“It wafted yours away too.”
He turned back to look at her thoughtfully. “I thought at first that my men would try to ravish you, despite my warning to them. After all, you were somewhat comely with all that black hair and that white skin, unique perhaps, and a man enjoys trying something that is unusual. And those green eyes of yours, strange eyes, the color hints at mysteries and secrets. Aye, that’s what I thought they’d see when they looked at you: a new sweet, a new animal to pet. I venture they wondered at the hair between your thighs, if it was as black as the hair on your head. But they kept their thoughts to themselves. There’s been no danger of them wanting you for the past two days, has there? Why, they would have tossed you overboard had I allowed them to so do. You’ve given nothing. You did nothing save take up precious space. You smell like a gutted fish. You ate our food, drank our precious water, and reviled me until I wanted to strangle you.”
“I only told you that Einar would find you and butcher you like the miserable bastard you are.”
“You said it more times than I wanted to hear it.”
That was true, she thought, but only during the first day, those first interminable hours when her anger had overcome her fear of him, her hatred had been stronger than her good sense, when exhaustion hadn’t yet dulled her mind or her will. No, her strength hadn’t yet been sapped, she hadn’t yet slept like a dog at his feet for endless stretches of time, huddled and bound. Many times he’d even rested his foot on her neck, then on her back, for his own pleasure or to punish her, she didn’t know. The two were probably one and the same. So many hours had passed that her brain refused to count them, to even recognize them as day shifted into night and back again. She was so tired, so stiff, she just wanted to sit down and never move again. But he just kept dragging her along, and she knew if she did fall, he would simply drag her along the ground.
“I also told you I would kill you,” she said, drawing on a shred of strength she didn’t know was still within her. Ah, that had been during those endless hours during the second day. For punishment, he’d kept water from her until her tongue was swelled in her mouth. He’d moved his foot from her back to her neck.
“Aye, my men thought that amusing.”
“So you didn’t tell them how I held my knife to your throat, and when you displeased me, I eased it through your tender skin?”
No, she saw, he hadn’t told them that. A man’s pride could only suffer so much. His hand went to his throat, to the healing ridge of flesh where her knife point had gone deep enough to draw his blood.
He realized what he was doing and dropped his hand. There was fury in his eyes, but he said quite calmly, “Can you walk without me supporting you now?”
“Of course.”
He released her and she promptly collapsed.
He stood over her, watching her rub her legs through the filthy wool of her gown. He grunted, leaned down, and hefted her like a haunch of beef over his shoulder.
She jerked upward, and he said, “Lie still else I’ll drag you by all that hair of yours.”
She tried to lie still, she truly did. He walked up a narrow snaking path that was paved with quarried stones. Her stomach clenched and heaved at the constant jostling. She closed her eyes against the pain, only to hear bird cries, more cries and calls and shrieks than she’d ever heard at Clontarf. She opened her eyes. From upside down, she saw several birds scurrying about just off the trail—ah, so many. An oystercatcher, a half-dozen dunlin, and a pair of curlews. She liked birds, she always had, since she was a child. Birds, she thought, gritting her teeth against a wave of intense nausea. Only someone losing their mind would think of birds at a time like this. She saw a ringed plover nestled down in the thick loam beside the trail, admired it, and knew she must be nearly dead.
He continued to climb. She counted ten more steps up the deep-set quarried stones. By the eleventh, she was trying to rear up on his shoulder to relieve the pressure on her belly. He slapped her buttocks.
There was no hope for it. She yelled, “Let me down! I’m going to vomit!”
With no hesitation he dropped her on the sloping side of the path into a low scrub bush that scraped across her exposed arms. Mirana rolled over, feeling the pain from the harsh scrub needles, to come up onto her bruised and torn hands and knees. She retched and retched. There was no food in her belly to come up, thank the gods for that. She felt sicker than she’d ever felt in her life. She hugged her stomach and continued to retch, dry heaving that felt like her belly was being ripped apart. Her throat was dry, and hurt so badly she didn’t want to breathe. At least he couldn’t see her face for her hair hung like a filthy black curtain to the ground.
