Rorik smiled, straightened to his full height, and breathed in the fresh warm summer air. “Oh no, Father, not that. It’s very simple, really. Her half-brother, Einar, discovered she was here and he took her. He probably took Sira as well. It is too late to leave tonight. We will prepare and leave on the morrow.”
He rubbed his hands together, leaving his father and brother standing there, staring after him. But he knew, he knew it deep within himself that he would find her. He just prayed it would be in time. As he released his mind to sleep, he realized that he would have given his own life were she not found because she would have been dead and lost to him forever. But now the gods had given him hope, and a new chance. He would find her. He reached over to put his hand on Kerzog’s neck, but the dog wasn’t there. He was probably with Entti, the damned disloyal hound, but still he smiled. She was alive, and as long as she was alive, he would know it and there would be hope.
Rorik’s last thought was that he had to find her before Einar or the king discovered she wasn’t a virgin, that, or worse, that they discovered she was his wife.
25
MIRANA STARED AT her brother. He was drunk, his clothes disheveled, his young, too handsome face set in mean lines. He saw Gunleik first and yelled, “Well, old man? Did you find her? Where is she? If you didn’t bring her back to me, I’ll flay the flesh off your back.”
“She is here,” Gunleik said. He took Mirana’s hand and gently pulled her forward.
Einar simply stared at her for a long time, finally saying, “She looks like a filthy slut.”
Gunleik frowned at his master. “We have been voyaging hard for nearly four days. We are all exhausted, dirty, and tired. She is alive and well, Einar. She is here. We have brought your sister back to you.”
Einar sat forward in his high-backed chair, his fingers curved over the beautifully carved chair posts. “Well, dear sister, you are with me again. It has been a long time. Clontarf has missed its fine mistress. I trust you have missed me equally. Come here and let me embrace you.”
Mirana was so tired, her mind so fouled with fear and exhaustion, that she merely stood there, unable to walk to him, unable to say anything, nor did she want to.
“Come here, Mirana,” he said, his voice low and so soft her skin crawled. She hadn’t feared him before, even when he’d struck her for her sharp tongue, her occasional disobedience, but now she did. Now she saw clearly that to show him any fear at all would be a grave mistake. He wanted to see fear, she realized suddenly, and wondered why she’d never realized that before. He reveled in it. It was an aphrodisiac to him, a spur to his passions. It made him feel powerful, strong. It made him feel more a man. Odd how she realized that so easily now, how she saw him so clearly. It had been the distance from him, she saw now, and Rorik, a man clean of mind and of spirit, a man untouched by any blackness. Aye, she could fear Einar all she wished to, but she had to hide it deep inside her. She realized now the path she must trod with him, and she prayed she could do it.
She smiled, a smile so brimming with falseness he surely would see it, but he didn’t seem to. “I give you greetings, Einar. Forgive me for looking like a slut, but Gunleik is correct. It has been a hard journey.” She made her voice mocking, difficult that, because she was shaking with fear. “Even you, my handsome brother, would look less like a god were you to live in a boat for four days. There was even a storm but we survived it with Gunleik at the helm.”
Einar eased. She recognized the signs. She realized he was staring beyond her, and slowly, she turned. It was Sira he was staring at.
“This one,” Einar said, pointing to Sira, “who is she? How did you come by her? By the gods, look at that magnificent hair!”
“We captured her,” Ingolf said, stepping forward, pulling Sira with him. Immediately, Emund took her other arm, like two dogs fighting over a prized bone.
“There is much to learn here,” Einar said, stroking his long fingers over his jaw. “Mirana, take the woman to the bathing hut with you. Both of you will come to me again for the evening meal.”
Mirana didn’t want to go anywhere with Sira, but she knew there was no choice. She turned to Sira, unwillingly, and Sira said low, “I hadn’t expected this. Einar trusts you. How odd, and you a woman, and you obviously despise him, rather you are not obvious, at least to him.”
“I hope that I am not obvious about anything, Sira. Aye, certainly Einar trusts me. Why would he not? I am mistress here. He is my half-brother. Come, we will bathe. I, for one, am in sore need of it.”
“I too,” Sira said.
Suddenly it seemed that all the women surrounded Mirana, laughing, touching her, hugging her despite her filth. They were all talking at once.
Finally, Mirana held up her hand. “I am glad to see all of you. Now, I am so tired I fear I will fall at your feet and surely that would not be considerate. Sira and I will bathe now.” She turned to Tanna, a woman who was prized at Clontarf for her beautiful weaving. “Please have clothes fetched. My gowns should fit Sira well enough.”
“By the gods,” Sira said as she walked beside Mirana to the bathing hut, “it was just the same with Rorik’s people. The women worshiped you and there was no reason that I could see. And here they treat you like a queen. Just wait until they hear the truth, that their little queen will soon be gone from them.” She laughed, then said, “Your brother is very handsome. That is a surprise. In truth, I had expected a black-haired witch like you, but he isn’t. He’s got pure black hair, but it isn’t coarse like yours, it’s flowing and soft and looks made of silk. And his eyes are
such a lustrous green, not muddy like yours. He is not as large as Rorik, but his body appears fine enough. There is no fat in his belly. And he is very young, not much older than Rorik. Aye, he is a man who draws me, he is a man who knows what he wants. Perhaps I will have him. Perhaps I will become mistress in your place.”
Mirana was too tired to tell Sira the truth. Why warn her in any case? Let her learn for herself the kind of man Einar was. She would learn soon enough that Einar had charmed the years away from his face and body, mayhap through magic, mayhap through potions, mayhap because evil preferred to reside inward and not leave its mark for all to see. She merely stripped off her filthy clothes and began to bathe.
It was dark outside when Mirana entered the large central hall of Clontarf. She was dressed in her favorite dark green linen gown with its lighter green overtunic, fastened at her shoulders with two finely beaten silver brooches. Her hair was clean and brushed smoothly to nearly her waist.
“By the gods, you look incredibly beautiful. When I first saw you, I feared that your beauty—unlike mine—was forever gone.”
It was Einar and he was smiling at her, his hand held out. “Come, little sister, and sit with me. The women have prepared your favorite dishes—look, ’tis roasted hare and mushrooms. And your wild apples, Mirana, all covered with nuts and cloudberries. Come here, aye, that’s right.”
She sat beside him, giving him a mocking smile. “As you will, brother.” She knew she would have to speak to him, she would have to find the right words to convince him not to sell her to the king. She would wait to judge his mood. She would have to wait for him to speak of it first.
Sira entered then, and she was more beautiful than a princess of myth. She wore one of Mirana’s gowns. It was too short for her, but the pale pink wool made her blond hair turn silver in the rush light. She looked slowly about the room, as would a queen surveying her holdings, saw Ingolf rise, then quickly turned to where Einar sat, now staring at her.
Sira walked to him, smiling now, shyly as a Christian nun, and said, “I am pleased with your hospitality, my lord Einar. May I sit here beside you?”