Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

“And then he laughed and laughed, an old man’s bloated laugh. I assume he laughed because she is of Einar’s blood, but still, I don’t understand it, not really. There is naught more, my lord.”

Rorik ate his porridge in thoughtful silence. Finally, he said, “You have done well, Kron. You will visit your family now?”

Kron’s wife and three babes all lived just beyond the salt marshes on a large farm owned by Kron’s parents.

“Aye, my lord, if it pleases you. When you act against Einar, you will have me fetched?”

“I will.”

Rorik turned to Mirana once Kron had left them. “The porridge is good.”

“Aye.”

“It is odd,” he said after a moment, staring off toward his men, who were eating their porridge or playing with the children or polishing their swords. “The king or this foreign advisor of his, Hormuze, will doubtless kill Einar, if they can, thus saving me from the risk of trying again. Ah, Mirana, I cannot allow it. You understand, do you not? It is I who must wipe his life’s blood on my hands. I must be the one to speed him to his coward’s death, and spill his blood in the earth. All those he butchered demand that I avenge them.”

She understood him very well. She nodded. She ate her last bite of porridge. “Do you yet have a plan?”

He shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter yet. You heard Kron say that the king and Hormuze wouldn’t move till the end of summer. Perhaps the old king will die before then. He is very old, Rorik. I met both the king and Hormuze earlier this year. They were both old. Very old. I disliked the king.”

Suddenly he grinned at her. “I’ve heard he’s wicked enough to outlive us all. In wickedness he is old, but not overly so in his years. A man overaged with guile and battles and treachery. But enough of him for the moment. Perhaps you and I could spend a little time learning about each other, about what it is like to have me for your husband. What say you?”

Her voice was firm and strong, her eyes on his mouth. “I would like that, Rorik.”

“Mirana,” he said, his voice low, warning. “Look not at me like that. It is early morning and there is much to be done. I must see to the fields and to hunting. Also when you and Entti stole one of my warships, you damaged it. I must see to its repairs.”

“I know, but it is not badly damaged, merely the one plank came loose when we pulled the boat ashore. Ah, look, there is Hafter going to Entti. I wonder what she will do to him.”

“Or he to her.”

“Do you believe Hafter is agile enough in his brain to outsmart her?”

“You females,” Rorik said, and stood. “None of you is to be trusted.” He grunted, then leaned down and kissed her mouth, and strode out of the longhouse, shouting for his men as he went.

Mirana stood still as a statue, staring down the winding path to the sea. Rorik stood on the end of the long wooden dock with a dozen of his men and a dozen more men she’d never seen before, laughing and talking, a line of bass held in his right hand, and in his left hand, he held a girl’s hand, a long graceful hand, and the girl was beautiful with her white-blond hair to her waist, thick and curling, nearly silver beneath the brilliant sun, and her slender body that was fully endowed, her breasts so full they strained against the soft linen tunic she wore.

She was laughing as she looked up at him. Behind her were an older man and woman, and one younger man. They all resembled each other, but then again, Mirana thought, they were Vikings and they were all blond and blue-eyed, tall and strong. Only she was the different one—like her Irish mother, short with hair as black as a lump of coal.

“Ah,” said Old Alna, at Mirana’s shoulder. “They’ve come. I wondered if they would visit this summer. That’s Rorik’s mother, Tora, and father, Harald, and his younger brother, Merrik. Aye, he has only your years, Mirana, but a great warrior he will be. His passions run strong, stronger than Lord Rorik’s, for he yet has to learn to control them. The girl is Sira—look how beautiful she’s become. Even more beautiful than before. Ah, a little princess, that one, proud and knows her own worth.”

“Who is she?”

“Rorik’s cousin, daughter of Dorn, brother of Rorik’s father. Her mother died birthing her, her father was killed on a raid to Kiev. Lord Rorik’s parents took her in. She must be all of eighteen summers now. That is your age, is it not? Ah, what a pretty she is.”

“She seems very fond of Rorik.”

Old Alna gave her a sideways look, then gave her now familiar scrappy shrug followed by an arcing spit that landed at the base of a yew bush. She patted Mirana’s arm as she said, “She thought to wed with Rorik after Inga died. She was there, wanting Rorik, quite willing to wed with him, aye, I think she even sought out his bed, but his grief held him apart, his grief and his rage and guilt, and he refused to have her. You must never doubt him, Mirana, for now he has you.”

“Aye,” Mirana said, “now he has me.” She turned away and walked down the path to greet her new relatives. She was aware of Old Alna’s rheumy eyes following her.

She saw Rorik suddenly pick the girl up in his arms, hug her tightly and whirl her about. The line of bass fell to the ground, to be picked up by his brother, who was laughing and shaking his head.

She watched Rorik kiss the girl on her laughing mouth. She kept walking down the path, feeling very much like an outsider. There was a smile on her mouth. It didn’t reach her eyes.

* * *

Mirana slowly walked inside the low timbered barn that stood just behind the longhouse. There was sufficient hay for the six cows, the two oxen, the two horses and three goats. Ploughshares were stacked neatly against one wall. There were iron blades for the ploughs and axes to chop wood and clear the fields. She’d escaped here, she knew it, freely admitted it to herself. She stood there in the middle of the dimly lit barn, simply staring at the hay spilling over the top of the wooden troughs. It was early summer, warm sunlit days, with enough rain to make the crops grow fully.