She didn’t begin to understand him. “Listen to me, Rorik, you hate me, you must. At the very least you don’t want me here to remind you of what my brother did to your wife and your children and your people. My presence only brings you pain and the memory of your guilt because you weren’t there to save them. Understand, Einar wouldn’t have attacked your farmstead had you and your men been there. He is no fool and he is smart. He is not a coward, at least I never before thought so. Why he did what he did I don’t know. But what he did remains and cannot be changed. Your family has made you see that I am not the wife you should have. They believe this strongly. They won’t allow me to remain, Rorik.”
He rose from the bed and began pacing the length of the small chamber.
She said again, “I do not blame them for their hatred of me. I do believe they should leave go of the past and allow the wounds to heal, for their unending bitterness shows on their faces and can be heard in their voices. It is deep within them. It makes them miserable. I don’t wish them to destroy you with the past. It isn’t fair of them to do so.”
He turned then, back to her, and said, his voice harsh and low, “I won’t lie to you. I listened to them. I was beginning to agree with them. They are my family. They love me. They loved Inga and the babes.”
“I know,” she said.
“Then you were so ill. I truly do not know what I would have done. Not kill you, Mirana, never that, though I can’t expect you to believe me now. Nay, I realized that I had been a fool, that you had helped me to ease the past away, to put it where it belonged—in the past—where it would forever remain, not forgotten, nay, never forgotten, but distanced, the pain of it softened and mercifully blurred now. But then they came and it was as if the wound were slashed open again, raw inside me, and the past was the present, here with me now, full-blown and as filled with horror as it is in my nightdreams.
“My parents and brothers have kept it alive amongst themselves, and nurtured it and allowed it to feed on itself, and they wanted me to bow at the altar of their grief and hatred as well, aye, you’re right about that. And you were here, as wicked as the Christians’ devil, ready for their fury and their hate. Your presence, who you are, helped their hatred grow and burst free once again. They now had a target, not just vague images that flowed through the mind. Your half-brother is still a man without a face to them, but now, through you, they could grasp their pain and see to its depths.
“There was Sira. She’d come to wed me, with my parents’ blessing. I am not a fool. I knew it, and knew also that I would never have wed her. She is like a sister to me. How could I wed a sister? I watched her here, watching you. I watched her change, grow twisted and jealous when she looked at you, when she realized that you were my wife and who you were.
“I have never wanted her, Mirana, never given her any sign that I wanted to wed her. Her feelings are deep and violent. I see that now. I have decided that I will give her to Hafter to wed, if my parents agree. He has many times told me he believes her beautiful beyond all women, that he would want her were it possible. He can have her. Then he can take her from Hawkfell Island to the mainland. He has land there and family, near to Edingthorpe. He won’t be here to rape Entti and Sira won’t be here to torment you.”
He fell silent now. Mirana had never felt so uncertain in her life; never had she felt more reluctant to accept words that would sway her. She was too afraid to be swayed. There was too much here, far too much. Always before in her life, everything had seemed so very clear to her, which path to take neatly marked. She’d believed that there’d been no grayness, no shimme
ring lies or half-truths to make her question herself or those around her. Ah, but she’d learned that her life had been filled with naught but lies, but she’d ignored them, turned away from them, refused to see them. She’d accepted her life at Clontarf with Einar as what life must be since her parents were dead. She hadn’t recognized him for what he was, hadn’t recognized what she was to him—naught but a pawn to be used to gain him more power, naught but a plaything for his amusement. Her mouth felt very dry. She swallowed. Rorik said nothing more, just waited, patiently. Finally, she said, “You are an honorable man, Rorik Haraldsson. Even so, I was very afraid. I thought you would kill me yesterday in the bathing hut.”
“I know. I am sorry for it. My mind—I was maddened. I realized I could be as crazed as a berserker, but I wouldn’t have killed you, Mirana, never would I have killed you.
“I had forgotten the passion of my brother, Merrik. His loyalty runs as deep as do his hatreds. He is a formidable enemy and a friend to value and hold close. I fear my parents kept his hatred festering, and because of his youth, it was easily done.” He stopped then and paced the small chamber. He waited silently, patiently, as he had before.
She sifted through his words, afraid to find other meanings in them, meanings that would bring clearness, even hope. There was naught but a bitter truth, a truth that would always remain a truth no matter what she wanted or thought or wanted to believe. She had to face up to it, make him face up to it as well. By Thor, it hurt to say it, but she did, her voice low and clear, “I am relieved that you have no wish to kill me. But Rorik, your honor shouldn’t dictate the woman you should have as your wife. Or your pity. Or guilt. And I know you felt both guilt and pity for me once you learned what Einar had planned to do with me. And that is why you wed me. To protect me, to save me from that wretched old king.
“You have taken care of me whilst I was ill and I thank you for it. You went beyond what one would expect of you. But it is your family to whom you owe your loyalty, not me. I am a stranger here, an outsider, and they are right, Rorik, I am of Einar’s blood. You could never be certain that I was free of all taint. You could never trust me as you do Merrik or your parents.”
He walked to the bed and stared down at her. Her hair was lank and dull. His mother had fashioned it in a loose braid that fell over her shoulder. She had said naught as she’d treated Mirana as matter-of-factly as she would have one of her own. She was strong, his mother was, sometimes too strong, too forceful, but in this instance he didn’t understand her. He looked at Mirana, at the tendrils of black hair curled about her pale face. Her green eyes, so mysterious usually, were as dull as her hair and that bothered him though he knew now that she would regain her strength and her health.
He said again, his voice as cold as the Oslofjord, “You won’t leave. You won’t decide what it is I must want or not want. You will cease telling me what I must feel, both toward you and toward my family. You will not leave, Mirana. You will obey me now and always.”
She said nothing, merely looked at him, then away, to her fingers that were fretting with the wool blanket.
He’d spoken honestly to her, yet he hadn’t, for there was too much here, too much that was beyond him as yet, and beyond her as well. She would do as he told her. For a while, at least.
“You don’t trust me,” he said, and that surprised her, for surely she trusted him more than he did her. “Nay, don’t shake your head. I don’t know you well, but trust I understand. I understand the feel of it in another, the smell of it, the expression of it in another’s eyes.
“You will rest until you have your strength back. You will not leave. I will hear no more about it from you. I am protecting Entti, so you will not throw her up to me again. You will not have her as an excuse to escape. Her honor is now safe, as is Hafter’s manhood.”
He left her then. The rest of the afternoon passed very slowly. Far too slowly.
She slept and ate for the next two days. Rorik spent less time with her, as if knowing she needed to be with her own thoughts. But she wanted him to come into the sleeping chamber. Just to see him, to watch his mouth as he spoke, to feel his hands on her when he lifted her on the pillow. At night, he was close, his breathing deep and even, beside her throughout the night. But during the day he stayed away now.
His mother, Tora, was a different matter.
The following morning, it was Tora who brought her porridge, topped with rich honey.
“Will your belly like this?”
Mirana was salivating. The smell of the porridge and the honey filled the small chamber. She was pushing herself up on the bed, her eyes on that bowl. “Oh, aye,” she said, then saw the look on Tora’s face. She stilled, now uncertain. Tora said, her voice impatient and cold, “There was no one else to bring you food. If you want it, take it.”
“Thank you.”
Still the woman didn’t leave. She sat on the end of the box bed, silent, watching Mirana eat the porridge. Mirana took the last bite, sighed deeply, and leaned back against the pillow, closing her eyes. “It was delicious.”
“The child, Utta, made it for you. She said you liked the way she seasoned the porridge.”