“Has Mirana not told you, Entti?”
“Told me what, Lord Rorik?”
“That she uses me, naught else, just uses me, milks me like a cow until it is she who has the pleasure. My pleasure is insignificant to her, of no importance at all. It is true. Tell her it is true, Mirana.”
“I will continue to pat Kerzog until all of you have left the farmstead, then I will tell Entti the truth.”
But Entti was no longer sharing the jest. She was shaking her head as she said to her husband, “I still cannot believe that Sira is a queen. Surely you could have buried her in a prison instead, Mirana. A queen! It quite terrifies me. She deserves to be beaten every day. If only you had shaved her head, even that would have pleased me enough.”
“From my brief acquaintance with Hormuze,” Mirana said, “I believe he will do whatever he believes is required.” She unconsciously rubbed her cheek where he’d struck her, saying, “He is a man with very set views for women and what they should do and what they should say. I doubt he will change. Also, Sira no longer has her beautiful silver hair. It is an ugly dark brown from a mixture of nut meats, and thus, Hormuze will not be distracted. It is better than having her bald, Entti.”
Rorik laughed. “You must understand that there is also a child, Eze, all of eleven years old and very wise in her years, much like little Utta here. She will assist Sira to become a reasonable woman, just as will her formidable father.”
“I wonder when we will learn of their fate,” Mirana said as she stroked Kerzog’s head. The dog nuzzled against her palms and she scratched his head.
“By winter I think,” Rorik said. “Hormuze is right. It is a story the skalds will sing of for years upon years to come, whether he succeeds or he fails.”
Mirana said, “It is passing strange that no Viking holds the throne of Ireland, but rather a man from a foreign land very far south. He told me the name of it, but it was difficult, and I can’t remember it.”
Old Alna hobbled up and said, “My beautiful little Sira, such passion in her, and now she is tortured with ugly hair. She won’t like that, my lord, aye, she’ll rain shrieks and fists down upon this man’s head, this man who will now be king.”
“She will try,” Rorik said, “but I doubt she will succeed.”
“You brought back Mirana,” Amma said, lightly touching her fingertips to Rorik’s forearm. “We have missed her, my lord.”
“I missed her as well, as did Kerzog. Hafter, leave your wife alone. ’Tis time for us to hunt.”
And they were gone, talking and laughing, their jests ringing out as loud as their laughter.
Mirana continued to pat Kerzog, speaking to each of the women in turn, realizing that life here had carried on, the crops had continued to grow beneath the warm summer sun, the slaves had banged glittering silver pans to keep the birds away. The women had salted fish, had weaved and dyed cloth, had baked endless loaves of flatbread over the hot embers of the fire pit, but she, Mirana, wife of Rorik Haraldsson, had still been missed, her absence felt by those she’d left behind, for she was firmly a part of Hawkfell Island now. She belonged.
She looked over at Erna, silent n
ow, her one good hand not moving on the loom. Raki, her husband, had been the warrior to fall overboard and drown. They’d not found his body. It was difficult for all of them to accept, and the grief was there stark and deep in everyone’s thoughts. But it was Erna who had stood stiff and silent, her face white, her withered arm limp against her side, her eyes accepting yet filled with pain. She’d not cried in front of them. She’d not cried with her two sons either, and they’d held themselves just as stiff and proud as their mother, listening to Lord Rorik as he’d told them that he and all the other men of Hawkfell Island could never take Raki’s place, for he had been the bravest of warriors, a man of great skill and cunning, but they would be there, acting in their father’s place, now and forever. And Erna had been pleased and grateful. Mirana could only imagine her grief when she’d been alone.
Then Erna had seen Gunleik bent over with the pain in his back, and she’d tended him faithfully, feeding him panza root ground into a sweet pulp to relax the knotted muscles. Now he was better, sitting near to the fire pit, the lines of pain smoothed from his forehead. Erna had moved from the loom and was now sewing near him, her fingers working quickly, her head down, but Mirana knew she was aware of Gunleik, watchful that he was getting well again.
Gunleik rose then and stood over her. Slowly, she raised her head, her look stark and proud. He handed her a small piece of buttered flatbread. She accepted it with her good hand, and slowly ate it.
Gunleik patted her shoulder and left her alone.
Mirana rose at last to go about her duties. She oversaw the cooking, wrapped a cloth about her head and helped to pack down the earth near the tables in the longhouse, a seemingly endless and very dirty job that required water to be sprinkled on the loose dirt, then packed down by hand, then struck with the heel of the palm.
Her back hurt when it was at last finished. She rose and stretched, patted Kerzog, who then grabbed her sleeve in his mouth and dragged her outside the longhouse. She laughed. Rorik and his men had just returned.
Gunleik smiled at her. “You’re happy, Mirana, and it pleases me. Rorik is a good man. You’ve also more dirt on your face than this monster here.”
Mirana looked at Kerzog, who was blissfully rolling about on the ground.
She laughed, kissed Gunleik on the cheek, and ran to the bathing hut. She heard Rorik calling her name behind her and knew he would be with her very soon and that they would bathe together and very probably they would do other things as well. She turned and waved to him.
“Where is Mirana?”
Entti looked up, frowning at Rorik’s question. “Gunleik said she went to the fields to look at the barley and rye, but that was hours ago. I haven’t seen her in a while, Rorik, but she should return soon for there is the evening meal to prepare.”
Rorik merely nodded and went to the bathing hut. Two days in a row now they’d been very lucky at their hunt—killed a wild boar and six fat partridge. Three of his men were in the bathing hut, naked, shouting, throwing water on each other, insulting each other’s prowess. They hadn’t seen Mirana.
“Come bathe, Rorik!” Sculla yelled at him.