Season of the Sun (2 page)

M
agnus decided to meet her at the well that lay in the middle of Coppergate, a social place where the men lounged about in the late afternoons, gossiping and telling tall stories that had no more truth now than they'd had a hundred years before. The women drew water and sat near the men, sewing their wool cloth into jerkins and gowns and watching the children. The children played near them, their laughter heard all the way to Micklegate. It was a brief time of ease after a hard day, and a time for talk.

Magnus strode into the wide square, eyeing the small groups of men, an unconscious reaction, for in his experience just two men could attack unwary prey and dispatch that prey easily and quickly. He'd waited until he saw Zarabeth, coming now to the well to draw water in her wooden pail. She was alone; the little girl wasn't with her.

He walked to her, determination in every step, sparing not a word to any of the others, and said, even as she was lowering her pail into the well, “My name is Magnus Haraldsson. I am a farmer merchant and I and my family live near Kaupang in Norway. I am not a poor man, nor am I cruel or vicious, and I wish to wed with you.”

Zarabeth dropped the bucket. She stared down in dismay into the darkness of the well, at last hearing the pail thunk into the water. She straightened and turned slowly to the man who'd startled her.

She found herself looking at his throat; then she lifted her face until she met his eyes. That in itself was a surprise, for she was used to staring men straight in the face. “I beg your pardon? You
what
?” She shook her head, wanting to laugh at what she'd thought he had said. “Nay, surely I mistook your words. Forgive me, but I thought you said that . . . But no. What did you say to me, sir?”

Magnus said again, still patient, for he was enchanted with the laughter and sweetness of her voice, “I said I want to wed with you. My name is Magnus Haraldsson. Your name is difficult for me, but I will say it now and come to say it with ease soon enough—Zarabeth.”

He accented it charmingly, at least to her ear, and she smiled, despite his outlandish words and his beyond-foolish proposal, if he indeed were serious, which she strongly doubted. He didn't look like a man who'd drunk too much mead or ale. It had been a long, tiring day, and his words cheered her, serious or no. He was a handsome man, rugged and hewn from strong stock, young and tall and well-made, as blond as most other of his countrymen, his hair a thick deep blond, and his eyes were as blue as a summer sky over York, clear and unleached by shades of gray.

She tilted her head to the side, still smiling. He was brazen, this Viking. She peered down the well. “My bucket is lost. What am I to do?”

Magnus looked down at her, fascinated by how that smile of hers lit and warmed her green eyes. “I'll get your bucket for you. My name is Magnus—”

“I know,” Zarabeth said. “Magnus Haraldsson, and you are a farmer and a trader and you are not cruel or vicious and you want to wed with me.”

He frowned. She was forward, this woman with her foreign name and her laughing smile. She was mocking him, pretending to seriousness, and he didn't like
it. “Aye,” he said, his voice cool now. “I want to wed with you. Now I'll retrieve your pail for you.”

She stepped back and watched whilst he strode like a conqueror to the smithies' forge just to the other side of the square. He returned almost immediately with a long wooden pole, hooked on one end. He leaned over the well, and she heard the water swishing about below. She heard him speak, but it wasn't loud enough for her to make out the words. She imagined that he was cursing. He tried, she gave him that, really tried to retrieve her wooden pail, but it had sunk deeper than the pole would reach. Finally he gave it up and straightened, turning to face her.

“I could not reach it. I will replace your pail since my words made you drop it.”

Zarabeth was charmed. “There is no need for you to do that. My own clumsiness caused its loss. You just startled me, 'twas your only fault.” She paused a moment, smiling up at him. “You know my name, but you haven't really met me. I am Zarabeth, stepdaughter of Olav the fur merchant, and—”

“And you would like to wed with me now that you've met me,” he finished for her, his voice utterly matter-of-fact. “You are decisive. That is good in a woman.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is good that you are a woman with a quick mind and decisive wits. I will speak to Olav the Vain and we will settle on a brideprice and then—”

“I won't wed with you!”

He frowned down at her. “Why not? You just said that you would.”

“I said nothing of the sort. I don't know you. I have never seen you before in my life until but minutes ago. You made me lose my pail. Now, what is this all about?”

“I am a farmer merchant. I have come to York to
trade, as I do several times a year. I saw you two days ago and I've been watching you. I have decided you will do nicely as my wife. You will suit me. You will bring me pleasure and bear my children and you will warm my hearth and prepare my meals and sew my tunics.”

Zarabeth, once charmed by his brazenness, was off-put by his arrogance, a commodity of which he had aplenty. She was no longer amused by him, for she realized at last that he was utterly serious. And a serious Northman, she'd heard all her life, wasn't to be trifled with. But it made no sense. It sounded as if he needed a slave, after the list he'd made of his expectations of her. She felt a tingling of alarm, for his eyes had narrowed and he no longer had the look of a man of easy nature and ready laugh. Still, she wouldn't back down, she wouldn't show her ill-ease with him.

“And that's all you have to say, Magnus Haraldsson? You believe I would suit you? You make it sound like I would be your drudge. No, no, let me finish. Too, I might be an awful creature for all you know of me, a shrew of loud and vicious tongue perhaps. As for you, perhaps you beat women? Perhaps you don't bathe and smell sour as the rotted innards of a weasel? Perhaps—”

“That is quite enough, Zarabeth.” He paused a moment, as if the sound of her name surprised him. Then he grasped her upper arms in his large hands. She froze, then forced herself to relax. They were standing in the middle of the Coppergate square and there were dozens of people she knew around them, some of them even now staring toward her at this moment. She needn't worry. She smiled at him again, but it was a nervous, uncertain smile, and he recognized it.

