Season of the Sun (4 page)

“Why?”

“He thought I seemed different; he noticed I was somehow bemused, I suppose.”

“Naturally,” he said, and his arrogance made her smile. “Why didn't you speak to him of me?”

“I did, finally, but not about what you wanted. I wasn't really certain that it was what you really wanted. Me, that is. You could have changed your mind.”

“I have told you I do not lie. I am not pleased with you, Zarabeth. I want to wed with you, and that is that. It should not have been difficult for you to tell him what you wanted and what would happen. I will go to his shop now. I have trading to do and he is as honest as most merchants here. I will deal with both my furs and you.”

She grabbed his sleeve, panic filling her. “Wait, Magnus, please. You must understand something about my stepfather. He seems jealous of men who pay attention to me. I don't know why, truly, but 'tis true, and it frightens me.” To her chagrin, Zarabeth actually wrung her hands. Again she was shocked at herself. However, that action, so utterly female, touched him as nothing else could have.

He smiled down at her, lightly caressing her cheek with his knuckles. “Don't worry, little one, I will take care of Olav the Vain.”

“I'm not at all little.”

“You are to me.” He paused, looking at her, stopping at her breasts. “I want you naked, Zarabeth, and I want you beneath me. I want to kiss your breasts and fit myself between your legs. It tries me to wait to have you.”

She caught her breath. She thought she had come to understand him just a bit; then he would catch her off-guard, shocking her, making her turn red with the explicitness of his words.

She turned away, looking down at the muddy rivulets that ran black near her booted feet. There was refuse everywhere, by the well, from both human and
animal. She breathed in deeply. The air was filled with human and animal smells, few of them pleasant. The air itself seemed heavy with the weight of people, always people, too many people. She said suddenly, “This valley where you live, Magnus, it it clean?”

“The air is so pure you will want to suck it into the very depths of you. There are more and more people in the valley each year, for the land is fertile and they want to survive and thus seek to work for me, but there is still enough space for all of us and our boundless fields. There is not the filth of towns like York, Zarabeth.”

She was silent.

“I will take you to Kiev someday. There the air is so sharp and pure and cold it hurts you to breathe. Then it rains and snows and you want to die from the endlessness of it all. You see, if you chance to sail into Kiev too late in the fall, why, then you could be forced to remain until spring. The river freezes, you know, and you are a captive for at least six months.”

She looked at him then, and there was hunger in her eyes, such hunger that it startled him with its intensity, and he continued, wooing her with the magic of the places he was painting with words. “And the steppes, Zarabeth, nothing but miles and miles of thick dry grass, and then suddenly there's nothing but stretches of barren land for as far as the eye can see. No trees, no bushes, nothing, just that endless savage land. Little survives on the steppes. They are awesome in their primitive beauty. The people who live there are savage and give no quarter. But then again, you would expect none, for they are as they are because they must be to endure.”

“You would truly take me to see these places?”

He nodded. “Aye, I'll take you trading with me. But when we reach Miklagard, I will have to take care to protect you, cover your hair and your face with a
veil, for the men there would seek to capture you from me. The vivid red of your hair”—he touched his palm to her braids—“and the green of your eyes, aye, they would want you and they would try to take you from me.”

“I remember Ireland, the vivid green of the trees and grass. It rained so much there, you see, more than it does here, and the colors were richer, almost lavish, and they blinded the eye. But there was always fighting, endless attacks by the Vikings on the Irish and by the Irish on the Vikings, and so much misery, and it never stopped. My father died in one of the attacks.” She stopped, gazing again around the square. “But this is a vastly different place and I have grown to a woman here. There is much here that interests me, mistake me not, and I have many friends, but . . .” She broke off, struggling to explain, but she couldn't find the words to suit her feelings. She shrugged. “I grow foolish.”

“Nay, not foolish, merely you have a Viking's longing for other places, the longing to taste the endless variety of the world. Everything I learn about you pleases me. Once you've wedded me, the life you wish will begin.”

“You make it sound so very easy, so effortless. I have never found life to be so accommodating.”

“It is. You must simply trust me and believe in me. Give yourself to me.”

