old Alna cackled. “Aye, Entti struck him down with an iron pan last night. Hit him solid, she did, and he just spun away like a drunken duck, sitting down finally, holding his poor head in his hands. She slept next to me, complaining this morning that I snored. Ha! An old woman doesn’t snore. I didn’t snore. I was awake most of the night, listening to Hafter moan. Then that Gurd tried to take her.” Old Alna cackled again. “I told him to go back to Asta, where he belonged. I told him that Entti was having her monthly flow. That got him away from her.”

  Mirana stood up and picked more straw from her tunic. She badly needed to bathe. Her beautiful wedding gown and overtunic were soiled and wrinkled. She had nothing else to wear. Old Alna frowned at her, but said only, “Hafter is still sleeping. That Entti, now she’s afraid that she really hurt him and he won’t ever awaken.”

  “Hafter is as stubborn as Rorik. He’ll awaken all right and then it will all begin again.”

  Old Alna regarded her in rheumy silence, saying finally, not unkindly, “Come, little lamb, ’tis time to return to the longhouse. I don’t know what will happen, but you have no choice. Come now. All the women await your instructions. They dance on the fire coals, you know, but ’tis not their fault. They all have great liking for Tora. They don’t know what to do.”

  Mirana followed her into the longhouse. The people were stirring, the men moaning from the surfeit of mead, the women punching at them, some laughing, for the men had been lusty from drink and thus lusty with the women. “Aye,” Old Alna said, “some of the women—the younger ones—are humming and singing and are ready to begin the day. They chirp like happy hens. The men have nothing more than they deserve.”

  Mirana only nodded. She began the morning tasks, setting the various women to work, careful to avoid looking toward Rorik, who was awake now and speaking to his brother. What else was there to say to him? Or Merrik to him? Were they deciding who was to kill her? Would they draw lots? She was stirring the porridge that was steaming nicely in the heavy iron pot suspended over the fire pit when she felt him near her. He’d said nothing; she hadn’t heard him approach; she just felt him there, right behind her. She stilled, waiting.

  “I will go to the bathing hut now. There is straw in your hair and on your clothes. Your gown is soiled.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “My parents still sleep in my chamber. I will fetch you what you need.”

  She turned slowly then, looking up at him. He’d said my chamber, not our chamber. “There is nothing there for you to fetch. I have no other clothes.”

  He looked as if he would say something, then closed his mouth. “The porridge smells good. It is a relief that the food is again fit for men to eat.”

  She only nodded.

  “Hafter is groaning, only his pain is from an iron pan and not from indulging in too much mead. You will cease your interference. If he wishes to have Entti, he will have her. She is a slave. Before she slept with any man who would bed her, and all wanted her. It is no different now. Indeed, Hafter would have her to himself until he tires of her. I have given her to him. Cease your plaints. You can no longer protect her. It is I who will determine who and what she will be, not you.”

  “She won’t be a whore again, Rorik.”

  “She will be what I order her to be. Nay, now she will be what Hafter wishes. She belongs to him. Do you understand?”

  “Do not order her to be a whore. She cannot do it. It is different now. Don’t let Hafter shame her.”

  “You will not interfere. Gurd is right in this instance. You are the cause of this. You will leave her alone and cease your meddling.”

  He left her, saying nothing more. She instructed a slave to fetch him towels and leave them in the outer chamber of the bathing hut.

  19

  SHE WENT ABOUT her work, every once in a while plucking off another straw from her hair or from her clothing. When Entti began mixing dough for the flatbread—so many loaves needed that it was mixed in a deep wooden trough—Mirana saw that she too was still dressed as she had been the night before.

  She went to her and said only, her voice low, “We will leave when it is possible. You were right last night, there is nothing for either of us here now.”

  Entti only nodded. Mirana knew she understood, for she’d seen Rorik speaking to her. She knew that she now belonged to Hafter, that no choice remained to her.

  “Perhaps tonight when all of the men are drinking again. The storm has blown itself out.”

  “Aye,” Entti said. She looked at her straightly now. “You must take care, Mirana. I am afraid one of them might try to kill you before tonight.”

  “I will get my knife from Rorik’s trunk when his parents leave his sleeping chamber. I will steal one for you, Entti. Also, if you can, set food and water aside for us to take with us. It will be a long journey.”

