Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

“Aye, and he’s resting more easily now. This traitor, Gunleik, you have no suspicions?”

He shook his head. “We will know eventuall

y. Perhaps Einar will know when he returns.”

“What about his other men?”

“Let them remain on the beach. I doubt they’ll try to attack us, ’twould be suicide. There is no reason to try another attack on them, even though the storm still rages and we could possibly surprise them. There is no reason to cut their warships away now. Besides, Einar will want to capture those warships and add them to his own fleet.”

Mirana walked to the fire pit and dipped a big wooden spoon into the iron pot. She filled her wooden bowl with porridge. She added butter and walked to the long benches that lined the longhouse’s walls. She sat next to a snoring man. She forced herself to eat, calmly, methodically.

What had Einar done to earn this man’s hatred?

He was awake and he welcomed the pain. The pain pleased him because he knew now he was alive; he also knew he could control the pain and he had, for he’d thought and thought, knowing he was in very serious trouble. He was in a dimly lit sleeping chamber, alone. Then he heard a voice coming nearer and quickly closed his eyes. It was the woman’s voice, soft and quiet, and she was saying to someone, “He’s been sleeping for nearly two full days. I’ve fed him but he hasn’t acknowledged me, refuses to acknowledge me. He’s just eaten broth and porridge. He should awaken soon for he has slept many hours now. Einar will be here tomorrow.” She gave a short laugh that held no humor at all. “By then he should be well enough for Einar to torture before he kills him.”

“It’s the way of things,” a man said. It was the man who’d sent the knife into his shoulder, the man who’d shouted that he wasn’t to be killed. He said now, “I must go, Mirana. Take care. No matter his wound, he is still a man and a Viking and he would kill you if he could.”

He heard the rustle of her skirt, felt her hand on his forehead, felt the warmth of her breath on his cheek. He wanted to open his eyes but he didn’t. He would wait.

She said, “I’ve brought you some more porridge. You must eat more and regain your strength. I have put honey on it, ’twill give you vigor and add sweetness to your mouth. I know you’re awake. You have but to lie still and open your mouth. I will feed you just as I have before.”

Still, he made no move. She stood there staring down at him, wondering about him, if he had a wife, family, and where they lived. She wished she’d let him die, quickly, honorably, but she realized now that she simply couldn’t. There was something about him that drew her. It was odd, but it was true. She would not be responsible for his death. She had always admired strength and courage, and he had that in abundance, but it was something more than that, something she didn’t understand. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, have let him die, for even in the rain-sodden outer yard when he’d been surrounded with men, Gunleik’s knife sticking obscenely from his shoulder, she’d had to step forward, she’d had to stop it, for she knew she couldn’t let him die. And he would have died for he was too far into his rage, too deep into the battle and into himself to allow himself to withdraw, to allow himself to realize he’d lost and give up his weapons. He needed strength now and she was determined he would have it, and thus she said again, “Open your mouth and I will feed you.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her. He remembered her now, the witch with all the black hair and the pale face, her hand outstretched toward him. He remembered the rain striking down her face, plastering her hair to her head, rain dripping from her lashes. She was looking at him, her expression calm, unworried. Did she believe him to be so very weak? So helpless?

She sat down beside him and put the wooden spoon to his mouth. He opened his mouth and ate. It was delicious. It focused him momentarily on his stomach instead of his shoulder. He ate all the porridge, feeling the strength flow into him, then said, “Who are you?”

“Mirana, sister to Einar.” His eyes were the color of the cloudless sky in midsummer.

“Einar has no sister.”

“I am his half-sister. We have different fathers. My father was Audun; his was Thorsson.”

“You’re keeping me alive so that he may have more pleasure in his torture of me.”

She had no answer to that. It would be the result, surely, but that wasn’t why she’d done it. She rose and said, “You must rest. I will feed you again soon. Do you have need to relieve yourself?”

He opened his eyes again and stared at her. “Aye,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

“What is your name, Viking?”

“It matters not that you know. I am Rorik Haraldsson.”

“Why did you come here? Who is your spy? Why do you wish to kill Einar?”

“I don’t answer questions from foolish women. You annoy me. Leave me alone.”

From beneath half-closed lids he saw her stiffen, even as she repeated his name, but she said nothing more to him. What more was there to say? He wouldn’t bend and she couldn’t.

She returned later, how much later he didn’t know, for he’d slept again deeply. She carried another bowl of porridge. She said nothing, merely sat beside him and began spooning the thick porridge into his mouth. He turned his face away when he was full.

When he turned back to her, his look was speculative, his eyes cold. “I could strangle you,” he said. “You have a skinny little neck. Aye, I could twist it with but one of my hands and you would be dead before any of your brother’s men came to your rescue.”

She laughed and he stiffened at that unexpected sound. He’d sounded mean and cruel, he knew well how to use his voice to bring fear, and yet she had laughed at him. He felt anger roil in his belly. His eyes narrowed on her face. “You believe me so very weak still? Too weak to kill a woman? A witch? Possibly Einar’s whore?”

“You should not have said that, Viking.”

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