She felt him behind her then, saw the slant of his shadow over her left shoulder through the matted strands of hair.
“There’s nothing in your belly,” he said, and she wished she had her knife. She would have stuck it deep into his groin.
“What’s wrong with her, Rorik?”
It was Hafter who had come up to stand nearby. Some six other warriors were behind him, all standing there, all staring down at her. She could hear women talking too, even a child saying loudly, “Who is she, Papa? Is she a new slave? What is wrong with her? Will she die?”
They were all looking at her and she wished both for their deaths and for her own.
Rorik said to Hafter, “I was carrying her over my shoulder. She’s weak, being a woman, and couldn’t walk by herself. Now this—puking her guts all over my island. Perhaps it’s all an act to gain sympathy. I should have let the men throw her overboard.” He sounded like a man put upon, a man upon whom the gods had visited the worst of punishments.
She looked up at him and said clearly, “I hope your man’s parts rot off. I hope this wretched island sinks into the sea and you with it.”
There was dead silence, then he threw back his head and laughed, a deep, rich laugh filled with malice and fury, a laugh that should have warned her.
“I hate you,” she said, unwarned, then leaned over and retched again. “You’re naught but a brutal animal. You chain me like a wretched dog for three days, use me to rest your filthy feet upon, then expect me to dance about when I’m finally allowed to walk.”
He grasped her beneath her arms and half dragged, half carried her back to the wooden dock. He swung her off the ground and flung her far out into the water. The shock of the cold water drove her breath from her body and sent her under. Her mouth was open on a scream and water rushed down her throat. The water was cold, too cold for the warmth of the day, the mildness of the spring air. She flapped her arms with her little remaining strength, but it did no good. Her efforts did nothing. Her wool skirts dragged her down. It was then she decided she preferred to sink like a stone to the bottom. He would kill her anyway. This way was quicker, easier. She ceased struggling and fell cleanly downward.
The men were laughing. That was the last sound she heard as she went under the water—that gleeful laughter of theirs. Rorik was massaging his shoulder, looking at the rippling water where she’d gone under. Time passed, too much time. She didn’t come up.
He cursed and jumped forward to the edge of the dock. Then her head cleared the water, bobbing up as if pushed from below. She was choking, thrashing the water with her arms, and he realized then that she couldn’t swim, that or she was too far gone to keep herself afloat.
“You damnable witch!” he yelled at her. “I might have known you’d do this to me!” and jumped into the water beside her. He grabbed her, but she flailed at him, striking his face, his bandaged shoulder, choking and coughing up the water. Pain from her blow to the shoulder nearly sent the breath from him. He struck her jaw and she sagged unconscious against him.
He cursed again and towed her back to the pier. “Hafter, take her!”
Rorik cursed all the way to the farmstead, through the thick wooden gates, into the longhouse built by his grandfather. He cursed even as Kerzog, a huge mongrel of a hound, barked madly int
o his face then leapt up against his chest. He cursed even as he calmed Kerzog, cursed even as he took her from Hafter and carried her into his sleeping chamber. He started to lay her on his bed, then shook his head. He leaned her against him, and stripped off her sodden gown. He ripped the shift off her, laid her on her back on the box bed and untied the leather straps and pulled off her shoes. He drew a blanket over her and left the chamber. Immediately, he cursed again, turned back, and strode to the bed. He pulled the blanket down, jerked her over onto her belly, and splayed his hands across her narrow back. By the gods, her skin was nearly blue with cold. He straddled her and pumped the rest of the water from her body.
She sputtered and coughed and vomited up sea water, too much water. He was surprised she had survived. At least he had the presence of mind to pull her to the side of the bed so that the sea water didn’t end up soaking the feather mattress. Kerzog sat there, staring at the vomiting, heaving woman, just staring, not barking, just looking thoughtful at this stranger.