“I don't mean to frighten you, but when I make up my mind it is done. I bathe often, as is the custom in
my country, and I don't smell sour. Sniff me now if you will. I have all my teeth and I don't carry fat on my belly. Men cannot fight to their best ability if they carry fat on their bodies. I never will. I don't beat women.” He paused, frowning, then shrugged. “I do have a slave, Cyra, who much enjoys a belt on her thighs and buttocks, but I give it to her sparingly, for I do not wish to spoil her.”

Zarabeth could but stare at him, all else forgotten. “You have a slave who likes you to beat her? In those . . . places? That is absurd! I do not believe you. Why?”

Magnus shrugged again. “It is as I said. She is a woman of strong and ardent passions, and the pain on her buttocks adds to her pleasure when I finally take her.” His eyes narrowed on her stunned face. “Why would you disbelieve me? I speak the truth, Zarabeth. You will soon learn that I don't lie.”

“I don't disbelieve you, but perhaps you should temper this extreme truth of yours with judicious omission. The thought of anyone striking me in those places . . . well, it isn't at all to my liking.”

“Then I won't. If you don't wish it, I shan't ever strike you, even if you eventually say you want it.”

“I don't desire it,” she said, fascinated anew by him despite herself. “I won't ever want that.” He was looking down at her, and the look in those blue eyes of his had changed, shifting subtly, and she knew with a knowledge she hadn't realized was already within her that he was thinking of her without her clothing on. “Would you please release me now, Magnus?”

“No. I like the feel of your flesh beneath my fingers. You are warm and soft and I can smell your woman's scent.”

“Then will you at least ease your hold? I am easily bruised.”

He frowned at that and his fingers quickly became
gentle as sunlight on her upper arms and as warm as the middle-summer sun, though it was still early spring.

He continued to stare down at her, his look thoughtful and intent. “You will tell me what it is that gives you enjoyment. I'm accounted a man who does well with a woman. I am not selfish in the giving of pleasure. And you would be my wife. I should like to please you, to give you the delight of my body and yours. It would be your right to be pleased by me, your husband.”

His words were quiet and deep and confident. She continued looking up at him, so absorbed by him that she didn't consider turning away. She said in a small, soft voice, without hesitation, “I don't know what pleases me.”

His face changed with the smile that suddenly appeared, and pleasure radiated from him. “Ah, that is good. We shall learn together, then. I will try not to disappoint you.” He paused then, and he looked at his long fingers that were even now lightly kneading her upper arms. “I wanted to see you closely. You are as fair as I had thought. Your flesh is very white. I've been watching you now for two days.”

“My skin is very fair. More so than yours.”

“Aye, 'tis because you're Irish. Am I not right?”

She nodded and he saw the pain flash in her eyes and wondered at it.

“Both your mother and father were Irish? Are they both dead, even your mother?” At her slow nod, he said, “When did she die?”

“Three years ago. Her name was Mara. Olav, my stepfather, met her in Limerick and wedded her when I was only eight years old. My father had died but a year before, and living was not easy for her, a woman alone with a child. We came here.”

“The little girl I saw you with yesterday, she is Olav's child?”

Her chin went up and he was pleased at this unconscious arrogance in her, but it also puzzled him. What had he said to put her on guard? “Aye,” she said finally, “Lotti is my little sister. Who her father is matters not to me.”

“Then Olav is her father.”

“Aye, but I love her and she is mine.”

“Nay, she is your stepfather's.”

Zarabeth simply shrugged and looked away from him. He guessed she wished to say more about the little girl, but his firmness had directed her away from it, and she said only, “It matters not what opinion you hold. I must go now. To find a new pail. I cannot dally.”

“I will give you one.” Even as she began to shake her head, he added, his voice calm and low, “From this moment forward, my every opinion will count in your life. My every act will touch you, for you will belong to me. You will heed my words and consider them your guidance. Forget it not, Zarabeth. Now, shall I accompany you to your house? To meet your stepfather? Does he ask a large brideprice?”

It was her turn to place her hand on his forearm. She'd gone from amused outrage at his presumptuousness to something like a numb acceptance that scared her to death. Was she losing her wits entirely? She didn't know this man who'd accosted her but minutes before. “Magnus, please, you move swiftly, much too swiftly. I don't know you. You must understand.” She stopped, realizing she was wringing her hands. She was so startled by her action that she was silent for many moments. He too remained silent, waiting for her to finish speaking. She drew a deep breath and continued in her usual calm way, “If you wish it, I will meet you on the morrow, here, if you
like. We can talk, speak of your life in Norway, of other things too. I must come to know you better. It is all I can agree to now. Can you accept that?”

“You will come to know me well when you are my wife.” He saw that she would still argue with him. He looked impatient, frustrated, which he was, yet he smiled down at her then, and it was a smile of sincerity and tenderness and it made something shift inside her, something warm and wondrous strange, something unusual and unknown. “You are a woman of importance to me. I will move more slowly, though it pains me to have to do so, but hear this, Zarabeth: I will have you as my wife and that will happen very soon. I wish to return home in ten days.”

“Ten days! Why, 'tis impossible! You ask me to—” She broke off, words for once in her life failing her. She waved her hands wildly around her. “This is my home, where I've spent the past ten years of my life! I know nothing of your Norway, save that all its people are fair and blond and brutal and vicious. They sail into towns in their long boats and they murder and ravish and take everything!”

“I am not vicious.”

“Ah, do you not go araiding then? Do you not steal and pillage and rape and destroy?”

“From time to time. One grows bored, and there is always need for coin and for silver and gold. It is the wanderlust too that seems to be bred in all Vikings. Undiscovered places to explore, peoples you cannot imagine living in strange ways and wearing strange clothing and speaking in gibberish tongues. I will take you with me, at least when I am trading, if you would wish to go with me.”