Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

He was silent for a very long time. She felt panic well up. “Asta! How is she?”

“She did not survive the night. She is dead.”

“No!”

“We will bury her this afternoon.”

But Mirana was beyond understanding him now. She was shaking her head back and forth, crying, jagged, ugly sounds from deep in her throat. “No,” she said over and over, not wanting to believe it, not willing to accept it. Asta, dead, and just yesterday she had been laughing and teasing Old Alna about the blue gown, bragging about Gurd being hard in her bed, and Mirana had thought he didn’t deserve any kind words from Asta. Just last night she had stayed close to Mirana, showing Rorik’s family that she felt loyalty to Mirana, that she wouldn’t scorn her. Her laughter was so bright, her smile so natural.

Now she was dead. Just like that. Mirana couldn’t allow it to be true. It was too much. She turned awa

y from him onto her side, clutching her arms around her, becoming a ball, rocking back and forth. “No . . . no . . . she gave me her gown, Rorik. She said it was very nice on me with my black hair. She said my skin was whiter than her goat’s milk. She always treated me well, even when you first brought me here, and last night, she smiled at me and stayed near me to show your family I wasn’t a vile person like Einar. Not dead . . . not Asta. Please no, tell me it is a mistake.”

Rorik rose. He stood there staring down at her. He felt his own pain at their loss. Asta, so much a part of his life. Gurd was blank and silent. The women were preparing Asta for burial, quickly, quickly, for the dead mustn’t be allowed to remain overlong around the living, for their ghosts would return as powerful monsters and destroy them.

At least Mirana had survived. But why were only the two women struck down?

Old Alna and Tora had tried to discover which dish the two of them had eaten that others hadn’t. It made no sense.

It scared him to death.

Mirana stood beside Rorik as all the people clustered about the cliff overlooking the small inlet. They had buried Asta quickly, carrying her away from the longhouse feet first so her spirit couldn’t find its way back. They buried her in a deep moss-lined grave, quickly covering her body with the rich black earth, quickly retreating once it was done.

Away from her now, safe from the threat of her ghost, they showed their grief openly, the women crying softly, the men standing behind the women, stiff and straight, their eyes fastened on the distant horizon.

Aslak stood over Gurd the blacksmith, his hand on his shoulder. Gurd seemed beyond all of them, unwilling to believe his wife was dead. He’d said nothing. Now he fell to his knees, not crying, no, never crying, showing nothing but a blank face to all as he prayed to the gods to lead his Asta over the mortal’s bridge to Heaven.

Mirana felt Rorik’s hand firmly under her elbow. She was weaving on her feet, so weak that every moment was a challenge to keep standing upright. But she’d had to come. She owed it to Asta, to honor her, to grieve for her.

Before the last prayers to the gods for Asta’s safe journey, Rorik led her back to the longhouse.

21

RORIK SAID NOTHING as he carried her back into the sleeping chamber. He eased her gently back into the bed, pulling the wool blanket to her chin. He sat down beside her.

“You were going to escape me again,” he said without preamble. “Entti with you.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me. Merrik told me, and my mother did as well. Sira claimed you promised to leave, but she said no one could believe a slut and a liar like you.”

“No.”

He sighed, turning away from her, clasping his hands between his knees. She looked at his profile, its pure clean lines, the strong jaw, the curling golden hair that lay long on his neck. He was a magnificent man, young and powerful with strength, forceful, bursting with life and good health, but it wouldn’t always be so. He would age and his strength would lessen, but he would remain what he was, a man to admire and respect, perhaps a man to trust. Something deep and mysterious swelled deep within her, something she didn’t understand, but something she knew was there and knew she wanted to be there. It was Rorik, her husband. But she also knew there was no hope for them, not ever. And he was hurting. He was being gnawed apart from within and without. But he was still her husband, at least for today, perhaps even for tomorrow. But after that? She shook her head, silent and still.

“I would that you not lie to me.”

And because he was Rorik and her husband, she said clearly, “Very well. It matters little now that you know. Aye, I promised them I would leave. I don’t wish to die, Rorik. It is best. I won’t return to my brother—”

“Your half-brother.”

She smiled at his vehemence. “My half-brother. No, I will go somewhere else.”

He looked at her now, his expression austere, his blue eyes as cold as the winter sea. He said, his voice remote, “You will go nowhere. I don’t want you to go. You are my wife and you belong to me. You will remain my wife until I wish it otherwise. You will do as I tell you.”

“And if I tell you I no longer wish you to be my husband?”

“It would matter not. It isn’t true in any case. I wouldn’t accept any words from you to sever our ties so do not waste your meager strength saying them.”