Lella had scrambled away and now stood on Einar’s other side, waiting for his master to turn to him, waiting for his master to strike the new slave. But he wanted to be the one to kill her, perhaps beat her until she was pleading with him to stop, but he wouldn’t, oh no, he surely wouldn’t. There wasn’t much blood on his cheeks, but the bitch had actually bitten him. He knew a bolt of fear that seared deep in his belly, for Einar was still holding himself silent, that intense look again on his face. Lella feared that look, for it went beyond what should be in Einar’s mind, it went deeper, into that puzzling blackness. He saw Mirana standing back, Gunleik at her side. She was paler than her white flesh; he saw the revulsion clear in her eyes. He hated her more in that moment than he feared and hated Sira. He plucked at Einar’s tunic.
“My lord,” he said, his voice soft, so very soft, just the timbre he used when he was bringing Einar to his release, encouraging him with all the words that old Dublin merchant had taught him. Einar didn’t say anything nor did he turn to Lella to reassure him, to kiss him perhaps, as he’d done many times in front of his people, warriors as well. He hadn’t kissed him since Mirana had returned, but he would, he had to, and he had to do it now. He had to prove that he loved his Lella still, Mirana watching, that bitch Sira watching.
“My lord,” he said again.
Einar turned to him and gently caressed his chin with his fingers. “Take off your clothes, Lella.”
He jerked back as if Einar had struck him.
“You heard me. Remove your clothes this instant or I will beat you witless.”
Lella quickly pulled off the tunic, the gown, the soft shift beneath. He stood naked, head down, his rich golden hair thankfully hiding his face. He was humiliated and defeated. He couldn’t bear all their eyes on him, all their sneers.
Sira stared at the boy. Then she looked at Einar, her head cocked to the side, and then she laughed, a deep rich laugh that rang out, filling the longhouse. She gasped on her laughter, then stopped when Einar took her arms and shook her.
“Ah, my lord, this bit of offal thinks you want him?” She laughed again, the blood smearing on her mouth, and Einar said nothing now, merely waited.
“He does believe that,” Einar said finally.
“He is wrong. I am the one who will hold you, my lord.” She smiled at Einar, then rose on her toes and kissed him full on his mouth, and he tasted the sweet coppery taste of Lella’s blood. He didn’t move.
Lella shrieked and threw himself on Sira’s back. His hands were around her throat and he was squeezing with all his strength. Einar calmly turned and nodded to one of his men, a huge man with grizzled red hair, Malle by name, a man who hated the little pederast. He grabbed Lella by his neck and lifted him off Sira. Malle held him in the air, dangling, his face turning red then washing to blue as his air was cut off, then he grinned, shook Lella once more, and said, “What do you want done with the little beggar, my lord?”
“Take him to the storage hut. Anyone who wants to use him may use him, my women included. Do not beat him. I will see to him later. Ah, give him a blanket, I do not wish him to become cold.”
Sira was rubbing her throat. She looked at Einar now, and said, her voice and manner remote as a queen’s, “I would have killed him.”
“Aye, I believe you.” He touched her face, the smooth cheek, the soft hair at her temple.
“What of me, my lord?” she asked now.
Einar was staring at her breasts, then at her belly. “I haven’t made up my mind,” he said, “but I will. There is much to consider here,” and he walked from the longhouse.
Mirana knew she had to escape, tonight. She didn’t care about the risk. She didn’t want to die, but she knew well enough that if Einar found her again she would yell out the truth to him and he would kill her, that or humiliate her first, and he would do it more brutally than he had Lella. Ah, but perhaps death was preferable to the madness that festered here.
Hormuze was furious—with himself. He’d believed that once the king had managed to spend his passion with the young girl he, Hormuze, had found in the slave market and had personally trained, that the king would be content to wait now until the exact day and the exact month Hormuze knew from all his studies was the first fall month, and the first day of the fall month. Not before, not after.
But now Sitric wanted to fetch Mirana immediately. He didn’t want to wait to be transformed again into a young man, vigorous and potent, a man who would once more be able to take a woman as many times a night as he had three decades before. He wanted it now, despite the risks, despite the dangers Hormuze had cautioned him about.
Hormuze wanted to stick his dagger in the old man’s ribs. He tried to reason with him, even threatened that his youth would probably slip away like a fragment of a dream were he not to wait until the time exactly foretold by all the signs, but such lyrical reason was beyond the old man’s mind. No, Sitric wanted it now, he would risk all the dangers, the failure that could result by not listening to Hormuze.
He drew a deep breath and ceased his pacing. Very well. It was not far from the first day of the first fall month. It lacked but another cycle of the moon. It couldn’t really matter, could it? But no matter how he rationalized it, Hormuze knew deep down that his studies and his conclusions drawn from stellar signs hadn’t lied to him.
He was taking a big risk to fetch Mirana sooner, that moon cycle was critical, and deep down, he knew it.
But he also knew he had no choice. He couldn’t afford to lose the king’s trust, or he would lose everything. If he refused, Sitric would simply go fetch Mirana himself. No, he had to accept the risks. He would overcome the obstacles fate would doubtless place in his path. He always had.
