Season of the Sun (18 page)

She turned and ran from the chamber. Her back was stiff and sore, but she had no more of his mother's healing cream, no more need for him to bathe her back.

“Zarabeth! Come back here!”

But she didn't. She turned to see him, only to run into the solid wall of Horkel's massive chest. His hands grasped her upper arms.

“ 'Tis enough,” he said, and merely held her as she struggled against his grip.

Magnus looked over her head and met his friend's eyes. “She might have run all the way to Kaupang. She has little sense and more pride than my father. However, hers isn't tempered with wisdom.” He held out his hands, and Horkel turned her about and shoved her toward Magnus.

She kept her head down even as she stumbled against him.

Magnus sighed and dragged her back to his chamber. He didn't care that all his people were looking avidly, wondering what was between him and this slave. He didn't care what anyone thought.

He flung her onto the box bed. He sat down beside her, and calmly began unlacing the front of her gown. “I am glad you don't wear the overdress our Viking women wear. The shoulder brooches must be unfastened and the entire thing lifted over the woman's head. This is easier, faster. Ah, yes, your breasts. They please me, Zarabeth. Their size fits my hands.”

She turned her face away from him, her eyes closed. She hadn't the strength to fight him. She would endure. The pleasure he had made her feel before was forgotten. Perhaps it hadn't even existed. Then
suddenly he leaned down and gently began to suckle her nipple. Her eyes flew open and she cried out in embarrassment. She couldn't allow him to continue doing this to her, she couldn't. She tried to rear up, but he pressed his hand against her shoulder and pushed her back down.

“Hush,” he said, his breath hot on her flesh. “Lie still and let me give you pleasure.”

She shoved at his shoulders, at his head, her body twisting madly. “Nay, Magnus, please, don't shame me like this. All know that you have brought me here to your chamber, to your bed. Please do not shame me!”

He ignored her and suckled her other breast. He loved the taste of her flesh, her scent. He knew the moment she responded to him. There was an immediate softening of her body, a gentle lurching as she arched her back very slightly, but arch it she did, to press her breast closer and closer.

She moaned softly and he knew she hated the sound of that moan, for it had come from the very depths of her, from someplace inside her that should have stayed hidden and alone and untouched. But he was kneading her belly now with his hand, even as he was tugging and caressing her breast with his mouth. Then his fingers moved lower and she was suddenly holding her breath, expectant, flushed because of the throbbing there, nearly frantic at the ache that was centered there, and it was becoming more intense, more powerful, even as his fingers neared and came nearer still. When his fingertips touched her flesh, she cried out, shuddering with the force of it. He raised his head then and looked down into her face.

“I will bring you pleasure. Should you like that, Zarabeth?” He didn't expect her to reply. He smiled painfully as he watched his fingers touch her soft flesh again and find a rhythm to please her, and he knew
quickly enough that soon she would be helpless against the onslaught of wild feelings that were coursing through her. He realized that Zarabeth didn't want to lie there passive beneath his searching fingers, she didn't want him to so completely control her, and so he encouraged her softly as she pressed upward, her hips lifting off the bed, and she felt his other hand beneath her buttocks, helping her, pressing her even harder against his fingers. “I will watch your face when your pleasure overcomes you,” he said, and she would have given anything to keep that pleasure at bay, to fight him now, to swear that there was no such pleasure that she wanted, but she was helpless against it and she knew it, and finally she accepted it, she wanted it, she would die if it didn't come to her.

“Magnus,” she whispered, pain and excitement blending in her voice. He shook with the force his name on her lips brought him. By Odin, he wanted her, wanted all of her. He didn't want her to fight him with her spirit, he wanted all that she was and would become in the years ahead.

He felt the tensing in her legs and the shudders that convulsed her entire body. He watched as her eyes widened and glazed with the strength of the passion that was building inside her. He watched as she could no longer hold that pleasure back. He watched her mouth when the cries, raw and deep, erupted from her throat, and he pushed her then, and pushed himself to give her all that he could, to make her realize that she belonged to him and to no other, to make her realize that she was no longer alone, locked inside herself, for he wouldn't allow it, and she belonged to him.

