Lord of Hawkfell Island by Catherine Coulter Page B

black-hearted witch.” Old Alna spit into the fire pit.
    His men had said all that? It was doubtful, Rorik thought. Old Alna had an imagination to rival a scald’s. She could plant an acorn and quickly raise a full-branched oak tree from it.
    â€œShe is Einar’s half-sister and my hostage,” he said, and turned away, saying more to himself than to the scrappy old woman, “Her intentions aren’t always clear to me. She is my prisoner. Keep away from her. She isn’t to be trusted around any of us.”
    A scraggly brow rose in question. “Will you keep her in your sleeping chamber?”
    He allowed the impertinence, though he gave her a look that would halt most of his men in their tracks. She’d helped bring him into the world, she’d not left his mother’s side when she’d been so very ill with the bloody flux, and he remembered then that it had nearly broken her, for she dearly loved his mother, as did he. Aye, it had been a bad time, but in large part due to Old Alna’s constant vigil, his mother had survived. Rorik shook his head. He was Old Alna’s favorite of all his three siblings and she’d journeyed here to Hawkfell nearly two years before when he’d left his small farmstead in the Vestfold, just west of the trading town of Kaupang. He suspected Old Alna and his mother had discussed it and that both women had decided she should come with him.
    He had no intention of answering her. He looked over her left shoulder at Erna who was efficiently working the loom. Her withered right arm didn’t hinder her work at all. He’d heard stories when he was much younger of how her mother had seen her baby and had wanted to leave her to die on the mountainside,but Erna’s father had looked at her withered arm and said no, this was a girl to be proud of. She was wedded to Raki, one of his warriors with immense strength, his own two healthy arms the size of his chair posts. Their two boys were whole and strong as their father. Rorik heard her humming softly to herself as she worked. He turned back to Old Alna, “She was still asleep when I left her this morning.”
    â€œWhen she awakens she will be hungry. All she needs is good food to regain her strength.” She cackled at that and gave him a sly look. “Not that Entti is such a good cook. Shall I take your prisoner some porridge?”
    He thought of his orders to her to eat the inedible stew or go hungry. Damn her. He said aloud, “Why do you continue to make Entti cook if her results are so terrible? Why do you make us all suffer?”
    Old Alna shrugged. “ ’Twas her turn. What could I do? It is all done by vote. You gave me the responsibility, my lord Rorik, to oversee the homestead, for two years now. I am doing my best. Will you strip me of my duty?”
    Rorik gave her a harassed look, knew the pathetic voice was a sham, but let it go. It always seemed to be Entti’s turn of late, that or she’d given the other women lessons on how to prepare swill to cramp the belly. “I’ll see if she’s awake. Did Entti prepare the porridge?”
    Old Alna cackled again. “Nay. Ottar’s girl, Utta, was up before the dawn. Aye, a born cook that one is. A pity she’s only eleven years old. She cooks only on rare occasion. Aye, a wondrous cook, that little one. No black lumps in the porridge this morning. She’ll grow up soon enough, in three years or so, and then she’ll take her turn with the other women, that or wed and leave Hawkfell.”
    Rorik was so hungry at that moment he gave thought to marrying the child himself. He stood by the fire pit and fed himself first, eating two bowls, savoring each spoonful of porridge, then dished up a bowl for the woman, dropped a dollop of butter on it, and walked to his sleeping chamber. He pulled back the hide covering the doorway. Light flooded in.
    She was lying on her side on the floor, her