  Entti nodded, wondering where they would go. Certainly not back to Clontarf, for Mirana knew what awaited her there. She didn’t ask. Mirana would decide where they would go, and this time they would succeed.

  But an hour later, Rorik came to Mirana and said, “Here is a gown that belongs to Asta. It is now yours. Asta says she and Erna will make new gowns for both you and Entti. Come now to the bathing hut. It is very hot in here and your face is red.”

  She didn’t want to go with him. She was afraid that when she was naked and vulnerable, when they were alone, he would kill her. Her heart pounded as she walked beside him. But she’d managed to retrieve her knife after his parents had left the sleeping chamber. It was something; she prayed she would be strong enough to use it.

  His father and mother had ignored her completely when they’d emerged from Rorik’s sleeping chamber, and she’d set a slave to serving them. There had been no sign as yet of Sira. Rorik’s brother had left the longhouse not to return as yet.

  “You have already bathed,” she said, stepping outside into the bright morning sunlight.

  “Aye,” he said, not looking at her.

  “There is no need for you to accompany me.”

  “There is.”

  He would kill her. His family had convinced him that she was as evil as Einar, as untrustworthy, as foul. She didn’t want to die, not by his hand, not now. Nor did she want to leave Hawkfell Island.

  But there was no choice for her. She wondered if he would choke her or stick a knife into her heart. She knew, too, that she would protect herself, and that brought her more pain than she wished to consider.

  When they were in the outer room of the bathing hut, he told two of his father’s men who were there, naked and still wet from their bath, to get out.

  Once alone, he said, “I will help you.” She stood quietly while he unfastened the brooches that held her tunic to her shoulders. She stood quietly when he unfastened her belt and held out his hand for her knife. He said nothing about the knife though he must know that she’d gotten it from his trunk. She looked at his hand, then at her knife. In that moment, she knew she couldn’t strike h
im with that knife. She simply couldn’t do it. She handed him the knife. If he killed her, then so be it.

  She stood quietly when he lifted her gown over her head. Only when she was naked, did she move. She cried out, seeing him look at her, no emotion in his clear blue eyes, no hint of how he meant to kill her. She ran into the inner chamber and pressed herself against the far wall. Steam rose and she couldn’t see him clearly.

  “Mirana!”

  She dropped to her knees, pressing herself even more firmly against the wall, her hair cascading down to cover her face.

  “Come here and I will bathe you.”

  Bathe her? She frowned. So he wanted her to be clean whilst he killed her? Or was it a ruse?

  She rose, pushing back her hair, knowing that if he were lulled, she could slip by him and into the outer chamber. Her knife was there, lying on the bench with her clothing. She would grab both and run. Surely there was someplace to hide on the island.

  But he wasn’t lulled. He took her arm as if he weren’t aware of her fear, and stood her in front of him. He dumped a bucket of hot water over her, then began to wash her. She was so stiff, so afraid, that she didn’t at first realize that he was also now naked.

  When she did, she nearly doubled over with fear. He would rape her, then kill her.

  “Nay,” she said, but he was washing her face and she got soapy water in her mouth.

  “Nay what?”

  “Don’t rape me first.”

  Rorik rubbed his soapy hands over her breasts, then downward to her belly and lower to her soft woman’s flesh. His fingers were light and teasing and when he eased his middle finger, thick with soap, upward and high inside her, she jerked back from him, crying out.

  “I will rape you if you force me to,” he said, his finger tingling from the feel of her, the heat of her body. He wanted her now. “Come here.”

  He felt violent; unreasoned rage flowed through him; he could feel the savage heat of his blood. He also felt more uncertainty than he’d ever felt in his life. He felt as though he were dying, not of wounds valiantly gained, but from deep inside him where there was naught but emptiness and pain and regret and guilt. He hadn’t been there to save Inga or his babes. He hadn’t succeeded in killing Einar. Nay, he’d wedded Einar’s sister, a foul creature who’d worked her wiles on him. He had watched her withdraw from him, watched her blank her expression, watched her pull completely apart from him. She’d remained hidden the previous night, leaving him to deal with the uproar she’d caused. It was then he smelled her fear. She deserved the fear.