When it was over, when he was gently kneading her woman's flesh to soothe her rather than excite her, he said, “I want to look at you now, sweeting. I want to see if you can take me comfortably.” She had no chance to protest, and no great hope of trying to
before he pressed her thighs open wide and parted her with his fingers. She was still sore and he saw the redness of her flesh and knew he shouldn't take her again, not now. She needed another day, and then he would have her, and she would enjoy his entry, she would cry out with her acceptance of him.

He smiled a bit painfully. But it didn't matter. He had given her pleasure, he had drawn her more inexorably to him, bound her to him, and now she would not be able to so easily deny it.

He leaned down and lightly kissed the soft woman's flesh. She quivered. “Nay, Zarabeth, I won't take you now. You must needs have another day to accommodate yourself to me, for I was over enthusiastic my first three times with you. But you will not forget the pleasure I gave you. And when I take you tomorrow, I will give you that same pleasure and you won't wish to fight me ever again, Zarabeth. Do you understand?”

He saw that her eyes were closed. He saw the tears trickling down her cheeks. He merely leaned down and lightly kissed her mouth, tasting the salt of her tears. “Are those tears of surrender to me, I wonder. I will look later at your back.” He covered her with a blanket and left her.

 

But he didn't take her the following day, because her woman's monthly flow had begun. He knew because he had seen blood on the blanket. He said nothing about it, not wanting to shame her, and he guessed it would, for she was a private woman, unused to sharing with another, particularly with him, a man.

He knew, of course, that she needed cloths, and he saw to it that she had them. But he said nothing. Nor did he touch her in any way. But he watched her to see if she had any pain. If she did have cramping in her belly, she gave no sign of it. If she wondered why
he didn't come near her or drag her to his bed, she gave no hint of it.

He sighed even as he left the longhouse for a long day of hunting. He had yet to hear from his father. Ingunn was more restrained now, at least in his presence. He had decided, though, that he could not trust her, thus he left one of his men there to simply watch over Zarabeth. She worked, but Ingunn did not try to force her to perform men's tasks, nor did she try to abuse her. As for Cyra, he had decided to give her to Horkel, for his friend fancied her.

Horkel had already had her as well. He had confessed it to Magnus, and to his immense relief, Magnus hadn't killed him.

Magnus had slapped him on the shoulder.

Soon Ingunn would wed, and Zarabeth would . . . His thinking came hard against a wall of his own building. Zarabeth was his slave. He'd sworn he wouldn't make her his wife, not after what she had done to him, to Olav.

He saw a buck in the distance, a shadowy form in the trees, frozen still as a stone, and slowly drew back his bow.

 

The late-afternoon sun was bright. Zarabeth had finished milking the two cows in the byre near the large storage hut. She held the wooden bar over her shoulders, the two filled pails hanging by chains down some three feet to maintain good balance. They didn't hurt her back overly, but she could not take more than small steps.

She looked up at the bright sun and beyond to the other side of the viksfjord at the high pine-covered mountains. It was beautiful, this country, beautiful beyond imagination. And so very warm, the air sweet with the fresh milk she carried. She didn't wish to return immediately to the longhouse, but she knew
there was no choice. It wasn't wise to leave the milk out in the hot sun. It wasn't wise to inflame Ingunn.

She sighed and turned toward the longhouse. Then she heard a cry. Startled, she whirled about, for the sound was rough and garbled. It was Lotti. She didn't remove the wooden bar from her shoulders, merely speeded up. She came to the pile of logs used for burning in the longhouse and saw Egill holding Lotti down on the ground, jerking at her braids, pounding her head against the ground, all the while yelling at her. Zarabeth called out and began to run. The wooden bar and the full pails of milk splashed, and without hesitation she shrugged the bar off her shoulders, sending the pails splashing to the ground.

“Egill!” she screamed, running all the faster. “Stop it! Get off her!”

Lotti was kicking up at the boy's back and twisting wildly beneath him, but he was by far the larger and stronger and Zarabeth was terrified that he would truly hurt her.

“Egill! Stop it!”

He did not seem to hear her. She threw herself at the boy, locking her arms around his chest and lifting upward with all her strength. She heard Lotti's cries, felt the boy's resistance, and screamed at him yet again. She was cursing him, pulling and jerking at him, but he was holding on to Lotti's braids and wouldn't release them.

