Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

Rorik swung over to the side of the bed. He stood and stretched. He saw the wet of his seed on his member and her virgin’s blood. He said, “I hurt you last night and I’m sorry for it. Did I hurt you again now?”

He had, but not that much. “I was asleep,” she said. “You woke me but then you were through with me. It seems to be a very fast thing, Rorik. Is it always so speedily accomplished?”

“Nay. I’m sorry for it. It was strange. A man normally knows what he is doing, enjoys looking forward to doing it, for it involves all of him, not just his sex. Nay, a good man, one with control and experience, can pleasure his wife for hours, not just the minutes I gave to myself. Come, let’s go to the bathing hut. I’ll bathe you and you can steam away the soreness.”

Even as she lay on her back on the warm oak bench, sweating in the steam-filled hut, she knew he wanted her yet again, for his sex was jutting outward, and he seemed in pain, the flesh of his cheekbones drawn tight, but he was controlling himself. He’d even moved to the other side of the chamber, and lay there on his belly, not looking at her.

When he caught her by surprise, dumping a bucket of cold water on her, she bounded up, shrieking, then laughing, for it felt wonderful. She returned the favor, and he yelled just as loudly as she had, shaking himself like a mongrel.

Asta had prepared porridge for breakfast. Entti had made fresh bread. Utta had churned butter. Erna was spinning, using only her one whole arm, her motions smooth and graceful. Kerzog had slept atop Raki the entire night, snoring in his face, and Erna had just laughed and bade her husband not to complain, for he was the only warrior strong enough to bear Kerzog’s weight.

All this was told to Mirana by Old Alna the moment she and Rorik stepped out of the bathing hut. All the men were still within, waiting, it seemed, for Lord Rorik to show himself. Thus, when Rorik and Mirana came into the longhouse from their bath, there was a moment of silence, then knowing looks and some laughter, and more of the seemingly endless advice.

Rorik looked momentarily annoyed, then he shrugged and smiled. He wrapped a long tress of her damp hair around his fingers. “So very black,” he said. “Rich and deep as the night.” He raised the tress to his mouth, stroking it over his lips. He inhaled the scent. “Sweet,” he said. “I dislike the braids. Leave your hair long and free.”

She smiled up at him. “Very well.”

“Ah, she becomes easier than a babe in arms,” Gurd said, chewing on a piece of warm bread. “But be careful of her, Rorik, do not forget that she is capable of killing a man after she bestows a smile upon him.”

“Rorik always tames his women,” Sculla said, looking down at them from his nearly seven-foot height. “This one would be no different.”

“You men,” Amma said, standing on her tiptoes to cuff her husband’s head. “I prefer—all the women do—to think it’s Lord Rorik who is tamed.”

“Nay,” said Aslak, “ ’tis Lord Rorik who understands where the power lies here, and he will teach his wife obedience even as he gives her smiles.”

“All of you will hold your tongues,” Rorik said. “She is at ease at the moment, but if you needle her pride, she will stick a knife in my gullet. Show her respect else I’ll be the one to suffer for it.”

There was more good-natured laughter. Rorik joined his men. Old Alna filled a wooden bowl with porridge, poured honey over it, and took it to the master. She cackled when she gave him the bowl. “Aye, a fine time you had last night! The little mistress made you into a limp fish, didn’t she?”

“How would you know? I saw you snoring in the corner yesterday, your mouth on its hinges so wide flies were buzzing about your remaining teeth. You didn’t even awaken when Kerzog barked in your face.”

But Old Alna just laughed and laughed, then spat on the packed earth.

Mirana stood there by the fire pit, the heat pouring off the burning embers making her sweat, uncertain what to do. She was the mistress here, but all had been taken care of. She looked for Entti, finding her at last by Asta, who was standing next to Erna, winding the warp on the upright loom. Entti stood on her other side, loading a shuttle with thread from a distaff. Rorik was with his men. Even Kerzog was at his place at Rorik’s feet, his big head resting on his paws. Should she join him? Aye, she thought. She was his wife and mistress of Hawkfell. She belonged here. She belonged next to her husband.

He was seated in his ornately carved chair, his bowl settled on his thigh. She sat next to him on the wide bench that lined the wall of the longhouse, and listened to him speaking with Kron, the man who’d come from King Sitric’s court in Dublin, the man who’d told him of Einar’s treachery, the man who had probably, with his news, been responsible for Rorik wedding her. She accepted that. She wasn’t silly or a lovestruck maiden. She respected Rorik, even found his body—ungoverned though it be—quite to her liking, and it was enough.

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nbsp; Kron shut his mouth when he saw her.

17

RORIK FROWNED AT him. “Come, Kron, I wish the details. Tell me.”

Kron merely nodded toward Mirana.

“I wish to hear them as well,” she said, her chin going up. “Since it is my brother’s treachery, it is my right.”

“He is your half-brother,” Rorik said. “Do not taint yourself overly with his blood. Tell us both, Kron.”

Kron still looked uncertain. “With her gone, and once the king learns of it, he will kill Einar, or rather his advisor, Hormuze, will have Einar killed. From all I saw, it is Hormuze who decides who is to do what and when, the king included. His influence is very strong, this foreigner with his strange name and his long gray beard and his mystic’s eyes.”

“No!” Rorik’s anger was clear and bright. He slammed his fist against his thigh. “No, he cannot. Einar is mine. By all the gods, I will have him. I must have him.”

Kron sat forward, his voice pitched low. “Nonetheless, what I have said is true. My lord, I do not believe that Hormuze or the king will accept any excuses from Einar. Sitric grows old and he is greedy, and he is desperate for sons. He is desperate for the renewed youth Hormuze promises him. Hormuze is more a mystic than an advisor, and he’s convinced the king that he will have renewed youth. He has convinced the king that he must have the woman—this woman, Mirana, daughter of Audun—by the first day of the fall, so that her youth and her purity will cleanse him, make him healthy again, restore his vigor. He prophesied that September was the month to wed her. The woman had to be her—Mirana, daughter of Audun—no other virgin would do. He promised the king she would bear him sons, proud and strong and brave. The king believes him, doubt it not, and thus, when you were at Clontarf hoping to find Einar, Einar was in Dublin, at the king’s behest, making his contracts and his agreements.

“I chanced to overhear this old man, Hormuze, talking to one of his private guard. He said that he would pay a visit at the end of the summer to Einar and take her then. He doesn’t trust Einar either, though he gave no reasons for his distrust. He said he knew she would be safe until the fall. He said he knew Einar could have no overweening desire for her, after all.