Season of the Sun (5 page)

“I ask that you make no decision this night or tomorrow. You are not a flighty girl to decide her life in a matter of moments. I ask that you wait, that you spend more time with this man, that you be certain he is what you wish.” He also wanted to demand that she not give her maidenhead to this man, not yet, but he couldn't find the words.

Zarabeth simply stared at him. She hadn't expected him to be so reasonable, so caring toward her. She'd prepared herself to do battle. She felt herself warming despite the fact that she knew it was a stupid thing to do. Still, it didn't matter now. She would be gone from Olav soon enough. “Thank you, Olav,” she said, “thank you. I shall do it. I will make my final decision by the end of the week.”

He nodded, content. That gave him three days to determine what to do to stop this marauding bastard from taking her away from him. At that moment Lotti tipped over her wooden cup, filled to the top with goat's milk. It splattered on Olav's fine woolen sleeve before he could jerk his arm away. He felt his face redden with anger at the clumsy little idiot, but he managed to hold his tongue.

Zarabeth patted Lotti's small hand, then rose. “Let me clean it for you, Olav.” She rubbed his sleeve, but it was likely the milk would stain the fine pale blue wool. He was foolish to wear such finery, she thought as she leaned down, rubbing at the spot, then gently patting it.

Olav stared at her bowed head, at the rich vivid red of her hair and her smooth white flesh, those long slender fingers of hers. Toward the end there, Mara's flesh hadn't been as smooth or as soft as Zarabeth's. In the candlelight, Zarabeth's red hair was more muted, a deeper autumn-leaf color, and so
rich-looking he wanted to bury his face in it. He breathed in the scent of her.

The smell of her was enough to make him hard and ready. To have her so close to him, so close he could hear her breathing, nearly undid him. He looked up to see Lotti staring at him, her small face solemn, her eyes wide and frightened.

The little fool couldn't understand desire, and he knew that was what she saw on his face. Why was she afraid? He'd never struck her since that time before. Zarabeth nodded her head and straightened.

“There won't be a stain,” she said, and she blew on the wet wool. He saw her breasts move and he couldn't bear it. He would take her, he had to, and soon. As soon as the Viking was gone, he would make things clear to her.

He looked over at Lotti and suddenly knew exactly what he would do. Even though he had realized for a long time that Lotti was his only power over Zarabeth, he simply hadn't really admitted it to himself. But now he did, and now he knew that he would use the child, without hesitation. The time for turning back had come and gone.

There was a knock on the outer door to his shop and Olav pulled away from Zarabeth, jumping to his feet. “I know not who it is, but have more ale ready,” he said over his shoulder, as he walked the length of the room, lifting the thick fur that separated the living quarters from his front shop, and disappeared.

Lotti made a strange sound and Zarabeth whipped about to look at her. The little girl had stuffed her fist in her mouth. Her eyes—a deep golden color—were wide and scared. Her hair was the color of ginger root and wrapped in braids around her small head. Her skin was fair, with a smattering of freckles over her nose.

Zarabeth dropped to her knees beside her sister.
She spoke clearly and firmly. “There is nothing to be afraid of, Lotti. Your father won't ever hurt you, I swear it. You belong to me and I will always take care of you. Do you understand, sweeting?”

The child looked at her, and her look of fear faded. She smiled and patted Zarabeth's hand. At that moment Zarabeth felt something inside her clench and twist at the look of complete trust on her little sister's face. No one should accord another such trust and belief, yet Lotti believed in her unconditionally. Zarabeth knew she was but a woman, not trained in weapons to defend either herself or Lotti. Still, it didn't matter. She would never allow it to matter. She rose slowly, brushing off her gown.

Olav returned to the room, followed by his son, Keith. A man shorter than his father, Keith had dark hair and dark eyes, a sallow complexion, and a thick beard of which he was inordinately proud. He had the habit of stroking his fingers through the coarse strands endlessly. Keith was the image, Olav had always said with just a bit of sarcasm, of his mother. He was well-formed and not unhandsome, despite the slight limp from a broken leg when he had been a boy. There was also a thin scar from his temple to his jaw, but it didn't disfigure him. He wasn't stupid, though he hadn't been able to copy his father's success as a trader. He had not the talent, but Olav wouldn't admit it. He was easily manipulated, Olav would say, shaking his head, though he was the one who usually did the manipulating. Aye, poor Keith was easily swayed, by other traders, by the tanner, by the smithy, by the jeweler—the list was endless.

He was twenty-two, married to a woman who pretended subservience in his presence and was a sharp-tongued bitch when he was gone from her. To his credit, he had, for the most part, simply ignored Zarabeth when his father had brought her and Mara
back to York, showing neither like nor dislike for her. But it seemed to her that he had somehow changed during the past few months. He came more often to his father's house, many times without Toki, and she had seen him looking at her while he stroked his beard, pretending to listen to his father's endless stream of advice. She took care never to be alone with him.

She saw him staring at her now, and nodded, her expression remaining passive.

“Where is your wife?” Olav was asking his son.

“Toki is at home, where she belongs. She has her woman's curse and claims she is ailing.” Keith shrugged and looked toward the wooden bottle of ale. “You bought her for me, you know her well enough. She has more of her mother's character by the month. I am the only one who knows her sweetness of nature.”

