Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

“You are a warrior, above other men. You are strong and brave and cunning.”

“Aye, that is true, but the forces against me would be overwhelming, forces even stronger than I, forces even more powerful than I could withstand. Nay, I must have my sister back and very soon.”

“Your half-sister.”

Einar calmed himself. He wouldn’t die, for Gunleik would bring her back. As for the golden-haired quite beautiful little savage seated gracefully at his feet, he found he was still amused at the show of jealousy, at the little jabs of impertinence.

He sat back and closed his eyes. He’d done all he could. There was naught to consider now, and so he smiled, for the aftershocks of pleasure still pulled at him, making him calm and easy, despite the gnawing fear in his belly that grew with each passing hour.

“I do not like this meal either.”

“Do you not?” Einar said easily, opening his eyes. “Well, then, why don’t you prepare it?”

“I have many skills, my lord. Food is something to enjoy, not sweat over.”

Einar laughed and ruffled his fingers through the golden hair, as silky as a babe’s yet thick enough to wind about his hand many times. “Then pray that Gunleik finds Mirana. She is an excellent mistress to Clontarf. When she returns I daresay she won’t like you at all. Mayhap she’ll even punish you when I am not about to protect you. Aye, mayhap she’ll take the whip to you or set you to working in the fields, ruining those soft little hands of yours.”

“You’ll not let her touch me. You think I’m beautiful. You won’t let her hurt me.”

“You think not? Well, perhaps you’re right. We will see, won’t we?”

He felt slender fingers lightly stroking his inner leg. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes again, and said nothing. But he thought, Were Mirana here I couldn’t have allowed this. There was something about her that always stayed him, something in her eyes, the way she looked at him. But that would change now. When she returned, he would do as he pleased, for she would be gone again from Clontarf soon enough. He looked up now and caught several looks from his men, furtive looks that held surprise and a goodly measure of disgust. She’d never looked at him with disgust, no, it was something else, something deeper, more powerful. But she’d never said anything; he’d always reined himself in when she was about.

As for his men, they’d said nothing before, they’d kept their silence. Of course they wouldn’t dare say anything. He felt his power over them and was pleased. The soft hand continued upward on his thigh.

Hawkfell Island

Rorik was furious. He stared from Sculla to Askhold. Finally, when he had himself well under control, he said, teeth clenched, “Why did you not tell me what you intended? She is my prisoner, my burden, and yet you send her to the mainland to collect herbs with the women?”

“Rorik,” Askhold said patiently, wondering at him, for surely this was absurd, this worry of his. “Old Alna said she should do some work. Chaining her in your sleeping chamber gains us nothing. Let her be useful. She is a slave—less than a slave. An enemy, a prisoner. Aye, let her work.”

Rorik cursed. “Neither of you realize that she is skilled with a knife and doubtless other weapons as well?”

Sculla, bent over to protect his head from a thick fir branch, looked fit to burst with laughter, which he did, loud guffaws that made his lean belly shake. Rorik just looked at him, waiting for him to be silent. When his laughter died down, Rorik said, “Listen, both of you. You underestimate her. It is a mistake.”

“She’s a small girl,” Sculla said. “She could do nothing against Hafter. He’s a powerful warrior, nearly as skilled as I am.”

“Every female is small compared to you,” Askhold said, and slapped Sculla on his broad back.

Rorik said nothing. He wanted to believe what Sculla said was true, but Mirana was smart. And her hatred probably made her even more cunning. He didn’t trust her. “How many women went to the salt marsh?”

“Asta, Old Alna, and Entti. Hafter rowed them over, cursing the entire time that it was his lot to do it, but he knew that he had to watch the prisoner. He knew you would be displeased had he allowed another to take his place.”

Rorik shook his head, for a moment distracted. “I pray that Entti understands what it is she is to gather. I fear death at her hands, all a mistake, naturally.”

“Now you will cease to worry,” Askhold said. “The girl is an enemy. I dislike having my enemies lying about doing nothing, just as the women apparently do as well. You whipped her for insolence, and now she will work or she won’t eat. Old Alna was right to make her work for her food.”

But Rorik was gazing toward the mainland, bathed this afternoon in thick low-lying clouds. Mallards and oystercatchers suddenly burst from the gray clouds, as if flung from a slingshot. The clouds would soon become dense, impenetrable fog, he knew the signs. They’d been gone for three hours. He was worried, though he knew it wasn’t at all likely she could do anything. Still, he couldn’t help it. Something bothered him, something that wasn’t right, that had nagged at him for the past two days. He realized in that moment what it was. It was the women and how they had treated Mirana, how they behaved when they came near her. It was as if she were one with them and they looked up to her, which was ridiculous, for he’d kept her chained and alone. But Sculla had said that Old Alna agreed with him, that she considered the woman an enemy. He was creating difficulties where none existed.

It was late afternoon. Rorik knew his men were eyeing him with some amusement, but he didn’t care. Finally, he lowered his axe to the ground, wiped the sweat from his face with his discarded tunic, and said, “ ’Tis time to go to the mainland. She has done something. I feel it.”

None of the men argued with him, not even Askhold, who appeared to dislike her heartily, or Sculla, who simply believed that since she was small and female, she was thus of little consequence, since he could, naturally, crush her easily with one hand.

There were eight men, all of them rowing the second longboat. All of them were armed. There were always outlaws lurking about in East Anglia, just beyond the salt marshes. They always took care. There was only the sound of the water slapping against the sides of the warship and the raucous cries of the black-headed gulls overhead. They rowed into the estuary, strokes strong and steady. They were silent, concentrating on their task. From the thick clouds overhead, dunlin wheeled in tight flocks, disturbed by their presence.

There were more animals and birds here than on the island, the salt marshes on either side of the estuary pulsing with life and movement, and sudden shrieks of death as well. Rorik listened, trying to block out all the animal and bird sounds. He heard no sounds of people. They drew alongside the other warship, tied to a tree trunk alongside the trail they normally traveled to hunt. It was deserted.

The men were silent, but they still held no doubts that Hafter would crush the girl were she to try to escape or avoid the work, aye, and the women would help him, for she was a prisoner, an enemy.