Lord of Hawkfell Island (2 page)

T
HE BLACK
-
HAIRED WITCH
was leaning over him, her white face very close to his. She was speaking to him, her words quiet, the sound of them soft, but he didn't understand. He wondered vaguely what she wanted of him, but then he didn't care. He sought death. He'd failed, not only himself but his father and mother. He eased out his breath and welcomed it. He was drawn quickly inward once again, and he saw her no more.

Mirana backed away from the bed. The man was deeply unconscious, which was just as well. She watched Gunleik lean over him, brace one hand on the post of the box bed, clutch his fingers around the ivory handle and pull the knife from his flesh. He did it quickly and cleanly. Blood gushed out in its wake, red and thick, too much blood, flowing under his arm, snaking down through the thick blond hair covering his chest. Quickly she pressed clean woolen cloths against the wound. Gunleik wiped his knife on his tunic, then slid it back in its sheath. He grunted, and moved her aside.

“I have more strength,” he said, and sat down beside the man, bearing down on the wound.

“You truly don't know who he is,” she said as she bathed the filth from his face.

“Nay. But I know that if he'd gotten his hands on Einar, he would have told him, aye, he would have told him who he was and watched his eyes as he killed him.”

“Why do you wish him to live? Einar shows no mercy for a man who steals a chicken. What would he do to this man?”

“Kill him slowly and with great pleasure.”

She was silent, drying his face now, pale and drawn in the dim rush light.

“Let him die,” she said finally.

“Nay, I cannot. My loyalty is to your brother. I must grant him the choice of this man's future. Besides, we must find out who he is, we must know what he wants, why he hates Einar so much. There might be others, the man's kin. There are strong feelings here, hatred that runs very deep. Nay, we must know who he is.”

“Ask his two men once they are conscious again.”

“Aye, I will, but I doubt they'll tell us. No, I must speak to this man, and only he, for he is their leader and he is the one who seeks revenge.” The man wouldn't speak, Gunleik knew, not until he saw Einar, and even then perhaps he wouldn't, for he had failed in his vengeance. He would probably die unknown to them and to Einar.

“Why is there such hatred for my brother?”

Gunleik pressed more firmly on the wound, frowning at the seeping blood from beneath the thick wad of wool. “You will seek your answers from Einar. I trust he will recognize the man. There is hatred here that chills the soul.”

“He is a very young man,” Mirana said. “With his silver helmet and its nose guard, he looked fearsome, like a demon, unknown and thus frightening. But he isn't. He's just a man and he—”

“Aye, he is just a man, Mirana, and he is well formed and strong, a warrior. I hope that Einar will allow him to die like a man.”

Mirana did as well, but she doubted Einar would ever consent to forgo his pleasures, for the pain of others brought him a good deal of pleasure. This man was fine-looking as well, Mirana thought, turning away from him. When she had watched him fighting in the outer yard, his sword had gleamed as brightly as the silver arm bands that still encircled each of his upper arms. Aye, he'd looked like a demon in that helmet, but not an old devil though, for he was large, his body lean and beautiful with its golden hair, his legs thick with youth and muscle. He wore only a tunic that was belted at his waist and thick leather shoes cross-strapped to his knees.

“I will send two of the women to strip off his wet tunic and bathe the blood and mud from him.”

“I will keep the pressure on the wound. The blood is slowing already.”

She sent Einar's two mistresses. She'd not been honest with herself. Actually, the man was magnificent, his face all hard lines and shadowed planes, a beautiful face with arched golden brows, a deep cleft in his chin. Let them sigh over him and caress his body, the lustful fools. She wouldn't care. She refused to let herself care, for down that path lay only sorrow and pain, for her as well as for him.

The hour grew late. Mirana saw that their four wounded men were tended. None would die, thanks be to Thor. The warrior's two men were bound and locked inside a storage shed, their wounds tended as well, slight wounds really, but their heads ached terribly. She told Ivar, who was guarding the two men, to keep a sharp eye on them; perhaps, she told him, just perhaps,
one of the men would tell Ivar who their leader was.