He had heard rumors that Einar had lost his half-sister, that some Viking marauder had stolen her away, but then the rumors ceased and so he discounted them. The king’s court was always rife with rumors. Still, it worried him. Einar wasn’t a man of any honor to speak of. He trusted him only because Einar knew what riches lay in store for him if he delivered up his sister to Sitric. And she had to be a virgin; she had to be pure. She had to be clean of mind and spirit to be worthy.
Thus it was that the king, fifty of his warriors, and Hormuze left at first light the following morning for Clontarf, the Danish fortress held by Einar, son of Thorsson.
* * *
“They’ve left, Rorik.”
Kron was out of breath. Rorik waited a moment, then said, “Aye, I know it. Did you learn why?”
Kron nodded, then calmed his breathing. “I spoke to Aylla, the woman who owes her loyalty to Hormuze, the woman who nightly holds the king and chants her incantations to him. She said the king wanted Mirana now. He refused to wait longer. He wants his youth and his vigor returned to him now. Hormuze is displeased, but he had no choice but to obey the king’s wishes.”
Rorik turned away from Kron and looked down at the glowing embers of their fire. They were close to Dublin, camped in a pine thicket whose branches overhung the shallow tidal river, Liffey. It rained all the time, or so it seemed to Rorik. The air was many times so thick and heavy that it was difficult to breathe; the land was too green, too lush for Rorik’s tastes. It choked a man. The pine trees were crowded close by thick-branched strawberry trees and yew bushes and strange bloodred flowers that grew wild in the hedgerows.
He looked toward their two flat-bottomed longboats that had easily navigated the shallow muddy river and were now hidden beneath layers of pine branches not many yards away.
Rorik turned back when the embers suddenly sparked, striking each other loudly, and exploding small volcanoes of fire upward. He drew a deep breath and rose. He kicked sand onto the embers. Then he turned to his men who were waiting silently.
“We get the daughter now.”
It was easy, too easy, and Rorik worried about that. Hormuze’s daughter, Eze, was alone with her servant, an old woman with failing eyes. Kron lightly tapped the old woman against her head, caught
her when she crumbled, and laid her gently onto a floor mat.
The girl just stared at the big men who filled her room, all of them staring at her.
Rorik knelt beside her. He took her hand and held it gently. “I won’t hurt you, Eze. My name is Rorik. I will take you to see your father. He wants to take something that belongs to me and I must have you to trade. I intend you no harm. I know your father loves you. He won’t endanger you. All I want is what is mine. Do you understand?”
Eze nodded. Her papa was above all men and he would see that she was all right. She looked at this man, younger than her father, stronger perhaps, larger. But he didn’t frighten her.
“I understand you,” she said.
“You are a brave girl,” Rorik said and rose to his feet. “We must be away.” He stared down at the girl as she watched Hafter fetch her cloak from the trunk at the foot of her bed. She looked thoughtful, studious, a serious child. Then suddenly she smiled and something froze within him. He stared at her hard, then came down on his knees in front of her again. He turned her face to his. “Bring the light closer, Raki.” When it shone directly on the child’s face, Rorik felt his heart slow and his breath shorten. “By all the gods,” he said slowly, wanting to disbelieve but unable to. “This is a mystery beyond any I had ever expected.”
He took the cloak from Hafter and wrapped it around her. They were away from Hormuze’s spartan chambers within minutes. They were in the longboat and rowing down the Liffey by late afternoon.
“My lord.”
Einar turned at the sound of Gunleik’s deep voice. “Aye, what is it you want? I must think. There are many problems to deal with.”
“I know, but one of them is going to arrive here at Clontarf shortly.” Gunleik drew a deep breath. “The king and Hormuze will be here within the hour. They bring many warriors with them.”
Einar cursed.
“Our runner just brought word. There isn’t much time.” Gunleik wanted to tell him then that Mirana was already wedded, that she was not a virgin, but he knew it was too late now. He’d failed Mirana.
“I will prepare my sister.”
“My lord, perhaps Mirana can be spared, perhaps—” He broke off at the look on Einar’s face.
“Don’t say it, old man. She will wed the king. Aye, Sitric will give her all a woman could want. She will have to suffer his meager fumbling, but not often for he is old and frail. She will take him or I will kill her. Do you understand me?”
Gunleik nodded.
“I would have to kill her if she refused, for I too would die for failure to deliver her to Sitric, and believe me, I will never die alone.”
Einar found Sira in Mirana’s bedchamber. She was looking through the gold-banded trunk at the end of the box bed. She didn’t look the least bit guilty or worried when he suddenly appeared.
She smiled at him. “I have need of ornaments, Einar, to enhance my beauty.”
“Take what you wish,” he said, and left her. “Have you seen my sister?”
“Your half-sister, my lord. Nay, I saw her earlier with the women, but then she was gone. I know not where.”
He grunted and left her without another word.
Sira stared after him. He was behaving differently. It made her uneasy.