“There is something else, Magnus. There is my little sister, Lotti. She is my responsibility and I would wish her to be with me.”

That gave him considerable pause. “What about her father? Olav doesn't want her?”

“Nay, he detests her.”

“Very well, then, I will take two females home with me. Now, Zarabeth, I will go speak to Olav.”

She looked deep within herself, was content, and said, “You're certain you wish to wed me?”

“Never doubt me, Zarabeth.” He kissed her again and was gone.

O
lav felt his breath hitch in his chest when the Viking strode into his shop. There was no mistake, this man was the one Zarabeth had spoken about. She had lied. This man was formidable, arrogant, and she desired him. He looked like a man who was used to having exactly what he wanted when he wanted it. He looked a proud bastard.

Aye, she wanted this man. She didn't want her stepfather. She would leave with this man without a backward look. He felt rage fill him. Zarabeth was just like her whore of a mother, Mara, ready to leave everything important for a handsome face and glib promises. She had probably believed every lying word out of the man's mouth. Aye, she was just like Mara, that witch who'd beguiled him and seduced him into taking her for his wife. He wouldn't allow Zarabeth to leave him, not like Mara had. He drew a deep breath, schooling his features, and prayed his thoughts didn't show on his face. He recognized that this man, young as he was, was nevertheless an enemy to be reckoned with. He had no intention of underestimating him, not for a single moment. He dropped the pelt he was examining and moved forward to greet the Viking courteously. They exchanged names.

Magnus eyed Olav the Vain. A fine-looking man despite his years. He was well-garbed in fine woolen trousers and a soft blue woolen tunic. His soft leather
belt was studded with jet and amber. He wore three silver rings on his right hand and one heavy gold ring on his left. There were three armlets of fine silver inset with amber on his right arm. He was certainly better clothed than his stepdaughter, Magnus thought, his jaw tightening. But despite Olav's adornment, despite his display of wealth, there was a paunch at his belly that couldn't be hidden by the wide belt, and a distinct sagging of his jowls beneath that gray-threaded beard of his. But to be fair, he was nearly as tall as Magnus and looked reasonably fit for his years. Magnus disliked him immediately and intensely. He didn't waste time. He said without preamble, “I have come for two reasons, Olav. The first and most important is that I wish to wed with your stepdaughter, Zarabeth. The second is that I wish to trade with you. I bring fine beaver and otter pelts from the Gravak Valley in Norway. Also I have sea ivory from walrus tusks, antler, and birds' feathers for pillows, all from the Lapps who live to the north. When we reach agreement, I wish to be paid in silver.”

“Naturally,” Olav said, dazed a moment at the thought of the birds' feathers. King Guthrum wanted feather pillows for himself and his new consort, wanted them badly, and no one had been able to suit his fancy with the proper kind of feathers. The man who would bring the desired feathers to him would doubtless place himself in favor with the Danelaw king. The young man stood before him—arrogant and proud and sure of himself. Aye, Olav's initial impression of him had been quite correct. And he was comely as a man should be: lean, strong, amazingly handsome, as most of the Norwegians were, with his thick blond hair and vivid blue eyes. He was clean-shaven and possessed of a stubborn square jaw. There was a small cleft in his chin. A mark of the devil, some of the more backward Saxons would claim, and
cross themselves. Olav merely wanted to kill him and steal his feathers. Instead, he said easily, “I will willingly trade with you, Magnus Haraldsson, if your goods are of the quality I require. Now that I know your name, I realize I have heard of you from other traders. Your name is respected.”

Magnus merely nodded. “Now, I would know the brideprice for Zarabeth.”

Olav wished he held a dagger in his hand. He wished he could strangle the life out of this insolent man with his bare hands. At the moment he didn't care about the damned birds' feathers, he didn't care about anything but killing this man. But he didn't have a weapon, nor did he have the strength to kill the Viking with his bare hands. He played for time, saying, “Zarabeth is my only daughter, aye, and even though she carries not my blood, it matters not to me that she doesn't, for I hold her in high esteem. So high is my esteem that I give her free choice to choose her mate. As for her brideprice, it is beyond what most men could pay, for she is valuable, not only to me but also to a man who would wish to take her from me.”

“What is her brideprice?”

