Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

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.