“You are wed to Rorik.”
Mirana looked up to see Sira, so beautiful in her fairness, her face framed in a fall of silver hair, that it hurt to look at her. She was alone. She must have followed me here, Mirana thought. “Aye,” Mirana said, “we were wed only yesterday.”
“I know. I had wished to make our yearly visit earlier this time, for I am old enough to be wed, but Rorik’s mother fell ill and thus . . .” She shrugged, but her eyes weren’t at all accepting. They were deep and hot with rage. She looked Mirana up and down, and the rage was momentarily banked. “You look like a foreign slave. I have never cared for dark-haired women. I have always believed they look coarse, overly used.”
Mirana walked back outside, Sira on her heels. She looked beyond her toward a splendid flock of goldeneyes, ducks who dove into the sea with more skill than any other bird. “I am pleased that Rorik’s family is here. They seem kind.”
Suddenly, without warning, Sira grabbed Mirana’s wrist and jerked her toward her, twisting viciously. She was stronger than she looked. Mirana was but inches from her face, and so surprised by the girl’s actions that she didn’t move.
“Listen to me, slut, you have somehow tricked Rorik into wedding with you. You are coarse and common and you parted your legs for him and now you carry his child and that is why he felt he had to marry you. But he will see what you are, he will realize that his parents—aye, his entire family—hate what you are, whose blood it is that flows through you, and he will send you away, very soon now. His parents were kind to you, for they were pleased that at last Rorik seems content with life, and they want him to be content, to find some peace, but at the same time they will never forget their grief for Inga and his babes, and nor will Rorik, not really, not in the depths of him. They won’t allow him to either, not until the man who butchered them is dead.
“Even though they wanted me for their new daughter, they were willing to accept you until they realized who you were—the black-haired witch who is blooded with
our enemy, aye, they know now who you are, they ask themselves if you knew about your brother’s deeds, if you approved of them. They will see to it that you are returned to your brother.”
She leaned closer, and her breath was hot and sweet on Mirana’s face. “Or perhaps Rorik will kill you. Perhaps I will kill you. But you will be gone, witch, soon you will be gone. Then Rorik will be mine as he should have been.”
Sira flung Mirana away from her, turned on her heel and walked back to the longhouse. She didn’t look back.
Mirana stood there rubbing her wrist. She realized quickly enough that Sira had spoken the truth, for when she returned to the longhouse, knowing it was her responsibility to see that a feast was properly prepared for her new family, she saw it on their faces when she came inside. There was coldness now where there had been warmth and acceptance before. There was now contempt and hatred where there had been smiles and kind words and welcome.
Rorik’s brother, Merrik, filled with passion, Old Alna had told her, looked on the edge of violence as he gazed at her. He stopped his talk with Gurd and stared at her, his look malignant. His hand went to the knife belted to his waist. Harald and Tora, Rorik’s parents, stopped speaking to Rorik when they saw her, and there was stillness on his mother’s face, utter frozen stillness. Harald’s face, so much like Rorik’s, lean and strong and expressive, was now empty of any feeling that she could see. He lowered his blue eyes—eyes the same vivid bright blue as Rorik’s—as if he couldn’t bear to look upon her.
She waited for Rorik to do something, anything, to stop this madness, this injustice, but he remained still and silent as his parents.
Entti came to her, and smiled. “I have seen to the preparations of the boar steaks and the hare and line of bass. We also will have a lot of beer and a bit of wine from the Rhine. There are vegetables aplenty—stewed onions and mushrooms, cabbage, and turnips that Utta—that sweet child and now your little sister—seasoned with cloudberries and a strange liquid she squeezes from the roots of this bush whose name I don’t know. She just smiled and wouldn’t tell me, said it was one of her mother’s secrets. Ah, and there is flatbread, hot and ready for thick goat cheese—”
It was too much. Mirana laid her hand on Entti’s arm. “Thank you, Entti. You are kind, but it won’t help.”
Entti cursed softly, saying, “It was Gurd who told them. He is angry with you, afraid that you will keep him from taking me. He rants on about how he is a man and you are naught but a woman and I am naught but a slave.”
Mirana said nothing. She was watching Rorik, who had turned away from her and was speaking low to his parents. His younger brother had joined them. Sira stood nearby, a wooden cup of mead in her hand. She was smiling as she stared into the cup.
Old Alna came to Mirana then and said, “We will begin to feed everyone shortly. Lord Rorik will give his chair to his father. And then—”
“Do what is normally done,” Mirana said. “I will sit by my husband,” she added. If he had changed his mind, then she would know it now.
She went to their sleeping chamber and changed into the gown and tunic she’d worn the previous day at her wedding. It was the only gown she had that was fine enough for a feast. She belted it at her waist. She combed her hair with the antler comb Rorik had given her. She fastened the beautiful brooches Rorik had given her to the tunic. She pinched her cheeks and changed into soft leather slippers. She drew a deep breath and walked out into the big hall again.
The air was filled with the tangy smell of the sea bass, wrapped and baking in oiled maple leaves. The boar steaks spat and sizzled atop the grating of the fire pit. The goat cheese, freshly made, smelled tart.
The men were drinking steadily, the women as well, though not as quickly for it was their job to serve the food, and they had to keep their wits about them to carry the heavy platters. Rorik sat beside his father. Sira sat on his other side and next to her, his mother, Tora. She wondered what was in his mother’s mind. Her stillness made Mirana uneasy. Old Alna had told Mirana that she was much like Tora. She didn’t see any likeness, not a bit. The remaining places at the table held his brother and all Harald’s men. There were no other women save Sira and his mother, Tora. All Rorik’s people sat together, away from Harald’s. She assumed this was simply the way of things. Rorik had granted his father and all his men the best places in the longhouse. Mirana smiled at the slaves and the wives who were serving with them. She picked up a tray of mutton and leeks and walked to the table. She took it to Rorik and held it out to him.
“My lord,” she said.
He looked at her then, though she knew he didn’t want to. In that moment she saw such pain in his eyes that she nearly gasped aloud. Instead, she said calmly, “Would you like some mutton? Entti prepared it.”
“Aye,” he said, no emotion in his voice, his eyes blank of feeling. “It looks excellent.”
She served him, saying nothing, then turned to his father. “My lord Harald,” she said, and offered him the platter.
Harald didn’t look at her. Indeed, he turned away from her completely and spoke to Merrik, his voice overloud. “You will go trading to Kiev soon now, boy. Press me not just at this time. Soon you will go, I promise you.”
Sira said loudly, “I wish some. Don’t just stand there gawking at me. Serve me.”
Mirana looked at the girl, then looked down at her wrist. There were purple bruises where Sira had gripped her so tightly, then twisted.
“Why do you just stand there? Do you not understand me? Are you witless? Serve me now.”