Olav raised a thick blond eyebrow. “First, Magnus Haraldsson, she would have to tell me that she wished to wed with you. I will not discuss brideprice until I know that I am speaking seriously.”

“Zarabeth wants me, doubt it not. I do not lie. What is her brideprice?”

Olav knew that a brideprice quoted to a Viking meant that if the Viking believed the price too high, he would simply steal the woman with no more bargaining, and no warning at all. Thus Olav shook his head. He would take no chances that the Viking would kidnap Zarabeth and sail back to Norway with her. “Not as yet, Magnus Haraldsson. First I must
speak with my stepdaughter. If she tells me that she wants you—without your being present to coerce her or in any way influence her—why, then we will discuss the brideprice.”

Magnus was impatient to have it done, impatient with this old man and his delaying tactics, but he supposed that Olav was behaving as a parent should. He assumed his father had behaved the same way when young men had asked to wed his younger sister, Ingunn, before she had decided not to wed and to come live with him and take care of his farmstead. He remembered vaguely the discussion between his father and Dalla's father, watching each man preen and strut out his offspring's virtues and ignore the failings. The young people's lust wasn't mentioned, as Magnus remembered.

He smiled then, mostly from that memory, and said, “Very well, Olav. I will return on the morrow to discuss what you will ask for her.” Magnus left without another word, strode from the shop without a backward glance. Olav's fingers itched for that dagger. They also itched for the birds' feathers. He would have liked to see the dagger vibrating from the force of his throw between the Viking's shoulder blades. As for the feathers, he would like to see them beneath King Guthrum's head and himself a richer man. He shouldn't have let the Viking leave, for he doubted that on the morrow he would be so eager to sell the feathers to Olav. Others would tell him of their value, curse the fates.

Olav did not immediately go to speak to Zarabeth, for if he found her now he might kill her, so great was his rage, his sense of betrayal.

What to do?

He knew without doubt that she was his and she would remain with him. Ah, but this Viking, this Magnus Haraldsson, he was a man to judge carefully, for
he was no simple merchant's son to be easily manipulated or dangled about. He was a man of determination and strength of purpose as well. Olav worked steadily, dealing with other traders, showing his wares to buyers, coming out the victor in most of his negotiations, for he was talented in bargaining, swift in his wits, and adaptable in his tactics. He waited until the evening meal.

When he stepped through the back of his shop into the living area, he saw that Zarabeth looked flushed. Her eyes looked brilliant. He felt his body harden. She was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, her mother included. Because it was warm in the room, tendrils of deep red curled about her face and forehead. He wanted her now, but he wasn't stupid, and knew he must bide his time. It was with near-pain that he watched her, content for the moment to say nothing.

He watched her bend over to stir a spicy-smelling stew in the iron cook pot. He watched her scoop a fresh loaf of bread from its place over the ashes of the fire and wrap it in a square of coarse wool to keep it warm. He waited until she had served him, waited until she was seated beside the idiot child, then said with the calm of the eye of a storm, “A Viking named Magnus Haraldsson came to see me today. He wants to do some trading with me.”

She looked up, the peas falling from her spoon. “Trading?” she said blankly. She paled just a bit. “He wished to speak to you about
trading
?”

“Aye. It seems he has feathers, exotic feathers he obtained from the Lapps. King Guthrum seeks feathers for pillows. Perhaps you heard—”

“Feathers? You spoke of
feathers
?”

“Aye, and other things, of course.” He saw her lean forward, her lips parting slightly. “He has otter and beaver pelts as well.”

She stared at him, white now, silent as death itself. He smiled, delighted, took another bite of the beef stew, shrugged with elaborate indifference, and said, “Oh, he did mention that he wished to wed with you.”

She drew back and he saw her release a breath of relief. She was nearly standing now, tense and excited. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him that it would be your decision.”

“Ah.”

“I told him I wouldn't discuss a brideprice with him until you had assured me that you wished to wed with him. Do you wish it, Zarabeth?”

She paused then, a frown furrowing her forehead. “I've known him but two days, Olav. But I feel like I have truly known him for much longer. I suppose it sounds odd, what I've said, but he is a good man, I think, a strong man, and he would make me a fine husband.”

