He was silent a moment, his brow furrowed. “It matters not. You did it. You made her eat most of the food from your plate. I didn’t realize what you were doing until it was too late. I had to watch her laugh and jest and knew that soon she would be dying because of what you did. You knew about the poison. You cajoled her. Perhaps it was jealousy of her that made you kill her, I know not. You are a woman and women are creatures beyond a man’s understanding. You killed my wife and now I will avenge her.”
“You fool! Do you think me stupid? Do you think I would chance killing myself as well as Asta? It makes no sense! I did not know the food was poisoned!”
His huge upper body tightened in his rage, but he forced himself to calm with a shrug, for he was the victor and knew it. “It matters not how you knew. I just know that you did. And my Asta is dead and Entti is wedded to Hafter. There is nothing here for me now.”
What else was there to say? She lowered her head, the weight of hopelessness heavy on her, defeating her, numbing her mind. She felt beyond herself in those
moments, and beyond Gurd, beyond the pain that would take her from life, and she knew it was because she was preparing herself to die, preparing herself to leave this earth, to leave Hawkfell Island, to leave Rorik.
She didn’t want to leave Rorik.
She drew a deep steadying breath. She felt herself planted firmly within her own mind and body again. She would not die without a struggle. Gurd was the strongest man on Hawkfell Island, his years upon years as blacksmith making his chest and arms so powerful that few of the men ever wanted to wrestle with him, even in games. Rorik would laugh and say he had no wish for Gurd to break his back.
What could she do?
She could run. She looked about, careful to keep her head lowered so he couldn’t see her eyes, guess at her intent. He was standing over her, breathing hard.
He’d brought her to the thick woods at the eastern end of the island, she recognized it now, for dunlin were flying low overhead, screeching and angry, for they nested here and were worried about their young. If she could run and hide in the deeper part of the woods, then she could sneak back toward the farmstead.
“Let us go,” Gurd said. He grabbed her left arm and jerked her to her feet. He quickly untied the rope at her wrist. “You look like a witch.”
Her damp hair was filled with twigs and leaves and dirt, her damp shift filthy from the ground. He held her there, his long thick fingers closing completely around her upper arm. He shook her, bringing her close to him.
“Aye, you’re beautiful, Mirana, daughter of Audun, and you should have remained at Clontarf. You had your chance to wed with that damned foreigner who is now the king, but you didn’t. You wanted to return here and make my life a misery, to brag about how you killed my Asta, to taunt me with your knowledge and how you’d succeeded in escaping punishment for what you did. And you’ve turned Entti against me.”
“You won’t escape, Gurd. You will die too.”
He pulled her to him, kissed her hard, then his huge hand was rubbing over her breasts and down to her belly, then he dropped his hand and turned about. He was walking toward the cliff, dragging her now, for she knew his intent, and she had no intention of going quietly to her death. She screamed and yelled and grabbed at bushes and low-lying tree branches, but he just jerked at her and kept pulling her, her left arm shooting with pain now, and she wondered if he would wrench it from the socket. She dug in her heels, but that was useless.
They cleared the trees. The cliff edge was but twenty yards away. It was steepest here, the drop sheer, the bottom thick with tumbled black rocks, ancient and scarred with time, with surf striking against them hard, sending spumes of spray thirty feet into the air. She would die, for there was no ledge or outcropping of bushes to break her fall to those rocks.
She felt the black hopelessness curl through her, recognized it, and refused to accept it. She wasn’t dead yet. She began cursing again, yelling again at the top of her lungs. “Rorik! Rorik! Help me, help me!”
Again and again she yelled. Gurd only laughed, shouting over his shoulder that she should scream herself voiceless for there were none to hear her, that the men still hadn’t returned from the mainland, and when they did return she still wouldn’t be missed for more hours. It would be a long time before they began to search for her. Perhaps, he said, screaming at her now, just perhaps the tide would wash her out into the sea and none would ever find her. Ah, and he would search for her as well, his face as downcast and worried as all the rest of them. Aye, he liked the thought of that, for she had pretended grief at Asta’s death. He would pretend grief at hers.
Closer and closer he dragged her to the cliff edge. She yelled at him, “I will be found! I am wearing only my shift. Rorik will never believe I was out here in the woods wearing only my shift and fell to my death. He will not believe the sea could have pulled my clothes off me. He will find you out, Gurd.”
He stopped in his tracks, whirled about and jerked her hard against him. “Aye, you’re right,” he said, and he grabbed her shift by the neck and ripped it off at her shoulder, a long single rent. “Now if your body is found, all will think the tides did rip your clothes off you, for they will see that even your shift is ripped. Mayhap even the fish will enjoy you.”
Then he draped the ripped shift around her, fastening it securely over her left shoulder.
“Aye, that will suffice,” he said.
Ten more yards, naught more, just ten more yards. He was jerking her and she was trying not to cry, trying to keep her wits about her, but it was difficult, so very difficult. Suddenly, she saw a loose rock just ahead of her. Without hesitation, she leaned down, grabbed up the rock and began again to yell Rorik’s name.
So very close to the cliff edge now. She held the rock firmly, readying it and herself, and let him drag her just to his side. “Gurd,” she said softly, and waited for him to turn.
Just as he did, she raised the rock and brought it down hard on his temple. It cracked loud against his head. He stared at her, just stood there, not releasing her left wrist, just staring at her, saying nothing.
“Let me go!” she yelled into his face. “I hit you! Die, damn you!”
He smiled at her then and dragged her another step toward the cliff. She cried out and brought the rock down on his head again. The rock cracked apart and this time blood spurted from his head. He slowed, he stood there quietly, gently weaving back and forth.
Finally, he dropped her wrist. But he didn’t fall. He just stood there. Blood flowed over his forehead, into his eyes, dripped to his chest and to the ground, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Mirana threw the two pieces of rock against his chest with all her strength, then turned and ran, her ripped shift flapping around her.
It was at that moment that Rorik, Hafter and Sculla behind him, burst through the line of woods. He saw his wife and he saw Gurd, standing there near the edge of the cliffs. He didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter.