And what of Rorik? Mirana thought. She looked across the longhouse to see him sitting between his brother and his father, only this time they were all silent. He wasn’t eating, merely sitting there, drinking the sweet red wine from the Rhineland his father had brought him as a gift. She wanted to tell him not to drink too much of it, for it would make him ill. Ah, but she could imagine how he would look at her if she even approached him, much less expressed concern for him. She felt sorry for him, but there was naught she could do. He’d avoided her since the scene several hours before. As for Sira, she was seated next to Rorik’s father, head down, picking at her food, her beautiful hair clean and glimmering again in the rush torch light.
Mirana filled her own plate and joined the women. Asta said, “The gown becomes you more than it ever did me, Mirana. I think it’s because of that black hair of yours and your skin that’s whiter than the goat’s milk I’m drinking.”
“You just wait until she finishes the blue wool I gave her,” said Old Alna. “Your gown is poor and miserable when compared to that blue wool. Aye, it’s the color my eyes used to be when I was young. Then I was more beautiful than the lot of you.”
Erna said, giggling through the fingers of her one good hand, “There is no one to tell us if she speaks the truth, for any who would know are all dead now.”
“The wool probably has holes in it you’ve hoarded it for so long,” Asta said and laughed, poking the old woman lightly on her scrawny arm. “Aye, I believe you had it when you were young and had all your teeth and a man about to warm you, but Alna, none of us can remember, it was so many decades ago, just as Erna said. How can you remember?”
“You’ll talk and talk, won’t you, Asta! Well, look you to Gurd, a mangy one, that man.”
“Aye, but he’s strong and hard in my bed, Alna.”
“You’ll grow old and lose your teeth, you’ll see.”
Asta laughed and laughed.
So very normal, Mirana thought. It was as though this part of the longhouse was in a world completely apart from Rorik’s. These women didn’t hate her. It seemed too that they’d made a choice. They’d chosen her over Tora. She looked over at Amma, the leader of the women’s revolt, a woman she’d trust with her life. Her husband, Sculla, so tall Mirana felt like a child standing next to him, wasn’t always a reasonable man, though he hadn’t even slept with Entti. She wondered if there was still acrimony between them.
Utta said shyly, “Your recipe for the sauce is delicious, Mirana. Would you let me watch you make it next time?”
Mirana smiled and nodded. She looked over at Entti, silent as a stone, and she knew she was forcing herself to eat because she knew she would need her strength. Her rich brown hair hid her face, a long thick curtain falling forward to touch her forearm. Hafter was also staring at Entti, like a hungry goat, Entti had told her earlier, her voice sour and frustrated.
Mirana forced herself to eat as well. She knew that Entti had stolen food and water and hidden it down near one of the smaller longboats. Mirana still had to steal another knife, but she knew it would be no problem. Once the men were asleep, many of them sodden with drink, she would easily be able to slip a knife out of a sheath. Rorik had let her keep her knife to her, saying nothing, and for that she was grateful. She wondered why he’d let her. Didn’t he fear that she would slip it between Sira’s ribs still?
She ate and sipped sparingly at the rich mead. She listened to the women talk of smoking herring, arguing over which wood smoke was the most flavorful—oak or fir. She watched Rorik’s parents and his brother, Merrik, and Sira, the violence in them silenced now, but for how much longer? It was like an armed cam
p, and she was the enemy, just out of reach, but not for long. Every once in a while, Sira raised her head and looked straight at Mirana. Tora was silent, withdrawn. Mirana ached for the older woman. Her position in all this was damnable.
Mirana oversaw the cleaning of the plates and pans and pots. There was always a seemingly endless supply. Finally, she dismissed the slaves and sent the other women off to their beds. She sought out Entti and the two of them took blankets to the far corner of the longhouse, not far from the front doors.
Mirana lay there, her heart pounding, wondering what would happen. In her experience the gods didn’t suddenly smile upon a mortal’s plans and allow them to act and succeed. The gods weren’t like that. When she looked up to see Rorik standing over her, she wasn’t surprised. He was either here to rape her or to kill her. She had rather hoped that his mother would keep him away from her. Tora believed she would leave, trusted her to leave.
Had Merrik said anything to Rorik about her promise? Had he told his brother that he didn’t believe her, that he knew she was lying?
“What do you want, Rorik?”
“You. Come with me. We will sleep in the barn.”
Entti stiffened beside her but remained quiet, pretending sleep.
He continued, “As for her, Hafter will come for her shortly. He won’t bear with her woman’s deceit any longer.”
He reached out his hand to her. Mirana looked at that hand, strong, browned from the summer sun, a large hand, a man’s hand that could soothe as easily as it could kill.
“I want to stay here, Rorik. I wish to sleep.”
“I care not what you want. Come.”
Mirana came up onto her knees. Her knife was at her waist. She would do what she had to do.
He took her hand and pulled her upright. He held her close, staring down at her. His eyes darkened, then cleared. “Come,” he said again, and pulled her after him from the longhouse.
They were nearly to the barn. The moon was bright overhead. Mirana knew they must leave this night. There would be no better chance, but Rorik . . . what to do with her husband, a man she no longer knew, a man whose every action frightened her?
He pulled her into the barn and closed the door. The animals were silent. He said nothing, merely pulled her down atop a pile of straw. He didn’t bother undressing her. He merely pulled up her gown to her waist and shoved up her shift. He sat back on his heels and stared at her.
“You are beautiful,” he said, frowning. He laid his palm on her belly, then let his fingers widen outward to touch her pelvic bones. He massaged her for a long time, his gaze intent, saying nothing more, then his fingers went lower, found her and she sucked in her breath at the feel of him against her flesh. She’d not imagined anything like this. It was near pain, it was so intense, and she wanted more of it, until . . . until something happened. What that was, she didn’t know, but she wanted it. She felt hot and damp-fleshed and it was disconcerting, this reaction of her body to his fingers. It was wonderful.