“You speak as though you were discussing the merits of a new cloak. He is a man, Zarabeth, a man who is doubtless brutal and cruel, a man who will have what he wants, no matter what he must do it get it.” His voice rose to a near-shout. “You foolish girl, don't you understand his kind? Are you so besotted that you can't see the violence in him, the ruthlessness?”

Zarabeth felt Lotti stiffen next to her, afraid at her father's raised voice. She turned and spoke softly to the little girl. “Nay, sweeting, 'tis nothing to concern you. Here, eat the cabbage, 'tis sweet and tasty.” Zarabeth cut the cabbage into small pieces as she spoke, and handed Lotti a full spoon. When Lotti had eased next to her, chewing slowly and thoughtfully, as was her wont, her attention back on her dinner, Zarabeth turned to her stepfather.

“You are of his kind, Olav, at least your father was.”

“Aye, perhaps, but I've lived my life by my wits,
not my sword and ax. I don't raid King Alfred's shores and kill his people or enslave them.”

“I imagine that you've wanted to.”

Olav eyed her closely, but her voice remained bland, her face expressionless. “Perhaps, but that isn't the point. Tell me, then, that you wish to wait, Zarabeth. You don't know this man, this Magnus Haraldsson. He could be a raider, he could be as savage as the berserkers.”

She shook her head. “Nay, he isn't like that.”

“And just what is he like, this Viking of yours you've known for two whole days?”

His sarcasm didn't really touch her. He was worried about her, that was all. But he hadn't worried about Lotti or her mother, beautiful Mara, whom he'd sworn over and over to Zarabeth and everyone else that he hadn't killed, beautiful Mara, who nonetheless had been found with her dead lover, her head smashed. Zarabeth shook away the memories. Olav had had the care of her since her mother's death three years before. He hadn't berated her overly, but neither had he ever shown any kindness to his own daughter, Lotti. “I've told you,” she said now. “He is kind. He would be a good husband. He has said that he will take me trading with him, that we will visit faraway places like Miklagard and Kiev.”

Olav felt rage twisting and roiling in his belly. He saw the Viking covering Zarabeth as a man would a woman, and taking her, and at the same time he saw Zarabeth welcoming him into her body, smiling at him, urging him into her and moaning with the pleasure of it. She had spoken of how kind the Viking was, how good he was. What puke! What she wanted was to have him corrupt her. Olav turned away for a moment until he had gained control again. The expression he presented to her after but a moment was one of gentle concern. He had learned to shield
any vigorous emotions he felt from her, for Zarabeth was unpredictable and he didn't know what she would do if he treated her as he wished to. No, he had come to realize during the last year that she wasn't a woman of a woman's expected parts and pieces. She'd grown in different ways, he could sense it, feel it in the way she spoke of things, in the way she freely expressed her opinions around men. She should have been beaten for that, but Olav had been afraid to touch her. She did keep his home, surely, weaving and sewing and cooking and cleaning, doing all those things women were supposed to do. Aye, she did those things, did them well and willingly, but still there was something in her, something wild and as savage as her ancestors in Ireland; something as wild and savage as in that damned Viking.

She would leave him without a backward glance if she wanted to. She didn't feel the dependence a woman was supposed to feel, even though the world was a capricious place, filled with life one moment and bloody death the next, be it by outlaws, the accursed raiding Vikings, or by nature in a spate of fury. He also guessed she'd leave him if ever he hurt Lotti. He studiously ignored the child as a result, saying nothing to her that would anger Zarabeth. He said finally, chewing on a piece of soft bread, “What if I were to tell you that Magnus Haraldsson is a renegade and nothing more than a barbarian pirate who preys on the traders who ply the Baltic?”

Zarabeth looked at him and smiled. Nothing more; she just smiled.

“Very well, so he isn't a renegade or a pirate.” Olav poured himself more ale into the beautiful clouded-blue Rhenish glass. “But he could be something worse, Zarabeth.” He sipped it slowly, looking at Zarabeth over the rim to gauge her reaction. There was none, nothing save that superior smile of hers. He had
to think, to marshal his arguments. He wouldn't lose Zarabeth.