Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

He slapped her, hard, his open palm smacking loud against her cheek. Her head jerked back. She would have fallen had he not held on to her arm. He pulled her upright, jerking her against him. He held her there, whispering against her temple, “Do not go against me again. Now, come, for I wish to see you and feel you. I have waited a long time for this. I will not be denied. No longer.”

She drew back and spat at him in the face.

She said softly, “Kill me now, Einar. I don’t care. Or mark me, then you will fail, for the king won’t have me then, will he? He is an old man but I do not believe he is blind. Ah, and then he would kill you, wouldn’t he, because you would have failed in your agreement with him. Aye, kill me, Einar, then follow me into death.”

He was shaking with rage and incredulity. He said, “You spat on me,” and he looked at her as if she were something he couldn’t comprehend, something alien and not of his experience. Slowly he wiped his face. He looked at her, her face pale in the night, so very pale, so very beautiful, and how he wanted her in those moments. He saw her fear of him, tasted that fear. It drove him mad. He reached for her, but she flung herself away from him. She ran across the inner courtyard and up the wooden ladder to the fortress ramparts.

“Mirana!”

She paid him no heed. He raced after her, his blood hot, his anger burning even hotter. He reached the wooden walkway, only to stop, for she was not ten feet from him and she looked suddenly calm, suddenly accepting, and he was terrified, for she’d been right. If she died so would he.

“You will swear upon the head of our dead mother that you will not touch me. If you do not swear, I will jump. I will be dead and you will lose everything. I have heard it said that the king has little patience for failure, beginning with your worthless life. He is much like you. Swear now to me, Einar, or I will be dead and you will lose.”

He took a step toward her.

The king was tired, so very tired, for the day had been long. He’d had little appetite for the evening meal. He wanted to be young again, a vigorous man in his prime. Hormuze had promised him this again and again. But he felt so weary, his body flaccid and weak. He was afraid he would die. He wanted to go now to fetch Mirana, daughter of Audun, but Hormuze had cautioned against it, always against it, as he did now.

“Nay, sire, we must wait. It isn’t yet time. I have consulted the stars and their paths and formations, and done my calculations. Soon now we will fetch her, but not sooner than is right, for then you would not have what you want. Nay, we must wait, then you will be as I promised. Ah, sire, the sons you will fashion in this woman’s body.”

The king listened to Hormuze speak of the sons he would sire, these sons who would rule until the world ceased to be and then beyond, perhaps, for his progeny would challenge the gods in their perfection. He listened to Hormuze until a slave was brought to him. Then he turned from his advisor to watch her.

She was young, not more than fifteen, and she was supple and talented in her dance. Soon she was naked and soon she was crouched before him, leaning up to stroke his bony knees, gently caressing his thighs, upward, to finally touch him, and this time, this once, he felt himself swell.

He yelled for Hormuze to leave him. His advisor smiled and left the chamber. The girl continued to caress him, to make him swell and swell until he fell forward on top of her and was able to enter her body. When his release came, he swooned with the pleasure of it.

When he awoke, Aylla was holding him against her, stroking his head, singing her soft incantations. He nestled against her soft breasts, nuzzling close. He was happy and proud that he was still a man.

“I pleasured her,” he whispered against her soft flesh.

“Aye, she spoke of your sweetness, sire, of how you made her scream with pleasure.”

“Aye,” he said, and kissed Aylla’s breast.

“Soon, sire, very soon now, you will have your wife in your bed and you will pleasure her and she will give you such fine sons and you will be changed. You will be vigorous and ready to fight again, to crush your enemies, all those petty chieftains who nibble at our people’s lands and steal their goods.”

Then he slept, her sweet insistent voice sounding the chant in his ear, and he believed the words she said, believed them to his very soul, and was glad.

Mirana leapt up to grasp the two sharp-pointed wooden poles that lined the ramparts. She would probably kill herself simply trying to get over them to jump. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t allow Einar to touch her. It was too much, simply too much, and she knew if he did, she would be irrevocably damaged in her spirit. No, she preferred death.

Suddenly, she heard Gunleik shout from below, “My lord Einar! You must come now, the boy Lella has attacked the new slave, Sira! Come, the men are hesitant to interfere. None want to meet Ingolf’s fate.”

Einar stared at her. She saw the frustration in his eyes, saw the truth of her threat as well. “I do not believe you would jump,” he said slowly, but she knew in that moment that he didn’t believe his words. She’d convinced him. He continued, “But you will be safe from me now, I swear it. I won’t touch you.” He turned on his heel and climbed back down the wooden ladder, not looking back at her.

Mirana stood there for a very long time, watching him stride back to the longhouse. She rather hoped that Sira would slit the boy’s vicious throat. But then what of Sira? That made Mirana laugh. She nearly fell to the ground when Gunleik said quietly, “It is true, the two are fighting. Now we have a few moments before Einar remembers you and asks for you. I am sorry, Mirana, for not believing you. What shall we do?”

“I won’t marry that old man, king or not.”

“Aye, I know. We will escape then. This Rorik is your husband?”

“Aye, he is.” She turned away from Gunleik. “I pray he will come, but I cannot be sure of it. I know that his family will want to come for Sira. It is all uncertain, Gunleik.”

“You are no virgin.”

“Oh no.”

“Then you cannot wed with the king. Your virginity, I am told, is why he wishes to have you, that and who you are, or so Einar has claimed.”

“But I am nobody, Gunleik! Why me?”