“She’s a witch,” he said to his dog, and Kerzog looked at him for a very long time, his tongue lolling from his mouth. “I should have let her drown. Keep your distance from her,” Rorik continued, “she just might bite you.”
He slapped her hard between her shoulders one last time, then turned her onto her back once again. She stared up at him, her lips blue, her face whiter than her very white belly that he didn’t want to look at, that he refused to look at.
“Why didn’t you just let me drown?”
“You sound like a wet rag that’s been trod upon by a dozen men.”
“Why?”
“I should have,” he said, then pulled the blanket up to her throat. He looked at the thick black hair, sopping and matted and filthy, and quickly fetched a drying cloth of soft white cotton. He spread it beneath her head then fanned her hair out like a halo around her head to dry.
“Are you through puking?”
She nodded, so tired, so beaten, she had no more words. She wished he’d let her drown. She wished she’d let herself drown, but even though she’d wanted an easy death, something in her had rebelled and she’d fought her way to the surface, only to realize that she had no more strength. He’d saved her life, damn him. If he’d just walked away, it would be over. She thought of the past three days, the endless humiliation of it, ignored after a while even by his men, kept bound unless she had to relieve herself or eat. Aye, she wished he’d let her drown. And now there was this massive ugly dog sitting there, staring at her. She wondered if the dog were as vicious and unpredictable as his master.
“Stay here and keep quiet. I’ll bring you some food.”
He left her. Mirana immediately sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The dog didn’t move. She eyed him, then moved some more. The dog still didn’t move or growl, just sat there, looking at her. She whistled, then sang a verse from a child’s song her mother used to sing to her, but he still just sat there on his raw-boned haunches, looking. The chamber was dim. She was cold, shivering, despite the warmth of the room, despite the warmth of the sun that shone so brightly upon the thatched roof above.
She wrapped the blanket around her and rose. She stumbled and sat down again. She drew a deep breath and stood again. Her legs were stronger now, but she was so weak, so very weak. Kerzog didn’t move.
What should she do?
5
SHE WAS STANDING when he came into the room again, a wooden bowl of stew in his hand. He stared at her as she was bent forward like an old woman, wrapped in a blanket, her hair streaming down her back and over her shoulders, staring at him, her eyes dull, her face too pale. He saw a brief spark of anger, of defiance perhaps, in her eyes, but it was quickly gone. As for Kerzog, he was being watchful, but nothing more. It appeared he’d made no move to stop the woman from rising from the box bed.
He said to her, “I told you that my men really have no interest in you. You’re skinny, not at all appetizing. A man would have to be starving for a woman before he would turn his eyes to you. Although the dousing in the sea relieved you of the worst of your smell, you still look like a wet scrap. You will not go into the main chamber. Get back into bed. I won’t tell you again. Kerzog, watch her. Keep her here.”
She didn’t move. His dog, raised by him from a tiny pup, merely kept looking at the woman.
He frowned at his dog, then at her and took a step toward her. She still didn’t move.
“Where were you going?”
“I must relieve myself,” she said, and hated him for forcing her to say it aloud, though it shouldn’t have mattered, not after the three days on his warship.
He cursed, plowing his fingers through his hair. “Come along.” He set the bowl of stew on the end of the bed, told his dog to keep away from it, then turned and left the chamber. She trailed behind him, wrapped in the now-damp blanket, half of it dragging behind her on the beaten earth floor. Kerzog slowly followed.
She followed him from the longhouse, aware of the boisterous conversation that quieted when she appeared. He took her to a small shed and said, “This is the privy. Hurry. I will wait for you here.”
