She ate the fourth slice of flatbread and reached out her hand. There was nothing more on the plate.
“Old Alna also said that you shouldn’t eat more right now or you would be sick and vomit it all up. She said if you could bear it, you should just rest for a while and then I’ll bring you some more food. Is that all right?”
“Aye, that’s wonderful,” Mirana said. She sighed deeply, ignored her still hollow belly, and lay back.
“Lord Rorik is gone hunting with the men.”
“There is game on the island?”
“Aye, but he’s been careful to breed as much as he kills so that we’ll never starve when there is a long storm and he and the men can’t fish or row to the mainland to hunt. This morning he and my father and some other men have sailed to shore to hunt there. The coast is flat and there are salt marshes and bogs, but there are wild boars there that are quite tasty. Everyone was tired of fish, though I know a very good recipe for roasting herring with juniper berries.”
Mirana wanted some roasted boar right this instant or some roasted herring, she didn’t care which.
“Would you like to get into Lord Rorik’s bed?”
Mirana thought of other body parts than her stomach and nodded. She slowly rose, her back stiff, her buttocks sore, her right arm numb. It was then that Utta saw the chain. Her eyes widened with surprise.
“Why did Lord Rorik do that to you?”
“Because he didn’t want to kill me just yet.”
Mirana lay on the soft feather mattress. Utta pulled a blanket over her, then straightened.
“If you would like to relieve yourself, I will bring you a pot. I don’t know how to unfasten the chain so you can go to the privy.”
It was humiliating, but the young girl treated it so matter-of-factly that Mirana felt boundless gratitude. She said, “I will repay you for your kindness, Utta. If someday I can, I will repay you.”
Utta merely shrugged. “I thought you were a witch, that’s what all the men were telling the women. But you’re not. I hope you aren’t too frightened. You must sleep now. Later Old Alna will tend to the cuts on your hands and knees.”
“Thank you.”
Utta turned in the doorway. “My mother was sick for a long time before she died. I learned to care for her. Do you know how to cook?”
“Aye, certainly. I was mistress of my brother’s fortress until Lord Rorik brought me here as his hostage.”
“Are you a very good cook?”
“Aye.”
Utta was silent for a long moment. She fiddled with one of the brooches at her shoulder. She said finally, “Why does Lord Rorik treat you like this?”
But Mirana, her belly lulled, the feather mattress soft beneath her back, was fast asleep.
Rorik and his men returned late in the afternoon, covered with blood and smelly dried bog mud. He himself had brought down the wild boar they’d seen and hunted down, cornering it finally at the edge of a deep salt marsh. He’d been pleased with himself and his men. He was elated at the kill, he always was when his skill was sufficient. But, since that time, his thoughts had gone to her. He thought of her lying on the floor, chained to his bed, unable to relieve herself, no one to give her food. He hated worrying. He hated even caring if the damned witch lived or died. He shouldn’t have left her there, on the dirt floor, chained. She had saved his life, for whatever reason.
He would treat her a bit better. He needed her alive. He would use her just as soon as he figured out how to do it. He would use her to bring Einar to him.
Hafter said over the flapping of the square sail, “A wild boar, full grown and enough meat for the next two days. ’Twas a fine spear throw, Rorik, though I feared for a moment he would gore you.”
Ottar agreed and spat over the side of the warship. Rorik merely nodded.
“Did you hurt your shoulder anew?”
“Just enough to remind me of all my sins,” Rorik said, and the men laughed, watching him unconsciously massage and work the shoulder.
They rowed into the inlet. The men on the dock secured the warship and kicked its bow clear so it wouldn’t scrape against the wood. They hefted the boar onto their shoulders and started up the stone path to the palisade, singing and bragging of their prowess.
Hafter said to Rorik as they fell in line behind the other men, “I have prayed to every god in Valhalla that Entti hasn’t prepared our meal tonight. My ribs are striking together.”