Suddenly she felt a man's hands on her, pulling her aside. She released her hold on the boy and fell sideways. She watched Magnus raise Egill's face in his palm and simply look at the boy. In the next moment, Egill was standing over Lotti, looking at his feet.

Zarabeth scrambled over to her little sister. “Are you all right, sweeting? Please, Lotti, please!” She frantically felt Lotti's arms and legs, smoothing her gown, cajoling her to open her eyes.

The little girl's eyes remained closed and there were dirt and tears on her face.

“You spilled all the milk, you worthless slut! You did it on purpose!”

It was Ingunn.

Suddenly it was simply too much. Much too much. Zarabeth lifted her sister to her shoulder, rose clumsily to her feet, turned on her heel, and simply walked away. She heard Magnus calling to her, but she ignored him. She heard Ingunn yelling, but she ignored her as well.

She kept walking, through the palisade gates, down the steep path that led to the viksfjord.

“Z
arabeth! Stop!”

She heard him cursing behind her. She paid him no heed. He cursed more loudly now, more foully. She dismissed him and his curses and everything that was a part of him, that was a part of this alien land, a part of these alien people. All her attention was on the narrow steep path in front of her, at the end of which was the boat moored at the small dock. She'd never before rowed a boat, but it simply didn't matter; she would do it. She had no doubts about that.

“Zarabeth! Where are you going? Halt, now!”

She was running now, stumbling and careening wildly on the path, for his voice was closer, but she kept her balance, kept Lotti firmly against her body, pressing the child's face against her shoulder. She knew she wouldn't fall. She looked not at the path but beyond, at the boat. She was nearly there, she was nearly free.

“You'll fall! You'll hurt Lotti! Stop!”

Hurt Lotti!
His son had tried to kill Lotti! She would hurt her? Her sister—the only person in the world who loved her and accepted her and believed in her? She closed out his words, for they distracted her. They had no meaning now. They were behind her, away from her, not a part of her. All she could see was that boat. All she felt was that burning need to be free.
She heard him close behind her now. She ran faster. She felt stones dig into her feet, but the pain was nothing. She felt a stitch in her side, but it didn't slow her. She smiled grimly and held Lotti tighter.

She looked only at that boat.

She ran onto the narrow dock, jerking the rope from its wooden post without slowing, and jumped into the boat. It rocked wildly, but she paid no heed. The boat would not tip over. She set Lotti down, saying nothing, for there was no time, and quickly eased herself down on the bench, grabbed the long wooden oars, and began to row.

Magnus ran full tilt onto the dock, his mouth filled with curses, his soul filled now with raw fear. Zarabeth was a good ten feet beyond him now. He saw that the sun was full in her face, saw her straining clumsily at the oars, but she was moving swiftly, for the current was fast. Each second took her further away from him.

He felt something inside him burst open, and suddenly he was wild, out of control, beyond himself. He felt like a berserker. He yelled, “No!” He gave a mighty cry and dived into the water. The shock of the cold water froze him for a moment, holding him under, but he merely waited until his body accommodated the chill, then kicked upward. His head cleared and he began to swim after the boat. The current was swirling, dangerous, but he was strong and he was determined, more determined than he had ever been in his life.

The viksfjord didn't flow smoothly east into the Oslo Fjord, but was cut off abruptly by a thick finger of land that jutted out into the water, cutting off the violent current, turning into swirling waters, shallow, dangerously shallow. He could tell that Zarabeth knew little to nothing about rowing a boat. Her movements were erratic at best, sending the boat in circles
and sharp angles. It allowed him to draw closer. Her strength would soon be gone and he would then catch her.

He knew Zarabeth saw him. He realized too in that moment that she was somehow apart from what was happening, that she didn't really know what she was doing.

By Thor's hammer, he'd pushed her to this, and something inside her had simply given way. He was terrified. He saw Lotti swivel around on the narrow wooden bench. She saw him and began waving wildly at him, crying out, her sounds hoarse and ugly.