When she emerged from the small shed a few minutes later he simply looked at her, just like his damned dog was still looking, then motioned for her to follow him again. This time he led her into a large stone and wood building. Inside there was an outer chamber with benches along the sides of the wall. It was the bathing hut, and she felt a spurt of hope. Surely he wouldn’t bring her here just to watch him bathe. She followed him into the inner chamber, small and square, filled with heat and steam drawn from the pile of burning embers filling the fire pit in the center of the chamber. Wooden planks covered the floor and more wooden benches lined the walls. He stood her in the middle of the room, pulled the blanket off her, and said, “Stand still. If you move, I’ll toss you in the sea again. I’ll have my dog kill you. He’s vicious. He protects me and my island that you have so freely scorned.”
She stood there, shivering despite the billowing heat and the thick steam, trying to cover herself, and knowing that she failed and knowing too that he was looking at her, but that he didn’t care, that she repulsed him. She should be grateful for that, she thought, watching him coming into the chamber again, a bucket in each hand. She knew what was coming and nearly yelled with the anticipation of it. He threw a bucket of hot water on her. He handed her a piece of soap carved into the shape of a small bird. A tern, if she wasn’t mistaken. She was going mad, she knew it. A tern!
“Bathe, all over, and hurry.”
She did. She didn’t even notice that he’d left her alone. She’d never before in her life realized the luxury of a bath with soap. It was wonderful. He’d left another bucket on the wooden plank beside her. She rinsed her hair and soaped it again. Once clean, she had nothing to do but wait. She couldn’t fetch her own water, not naked.
When he appeared, he looked at her, his expression grim. “Hold still.” He poured the water slowly over her head as she rinsed herself. Then he backed up several feet. She looked at him even as he raised the bucket and threw ice-cold water on her.
She shuddered and heaved and yelled even though she’d known what was coming.
He laughed. She reacted just as he always did. Evidently Einar had a bathing hut on Clontarf like this one.
Once she was dry, he handed her the damp blanket again, and motioned her to follow him.
Conversation became muted once again. Mirana looked neither to the right nor to the left. She followed him into his sleeping chamber and sat down on the edge of the bed. He tossed an antler comb onto her lap. Kerzog hadn’t come into the sleeping chamber this time.
“Eat first else you might collapse again. I don’t wish to have to untangle that witches’ nest on your head.”
Obediently she took the bowl of stew from him, the stew now long cold. She took a bite, and gagged. It tasted like congealed grease and strangely sour. The bits of meat were stringy, the sauce filled with lumps as
nasty as rye root. She was hungry but she wasn’t starving. She forced down another bite, then set the bowl aside. Any more of it and she’d vomit again. Her stomach was knotting and unknotting in painful spasms.
Rorik looked at her, his frown building. “Finish it.”
She looked up at him, holding the blanket tightly over her breasts. “It tastes like pig swill. There is so much grease on the top that it has hardened.”
She thought he would burst with rage but she didn’t care. If he struck her, perhaps he would kill her. At the moment, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered.
He seemed to get control of himself. He lifted the bowl and took a bite. It was bad, he thought, very bad. Worse than it usually was, though that was usually bad enough of late. Even the women who prepared food well seemed to have forgotten over the past weeks. It was Entti, he thought, the women had given the task again to Entti. He sighed, but he didn’t give in, he was still too furious with her. She was his prisoner, less than a slave, and yet she dared to speak her mind as if she were the mistress here. She dared to show her disgust for him and for his farmstead. She dared to scorn the food that only a halfwit would eat. She dared to allow Kerzog, the dog he’d raised from a pup, a very small pup, just watch her but make no threatening growls or moves. He said, “You will consume it as you would a feast. Every bite. If you don’t, then you may go hungry, I care not. You can starve.”
“I can’t eat it,” she said, and knew immediately that he would indeed not give her anything else to eat. “I won’t eat it.” For how long? Would he let her starve to death? “No one could eat it.” She looked at him, at the closed expression, at the anger in his eyes. She didn’t want to starve. She fancied it wouldn’t be a very pleasant way to die. It would be far too slow even though she was already so hungry she’d believed she could eat anything. She’d been wrong.