Gunleik assigned men to keep a watch on the rest of the enemy, who were now standing miserably cold and silent on the beach, huddled under their bearskins in the pounding rain. Perhaps they didn't yet know their leader had failed.

It neared midnight. She rose and stretched. Men were snoring on the benches that lined the longhouse, each wrapped in his woolen blanket or bearskin. Gunleik was standing, staring into the orange sparking embers in the fire pit in the center of the longhouse. His age-seamed face was set and hard, his pale gray eyes as calm as the core of a storm. His legs were bare but they didn't look like the warrior's legs. His legs were bowed and scarred from many battles.

She said quietly to him, “When do you think my brother will return?”

“Your half-brother, Mirana. In two days, he told me.”

She smiled at that, for there was firmness in Gunleik's voice. Then she said, “I was just thinking of the warrior's trickery. Conquest wasn't his plan. He brought only two warships and no more than thirty men. He had no plan to go anywhere but here because Einar was here and he wanted him.”

“Aye, I admire his mind and his guile. He knew of the small rear door all along, and he waited until the storm began and darkness had come to invade the fortress. All his taunting, his curses, and his insults, all was bluster and a sham. He came with only two men. They would come into the fortress and search out Einar and kill him at their leisure. His other men would continue their taunting on the beach, holding all my men's attention. I admire him, Mirana. He is bold and he was taking a grave risk. But his plan failed and now he will die.”

“There are his men on the beach. Do you believe they now realize that he has failed and will sail away without him? Surely they won't try to storm the fortress, they would have no chance.”

“Were I one of his men I would wait for him until the Christian's devil came to take me.”

“I would wait too,” she said, and smiled sadly into the embers of the fire pit. “You know, of course, that this means there is a spy here at Clontarf, a man who is loyal to this warrior.”

“Aye, I know. I will find him. I must find him soon or lord Einar will not be pleased.”

And Einar might punish Gunleik, she thought. Mirana spooned some porridge into a wooden bowl and handed it to Gunleik. “You have not eaten. It is tasty. Here is some honey. Eat. We will find the spy, fret not.”

She watched him fondly, this man who was as close to her as her father had been, dead now since her twelfth year, and she'd been sent here to Clontarf to be in her brother's guardianship. Her half-brother's guardianship. And Gunleik had been here and she'd turned to this man who treated her gently yet matter-of-factly, and had taught her how to use weapons because he knew nothing else to teach her. And Einar had approved because she realized it had pleased him to know that she could sew and cook and keep his household and fight like a man. Aye, Einar was like that.

Old Halak stopped beside her and patted her arm. He wished her a good night. She nodded to him, thanking him, for nothing really, but just because he was a good man and had served her well. He had also fashioned a protective shielding around the hole in the roof so no rain poured into the longhouse. It was warm within, a bluish smoke haze hanging in the air, but not so thick
that it was uncomfortable to breathe.

She watched Gunleik eat his porridge, slowly at first, then with more appetite when he realized how hungry he was. Just a few short hours ago the warrior had come with his two warships. It seemed much longer than that now. She'd known immediately he was their leader. He'd stood there on the beach, some fifty feet below the Clontarf fortress, his legs spread, his head thrown back, and taunted them from the beach, called them cowards, derided Einar for hiding behind the witch's skirts. But it had been her responsibility to speak and she had. When she'd shouted down that Einar wasn't here, he'd laughed, a deep scornful laugh that had rung out loud in the still air. Einar's men, clustered below in the yard, were furious; she could feel their tension. To have all of them taunted was one thing, but Einar's sister was another. She'd shouted again. “I am Mirana, sister of Einar. He is in Dublin at the king's fortress there.” She would never forget his stance, the arrogance of him, when he'd yelled up to her, as she'd stood on the fortress ramparts, “Lady, get you below to your spinning! Prepare your evening meal and keep your tongue behind your teeth where a woman's tongue belongs.” She'd known then that he wouldn't believe her, believe anything she said. And his trickery, she had admired that as much as Gunleik did. “Will he live?” she asked him now.