She’d heard that one of the men, an old man with crooked ways and a brutal manner about him, had visited Lella in the storage shed. She wished she’d heard the little pederast scream. She looked into the trunk until she found arm bracelets that pleased her and earrings and a necklace. Aye, she would look much more beautiful than that bitch, Mirana. What would she say when Sira appeared in her jewelry? Would she whine to Einar because she had taken her jewelry? Would Mirana plead that he dismiss her? For a moment, Sira hoped she would. She’d felt her power growing over Einar, and she knew now there was a good chance she would win. She would have him. He was dark and his darkness fascinated her. Aye, she would have him and learn to control him as she would a dog.
Perhaps, when the king came, Sitric would want her, Sira, instead, if she hadn’t wedded Einar before he came. She was still humming, feeling quite confidant, when she heard that the king was nearing, that he had come to wed Mirana.
So soon, she thought, then rose. Very well then, she would take Einar. She fingered the beautifully pounded silver bracelet that encircled her right upper arm. Aye, Einar would suit her well enough. He would give her whatever she wanted.
She smiled when she thought of the king’s fury upon discovering that his new bride wasn’t a virgin. She hoped he would kill Mirana slowly, perhaps strangle the last living breath from her, or perhaps give her to his men and let them ravish her until she was dead. But what of Einar? Would he be in danger too? She smiled again, for she was beautiful, far more beautiful than that black-haired bitch, and more importantly, she was a virgin. Ah, life was suddenly rife with possibilities.
She decided to take the boy Lella some food. The pathetic scrap just might beg her for it. She wanted to see if she’d scarred the little beggar’s cheeks. She wanted to see what the brutal warrior had done to him.
She wondered, as she carefully stepped over cow dung in the outer yard of the fortress, where Rorik was. Surely he would come after her, his family would demand it. She wanted to see him. She wanted Einar to capture him. She wanted to wield a whip and flay the flesh from his back. She trembled a moment at the thought of his treachery, at his rejection of her, at the pain as he’d whipped her.
Mirana stood just inside the longhouse entrance, looking toward Ivar, who wouldn’t meet her eyes. She frowned, wondering what was happening or what had already happened. Then Einar was there beside her and he was smiling down at her and taking her hand to hold between both of his.
“King Sitric comes,” he said. “He will be here very soon. I will assist you to change into clothes to dazzle an old man’s eyes and bring his rod to renewed life. Trust me, Mirana, this is for the best.”
She opened her mouth, but he forestalled her. She heard the fear in his voice. “By all the gods, I pray you are a virgin, that it was all a reckless lie you told—this wedding you claimed between you and that Viking, Rorik Haraldsson. But you have never lied to me, have you?
“I should have tied you down and seen to your maidenhead last night, but I was distracted by Sira and Lella.” He paused a moment, looking toward a knot of his warriors who were preparing themselves for the king’s arrival. “Listen to me, Mirana, and listen well, for I give you excellent counsel. I accept now that you told me the truth, that you always have in matters of weightiness. I accept that you are wed, but you must forget the Viking. You will never see him again. Save yourself, pretend to great pain when the king enters you tonight. Suffer loudly and whimper of the agony he inflicts upon you so the king will not doubt your purity. Aye, then he will ply you with favors and jewels in his gratitude. You will see. You must trust me in this.”
He stopped then, and ran his hands down her arms. “Come, I will help you to gown yourself appropriately. Sira was in your chamber, taking your jewelry. I will have her show herself to you, and if there is anything that would become you, I will have her give it to you.”
Mirana nodded. She realized that as long as she was alive, there was hope. She didn’t want to die. She’d been a fool to ever consider it. She had no intention of dying willingly even though it might mean her loss of honor. Death was too final to accept because of beliefs that men had fashioned and preached and held so dear, particularly when it came to women. She would survive until . . . She would survive.
“Come,” Einar said. “We have little time.”
“I’m coming,” Mirana said. She didn’t look back.
29
HE WAS FRAIL, the flesh hanging from his arms and his jowls, but his eyes flamed with excitement, rheumy eyes, heavily lidded, filled with too many years of living, of too much power and abuse of power, now nearly black in the dim light of the longhouse.
He was smiling down at her. Now he was reaching ou
t his hand to take hers. The backs of his hands were spotted with age and the flesh was slack. There were small knots of hairs over his knuckles.
“Mirana, daughter of Audun,” he said, squeezing her hand, feeling the coldness but believing it from her young girl’s excitement over the honor he was conferring on her. “I will wed you and you will be my queen and the mother of my sons. All hear what I say. From this day forward, she is Queen Mirana and all owe her obeisance.” Ah, but it was an old man’s voice even though it rang out to every corner of the longhouse, staying strong and certain, not dissipating in the thick smoke that had gathered.
She looked away from him into the black eyes of his advisor, the old man, Hormuze, another whose eyes betrayed that he was something else, something more and mysterious. She feared him. But he was smiling at her, and unlike the king, his teeth were white and straight and healthy. As if sensing questions in her, he quickly lowered his head, resting his hands on his paunch.
“Say that you will have me, Mirana.”
The king’s voice was low, but the command was there, the same timbre as was in Einar’s voice. No one would disobey him, no one. Including her. Especially her.