He swam faster, surprising himself with his power. He knew he would catch her when she reached the outjutting land, for she was still close to shore, too close, really, for in this area there were thick beds of water reeds. In that instant a current seized the boat, spinning it completely around, then tilting it wildly toward the land. He heard Lotti cry out and grab the side of the boat. He swam harder, yelling, “Hold on! I'm coming!” He wondered if Zarabeth had heard him, and if she had, if it mattered to her at all. If only there had been another boat, if only his men were here on the shore, if only . . .

Suddenly, without warning, he felt himself sucked down in the bed of water reeds, felt the waving arms tangle about his legs, pulling him inexorably downward. The water was shallow, more shallow than he'd imagined, not more than eight feet deep. He kicked free of them, only to feel himself now swimming into yet another thick bed of reeds, and they were around his legs, closing tightly and pulling him under, and this time he knew it wouldn't be so easy to escape.

He closed his eyes a moment, cursed his father's favorite curses, and pulled the knife from his belt. He drew a deep breath and forced his body to loosen, to let the reeds draw him under. Then he methodically
began to slash himself free of them, but as each one fell away, there was another to take its place, and he was entwined as in a lover's arms, and wondered then if he would die.

He cut wildly through a good dozen of the reeds, enough this time to free himself, and pushed to the surface. He sucked in air and looked at the boat, still some fifteen feet ahead of him. To his horror, he saw that Lotti was teetering on the narrow board seat, shouting at him, waving her small arms toward him. He saw that she was afraid.

She was afraid for him.

He knew then, at that instant, what the child intended, and he yelled as loud as he could, “No, Lotti! Stay there! Zarabeth, hold her!”

But it was too late. The child screamed loud and long, “Papa! Papa!” and jumped into the water, flailing her arms toward him.

Magnus was tired, his arms numb and heavy, but the sight of Lotti jumping into the water to save him turned him into a madman. He swam harder than he ever had in his life. Vaguely he heard Zarabeth calling and shouting, saw her trying to maneuver the small boat around, saw her standing now, trying to find Lotti.

The water reeds, Magnus thought as he neared the spot where he remembered the child jumping. He dived under. The water was murky and the thin-armed reeds were thick, their constant motion spewing up sand and mud from the bottom of the viksfjord. He searched and searched until he thought his lungs would burst and his eyes burn closed.

He flew upward, clearing the surface, gulping in air. He was very close to Zarabeth now, the boat within short feet of him, idle now, stuck amongst the reeds.

He said nothing, merely sucked in air until his lungs felt near to bursting, and dived again. Nothing, and still nothing.

Again and again he dived. He couldn't find her. He came to the surface and saw that there were several of his men surrounding him, each of them taking turns at diving. The water had been so murky he hadn't seen them. If he hadn't seen a man, then a child could be so easily lost, so easily overlooked. He didn't know now exactly where she had jumped. It could have been further away or closer.

He found himself praying, offering anything—his very soul to Odin—if only Lotti would magically appear and be all right. If only she would surface and scream “Papa” at him.

He dived again.

He felt his arms being jerked up, and his head cleared the water. He fought until he realized that Horkel was holding one arm, Ragnar the other. He looked at them blankly.

“Hold, Magnus,” Horkel said, but Magnus fought him, pulling both him and Ragnar beneath the water.

They released him and Magnus dived another time, and then once more after that, even though he knew there was no hope. The current wasn't strong here, for they were too close to the outjutting land and too close to shore and immersed in the water reeds. Lotti was only five years old. She had either been swept toward the Oslo Fjord around the outjutting land, or she'd been caught and buried in the water reeds.

He came to the surface, and the first person he saw was Zarabeth. She was in the water, one hand on the side of the boat, and she was calling, tears streaming down her face, calling and pleading for Lotti to come back to her.

Magnus couldn't bear it. He lifted his head to the heavens and cried out, a howling animal sound, savage and deep, so filled with anguish that his men froze at the pain of it.

Zarabeth heard that cry, saw the misery on his face,
and knew in that instant that Lotti was gone. Lotti was dead. She began shaking her head, screaming, “No! She isn't dead! She's there, somewhere! No!”

To Magnus' horror, she pushed away from the boat, struggling frantically as she continued to call for her sister. Magnus saw immediately that she couldn't swim. He caught up to her and grasped her arm, pulling her back to the boat. She fought him with amazing strength, until he realized, dimly, that he was exhausted.