“He is young and strong. If he doesn't succumb to the fever, aye, I believe so. But you would know that better than I.”

She left him then and walked to Einar's sleeping chamber where the man lay. The man fascinated her. She couldn't seem to stay long away from him.

There was only one rush torch lit, giving off sluggish light. The room was dim and warm. There were several
thick woolen blankets covering the man. His shoulder was bound tightly with clean white wool. No blood was seeping through the bandage. He was either asleep or unconscious, she didn't know which.

She eased down to sit beside him on the box bed. She laid her palm on his forehead. He was hot as the coals in the fire pit. She fetched a cloth, dampened it in a bowl of cold water, and began to stroke it over his face and shoulders. Over and over again. He muttered something but she couldn't understand him. She wondered if he were going to awaken and, when he did, what he would think, what he would do.

Rorik thought he was dead, gone to Valhalla. Aye, surely he'd gone to Odin All-Father because he'd died as a warrior should, fighting with all his might, filled with rage and valor, and there was the soft voice of a Valkyrie above him, her cool fingers on his forehead, and she was speaking words he couldn't grasp, but it didn't matter. She was there and thus he was dead, there were no more choices for him now, no more decisions to be made, no more vengeance to take. But he couldn't see and surely that was odd. Did a man become blind when he died? Nay, that couldn't be right. A man in Valhalla felt and saw and ate and sang and took his pleasure with any woman he pleased. He didn't feel like singing. He felt a lurching of pain in his shoulder and it shook him deeply. He didn't expect pain, surely there shouldn't be pain after he'd died. The pain ebbed and flowed, and he tried to force his mind to accept it, but it was difficult. Perhaps he was close to death, and thus hadn't yet gained all that would be his. He felt cool dampness on his face, another odd thing that shouldn't be. The cool dampness was on his shoulders, his arms, his belly, but no lower.

The Valkyrie's voice grew dimmer until it faded into the blackness that drew on him. Then he felt nothing.

Mirana rose and stretched. The fever had lessened. He was nearly cool to the touch. Gunleik was right. He would live. He was young and strong. She stared down at him, wondering if she shouldn't simply feed him some poison and let him die easily. She thought of Einar and knew that he would torture this man, break him until he was naught but a shell, and enjoy himself with every moan from the man's mouth.

Men and their vengeance. He would die horribly because he'd tried to gain vengeance on Einar. Aye, she should poison him, but she knew she couldn't, it was that simple. For so long as he lived there was hope for him. A slender thread of hope, but hope nonetheless. She knew deep down that was a lie but she wouldn't release it.

She frowned down at him, then picked up the damp cloth again. She continued to wipe his face and shoulders, over and over until she was satisfied that the fever was truly gone. She pulled the woolen blanket to his chest, looked at him for a very long time, then left him.

She needed to see Gunleik. He was speaking quietly to one of his men, Kolbein the Ox, who was given the name not because of his size, but because of his droopy eyelids that made him look very foreign and stupid, which he wasn't. She paused, listening.

Gunleik scratched his head, saying, “There's a traitor amongst us, you know it and I know it. That man, whoever he is, raised the cross bar on the rear door for him to enter. He didn't know I had planned a surprise attack on his leader down on the beach, thus he isn't part of my inner circle of men. He didn't know I and my two men left by that same rear door, and thus he
couldn't have foreseen that I and my men would have been behind his leader. The spy must have been rotting with fear when the man's scheme failed.”

“I know not who this man is,” Kolbein said low. “I do not like it, Gunleik. I do not like traitors. Not all that many men knew of your plan.”