Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

29

HE WAS FRAIL, the flesh hanging from his arms and his jowls, but his eyes flamed with excitement, rheumy eyes, heavily lidded, filled with too many years of living, of too much power and abuse of power, now nearly black in the dim light of the longhouse.

He was smiling down at her. Now he was reaching ou

t his hand to take hers. The backs of his hands were spotted with age and the flesh was slack. There were small knots of hairs over his knuckles.

“Mirana, daughter of Audun,” he said, squeezing her hand, feeling the coldness but believing it from her young girl’s excitement over the honor he was conferring on her. “I will wed you and you will be my queen and the mother of my sons. All hear what I say. From this day forward, she is Queen Mirana and all owe her obeisance.” Ah, but it was an old man’s voice even though it rang out to every corner of the longhouse, staying strong and certain, not dissipating in the thick smoke that had gathered.

She looked away from him into the black eyes of his advisor, the old man, Hormuze, another whose eyes betrayed that he was something else, something more and mysterious. She feared him. But he was smiling at her, and unlike the king, his teeth were white and straight and healthy. As if sensing questions in her, he quickly lowered his head, resting his hands on his paunch.

“Say that you will have me, Mirana.”

The king’s voice was low, but the command was there, the same timbre as was in Einar’s voice. No one would disobey him, no one. Including her. Especially her.

For the second time in her life, Mirana said, her voice calm and steady, “I accept you, sire, and pray that you will know happiness with me. I will be your queen and the mother of your sons. I, Mirana, daughter of Audun, swear it before all our gods and all our people.”

He leaned down and kissed her mouth. His lips were cold and dry. His breath was hot and smelled of his frailty, musty and strangely dry. She made no move, merely stood there, pliant, silent. It seemed to please him, this utter submissiveness of hers.

He whispered against her left temple, “You are shy and that pleases me. You are a virgin, you know nothing of men and what they demand. I will show you, Mirana, and then you will please me, and all will know that you have succeeded, for your belly will swell with my son. Hormuze has promised it. Ah, and when you awaken on the morrow, it will not be this old man’s body beside you, but a young man, strong and hale. I will be as I used to be and you will be greatly pleased for it is you who will have renewed me.”

She heard his words but she didn’t understand. He believed by tomorrow he would again be a young man? Surely this was madness. Such a thing wasn’t possible, not in this world, not with these gods overseeing the affairs of men.

“Aye,” he said, his voice still low and soft, “this is why you are my bride, Mirana. Only you. It is you who will restore my youth and my strength. Only you. Hormuze has promised and he is never wrong. He is a mystic, a priest of an alien religion, and he comes from a faraway land where such things are understood, where such things are common occurrences. He has promised and you will believe him as I do.”

She looked at Hormuze then. She’d never seen a man more contained, so held within himself. She knew he’d overheard the king’s words. Was he frightened of his mad promise? Surely he couldn’t possibly believe it. None of it made any sense. Surely upon the morrow, the king would be as he was now, and he would see that nothing had changed. Would he not then kill Hormuze?

Einar said loudly to all those assembled in the longhouse, “We will have wine and ale and mead now. The women have prepared a feast, sire, and we will eat now until you wish to take my sister away.”

The king smiled at Einar. “You have done well. You are now my brother and you will gain by it, as I have promised you. Once I have regained my vigor, you and I will crush the Irish chieftains who still threaten our lands and our trade.

“But now, I have no wish to befoul my body with drink. I will take your sister—and my wife—away. Hormuze has constructed a boat from his homeland, a royal conveyance that sails upon the Nile. There is a sumptuous chamber on this barge that is furnished with silks and pillows and precious carpets. It is covered as if a fine chamber from the chill of the night and from any rain. It is there I will take my bride now.”

The king was holding her hand as if he feared that to release it would cause his death. The bones hurt from the strength of his grip. Einar came to her then, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. He said quietly against her left temple, “You will survive, Mirana. Pretend to a virgin’s pain and all will be well. Do not forget or we will both know death.”

Hormuze said nothing, merely nodded to the king, stepping back and walking away, an old man who was bowed with weariness, his feet shuffling, his shoulders stooped.

“There will be a feast served us on board the barge,” Sitric said to her as he led her from the longhouse. “Then I will dismiss the servants and you will be able to come to me as I bid you to.”

She nodded. If he believed her shy, so be it. She felt so deep a pain, a helplessness so profound, she didn’t know if she even wanted to survive it. But she would, she had to.

She wanted Rorik. She wanted her husband. She had to hold to that else she would go mad, perhaps reach the depth of madness that possessed this old man. She would not allow the thought to intrude that Rorik didn’t want her, that he had rejoiced when she had disappeared. No, he had come after her. She clung to that belief even as she thought of ways to escape this old man with his too hot breath and his age-spotted hands.

“Ah, Hormuze, you are here. I am glad. Is she not beautiful, this new queen of mine?”

“Aye, sire, she is beyond beautiful. She holds a spiritual beauty, nearly a rebirth of a beauty, so incandescent that it overflows the soul.”

“What you say is poetic, my friend, but not to the point. She is my wife now. It is done just as you said it must be done. It matters not that I wanted her sooner. Once I’ve taken her maidenhead, once I’ve spilled my seed in her, I will be young again, and on the morrow, and all will see me as I was once, as I am now, and as I will be in the future. You have planned this, have you not, Hormuze? All my men will be awaiting my appearance in the morning? They are eager and ready for my transformation?”

“Aye, sire, they are ready. Excitement runs high. All are praying for this. Despite my warnings to you of the misalignment and confusion of the relevant signs and the position of the stars and their houses, I know all will go well. You are a great king; the gods will heed you and not spin things awry.”

“I pray that you speak true,” Sitric said. His eyes narrowed. “Truth, my friend, the ultimate value to a man and to a king. Without it, there would be chaos. Without it, you would be dead. Do you understand me, Hormuze?”

“Aye, sire, I understand you very well.”

Mirana said nothing. She stared from one old man to the other. Hormuze was a priest of some sort, mayhap more likely a wizard, and he’d promised the king his youth. It was amazing. It was also more real to her now than it had been before, for now she was a part of it, an integral part. She felt a spurt of cold, felt the hair on her neck bristle at the strangeness of this. It wasn’t customary or expected, therefore it must have come from the gods or from the nether demons. She was to be the agent by which all this came about. She looked again at Hormuze. He was staring at her, his eyes blacker than the night, deep and expectant, and there was something else there, a tenderness, a light of possessiveness, but no, that couldn’t be right. How odd that she would think that. No, there was nothing there, nothing save prayer in an old man’s eyes that his hide would remain on his aged body when the king remained a frail old man on the morrow.

The king nodded to Hormuze and the old man seated himself at their table. He clapped his hands. Young boys, all clad in white and silver, their hair braided in a dozen slender ropes, their feet bare, brought in silver and gold trays. There was wine from the land south of Kiev, the king told her, as he himself filled her silver goblet. There were grapes as green as her eyes, the king told her, as he insisted on feeding some to her.