Horkel caught her other arm, and together they got her back to the boat. Magnus pulled himself aboard, then took Zarabeth's arms and lifted her upright. But he couldn't bring her on board, she was fighting him too hard.

He leaned down and struck her jaw with his fist. She crumbled and he hauled her over the side.

Horkel said, “The men and I will try for a little while longer, we'll go out into a wider circle, but, Magnus, the current swirls about oddly here, and those damned water reeds can sap the strength of a grown man, and the child is so small—”

“Aye, I know it too well.”

He wanted to dive again, but he knew that when Zarabeth regained consciousness she would leap over the side, and he would lose her too.

He fretted, feeling more helpless than he'd ever felt in his life, then hauled Zarabeth into his arms. She was cold, her body limp, her beautiful red hair matted and tangled across her face. He smoothed the hair back and cupped her face between her hands, saying, “They're trying, Zarabeth, they're trying. Ah, by Odin, I'm sorry, so very sorry.” He raised his head then at a shout from one of the men. They'd found Lotti!

He felt excitement and hope; then it died. Tostig had brought up a log.

He knew that Lotti was dead. He even accepted it.
Too much time had passed. He knew it, but he found he simply couldn't accept it. The child had died trying to save him. She'd called him Papa and she'd jumped into the water because she thought he was drowning.

He couldn't bear it. He lowered his head against Zarabeth's forehead and cried.

Time lost meaning. He saw the men either swim to shore or climb into the boat. He saw Horkel take the oars. It seemed but a moment later that the boat was once again firmly tied to the Malek dock. Magnus carried Zarabeth up the narrow path that led to the palisade. The men were trailing behind, silent and grim, colder now even with the hot sun beating down on them, for they had lost.

Zarabeth stirred against his shoulder. He hugged her tighter to him, thinking she would struggle when she realized he was holding her. But she didn't struggle. He knew she was awake, but she didn't move.

“I'm sorry I struck you,” he said, his eyes on the trail.

Her voice was a thin thread of sound. “Lotti?”

His throat was clogged with tears. He could only shake his head.

She tried to lurch out of his hold. She twisted and fought him until he stopped and set her down, holding her upper arms in his hands. He shook her. “Stop it! We could do no more. Do you understand me, Zarabeth? We could do no more!”

“No! You're lying! Please, Magnus, please! Let me go. I must find her or she'll be hurt, hurt . . .”

She was crying, tears streaming down her face, and she was twisting and flailing at him, until once again he struck her jaw and she fell forward against him.

“You had to do it, Magnus,” Horkel said. “Do you want me to carry her now?”

Magnus merely shook his head and lifted her once again in his arms.

“You did all you could. All of us did. Once we realized what had happened, all of us were in the water searching for her. She died quickly, Magnus. With little pain. You must remember that.”

He nodded. Tears thickened in his throat, and he kept his eyes on the trail in front of him.

He had never imagined such pain as this. It was inside him, deep and clawing and unremitting, and he knew that nothing could magically halt it. He remembered when he had been but ten years old and his little sister had died. But her death had not brought him anything like this pain.

He heard Horkel say gently beside him, “You knew, deep down you knew, Magnus, that the child couldn't have survived. By Thor, man, she couldn't hear!”

“What, then, Horkel? Better she die now than in two years? Three years?”

“I'm only saying that it was inevitable and no one's fault, not yours, not Zarabeth's. Not Egill's either.”

Magnus knew Horkel was right, but it didn't ease a whit of the deadening pain.

There was an eager audience awaiting them inside the palisade, for everyone knew that something of import had happened. Even Ingunn was silent, wondering, waiting, and hopeful that the woman was dead. After all, Magnus was carrying her, and she was limp, her head lolling on his arm, and she was wet, so very wet, and deathly pale.

But the woman wasn't dead, and Ingunn felt impotent rage flow through her. The woman stirred. Ingunn stepped forward, blocking her brother's path, suddenly hopeful that Magnus had finally realized the worthlessness of the woman. She had dumped all the milk, hadn't she? And just for that little witless sister of hers.