He shrugged. “He will have his way. I told him not to leave now to live on the mainland. I told him he must stay, that you would be very unhappy were he to take Entti away.”
“And you wouldn’t miss Hafter, I suppose.”
“Oh aye, I would surely miss the great idiot. I don’t understand him, but I would miss him sorely.”
“You have very nice legs, Rorik.”
He whipped around to stare at her. “Are you all right?”
“Aye, I was just looking at your legs. I like the golden hair. They’re strong legs. They could walk for a very long time and not tire. Very beautiful. I want to touch you.”
He laughed then, softly at first, then he laughed louder, deep and full and free.
And then she said, “And your belly. It is covered with gold fur, all soft and thick, just like a goat’s belly, and you are hard and lean, and mayhap your belly is more beautiful than your legs.”
He stopped laughing and stared at her. There was something deep and brilliant in his eyes, something that drew her and made her want when she’d never wanted before, and she was smiling at him, reaching out her hand to him. She wanted to touch him, and she wanted him to touch her and kiss her, and aye, perhaps even the other, perhaps she even wanted that now, for there was a warmth in her, deep and curling and so very intense that she wondered how one could feel like that and not burst with the need of it. He was taut, leaning toward her now. His beautiful eyes were alight with her, with the thought of her with him, and she recognized it. Then she said, “Aye, Rorik, and your mouth, mayhap that is the most beautiful part of you, but it will take me many years to decide. You have a bewitching mouth.” And he was smiling again, that beautiful mouth of his turned up at the corners, his lips slightly parted, then laughing and shaking his head at her. She wanted to bring more laughter like that into his life, she thought, then her stomach cramped viciously, and she scrambled from the bed and vomited up the little broth she’d drunk and the bread.
“By the gods, no!”
Mirana moaned, clutched her belly, and fell onto her side on the pounded earth.
She was ill for only two hours, for she’d eaten little of the broth, but she was white and pale and sweating profusely, lying on her side, her legs drawn up, waiting, dreading the next cramp. There was no laughter in her now, no joy, just the fear of more of the awful pain.
Finally, she slept. Rorik stood over her, shaking his head. He’d been a fool. He covered her with a woolen blanket, smoothed the damp hair off her forehead.
Hafter stood in the doorway. “Will she live?”
“Aye. I fear it is Sira.”
“I believe so too, but I am sorry for it. I have known her since she was a child, as have you. But I do not understand her now.”
“I am not certain that I do either. She must have poisoned Mirana. Poor Asta died because she liked the taste of the food and thus she ate most of Mirana’s. But why would Sira do it again? It is you who turned away from her. Mirana was not involved.”
There was a shout, then a scream.
Both men ran from the sleeping chamber into the main hall. Sira had wrapped Entti’s long hair about her fist and had dragged her down to her knees, pulling her toward the fire pit. She had a knife in her right hand.
“By Thor, this is madness!” Rorik slammed through the men and women and children who were crowding close, uncertain what to do. Kerzog was barking wildly, his strong teeth tugging at Sira’s skirt. Sira reached down and struck the dog with the handle of the knife. Kerzog fell sideways, whimpering for a moment, but then he was up again, his teeth sunk into Sira’s gown, pulling, slowing her.
“Nay, Rorik, I will stop it. Entti is my woman.”
Hafter grabbed Sira’s forearm and shook it. Then he bent back her wrist, but still Sira was screaming at Entti, twisting and jerking on her hair, “You damnable whore! You slut—you are her friend and between you there is no man for me, no man that I want. I’ll kill you and then I’ll kill that other miserable bitch!”
Hafter calmly drew back his fist and cuffed her solidly in the side of her head. The knife fell to the earthen floor, Sira fell forward onto her knees, then fell to her side. Entti went down with her, her hair still wrapped about Sira’s hand.
Hafter said to Entti, “Lie still and be quiet, or you’ll just hurt yourself more.”
He carefully unwrapped her hair from around Sira’s hand, then massaged her scalp. He helped her to her feet and stepped aside, keeping her in the crook of his arm.
Tora leaned down and looked at her niece. “Harald,” she called to her husband. “Take her out of here. Let her sleep outside the longhouse. Let her think about her lack of control. Let her think about her punishment, for surely there will be retribution to match her crime.”
“I believe,” Harald said, “that I will keep one of the men with her.” When Harald lifted Sira and slung her over his shoulder, carrying her away, Tora said, “I am sorry. Entti, you seem a reasonable girl. I would be pleased were you to forgive her.” She shook her head. “It is difficult. First Rorik and then you, Hafter . . . it is her disappointment. Harald and I have raised her gently, for her parents had died suddenly, and left her alone, and we wanted her to feel happy with us. We had no daughter, and thus we tried to make her into ours, but we gave her no boundaries. Mayhap we have given her too much, not reined in her temper, not tried to dampen her vanity. I suppose she came to believe that anything she desired would be hers. It is my fault, not hers.”
Entti thought that was nonsense, but she held her peace. She was still rubbing her scalp. Her eyes were stinging from the pain of it. Sira had caught her off guard and she felt like a fool for letting the woman get the better of her. She looked up to see the pain on Tora’s face. She sighed and said, “I forgive her,” and thought she would surely kill the damned bitch the moment she got the chance. First Mirana and now her. Why was Tora commiserating with Rorik and Hafter as if they had been Sira’s victims? It was she and Mirana who had suffered, not the damned men.
She knew Sira had tried to poison Mirana. All knew it had to be she. What would Rorik do? After all, Asta had died and so much laughter and jesting had passed with her. After all, Rorik was lord of Hawkfell Island. He had to do something.
He did. The following morning, Rorik ordered Sira stripped to her waist, tied to a pole, and whipped, first by Harald, since she was his responsibility, then by Rorik and finally by Hafter. Entti wanted very much to wield the whip herself, but only men were allowed to do it. Mirana, still pale and weak,