Zarabeth wanted to hoot with laughter at Keith's summing-up of his wife's character. Olav chose to ignore his son's whining and the hint of bitterness. By all the gods, he did know Toki's mother, a creature to make a man's rod shrivel. He said only, his voice vague, for his thoughts were still of the damned Viking and Zarabeth, “Excellent. Would you like a cup of ale?”

Keith nodded and seated himself at the table. He said to Zarabeth, “You are well, sister?”

She nodded, saying nothing as she poured him ale.

“And the little one?”

“Lotti is also well.'

Olav shrugged, giving his son a helpless look. “She is useless, but what can I do? She even spilled goat's milk on my sleeve.”

“You could have taken her out of the city and left her,” Keith said, his voice matter-of-fact. “That is what Toki would have done immediately.”

Zarabeth straightened slowly. “You will cease your cruel words, brother, else I will make you very sorry.”

Keith spread his hands in front of him. “Acquit me, Zarabeth. It is what Toki would do, not I.” He paused, frowning, as if confused. “Nay, that could not be true. Toki is sweet-natured and gentle. She loves children in particular. She would not hurt anyone, certainly not a child, even such as Lotti.”

He was weak and blind as a post, Zarabeth thought; despite being a man and being strong, he was still weak. She imagined that Toki managed him very easily. She turned back to Olav when he said, “Don't torment the boy, Zarabeth. Besides, your threat rings hollow.” He laughed. “What would you do to him if he displeased you? Hit him with a cooking spoon? Spear him with your dining knife? Perhaps shriek and try to pull out his hair?”

“Nay, I spoke without proper thought. My brother is the kindest of men.”

She wished she'd kept her mouth closed and not given him what he immediately saw as encouragement. She added, smiling, “Of course, were he to act a villain, why, I should pour a potion in his ale that would turn his bowels to water.”

Keith stared at her, then stared down at the small bit of ale left in his wooden mug.

“No, I did nothing, Keith, not this time. Mind your tongue in the future, for Lotti understands everything. I will not have her hurt.”

Keith gave her a helpless look, but she merely went about her work of clearing up the dinner remains. She wasn't afraid of him; oddly enough, she felt somewhat protective of him. He didn't deserve Toki, and she had always believed it a mistake to force a marriage between those two.

Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, Keith said, “I heard
talk from the woodworker's giddy wife that Zarabeth was kissing a Viking at the well this morning.”

There was instant deafening silence. Olav said nothing, but his mouth was tight, the cords in his neck bulged, and red flushed his cheeks. Keith frowned uncertaintly toward Zarabeth. “Ah, so 'tis true. I refused to believe it, for you're known as a cold woman, Zarabeth, a woman who cares not for beautiful jewels or for a man. This Viking, he's a karl, I hear, his father a chieftain and a powerful earl. He's rich and endowed with fine lands in Norway.”

“Aye, it's true,” Zarabeth said.

“Have you spread your legs for him yet?”

Zarabeth was surprised at Keith's querulous tone, even more surprised at his words. They were unlike him. She felt a spurt of fear, then quickly repressed it. It was jealousy she heard in his voice. But she knew she shouldn't recognize it as such. She looked toward the shelf on the far wall, where there was a row of covered jars. “I wonder how strong I should mix the potion for you, Keith.”

“All right, so you haven't let him take you! What do you want with him?”

Olav said abruptly, “Enough about the Viking. He wants to wed with Zarabeth, but she hasn't yet decided if she wants him. In three days she will give him an answer.”

Actually, Zarabeth thought, as Olav continued speaking, she'd already decided. The three days were her concession to him. Odd how it had come clearly to her in just that instant.

She looked up to see Keith watching her avidly. “I must wed someone,” she said emotionlessly. “Magnus Haraldsson seems a good choice.”

“You will go with him to Norway?”

“Aye, if she weds with him,” his father said, his
brow furrowed in his discontent. “We will see. Nothing is settled yet. Nothing.”

Zarabeth held her peace. She wanted to see Magnus. She continued her work quietly, then bathed Lotti and tucked her into a thick wool blanket in the box bed. Olav and Keith were drinking steadily. She placed more ale beside her stepfather, then very quietly took her woolen cloak from a peg and pulled it around her shoulders. “I'm going for a short walk,” she said, and left before either man realized she was gone.

Z
arabeth knew it was dangerous to be out alone at night, despite the relative peace York had known for the past few years. There were still villains, beggars, outlaws, any number of ruffians who could sneak into the city at night and prey on the people. Thus she was careful to keep to the shadows of the houses. She walked very quickly, her step nearly soundless. There was a sliver of a moon overhead and the air was heavy with rain that would come before morning. All was shadows and silence. She could hear her own heart but she didn't slow, just kept walking.

She was warm enough wearing her wool cloak. She clutched it to her, remembering her mother telling her that the cloak had belonged to her mother and had been dyed with the finest saffron produced in all of Ireland.

When Zarabeth had left Olav's house on Coppergate, her feet, if not her conscious mind, had known exactly where she was going. Now she accepted what her feet had easily known. She kept her eyes straight ahead, toward the quay on the River Ouse. The earthen fortifications came into view, thick and tall and sturdy, then the snug harbor. There were many vessels along Monk's Pier, tied with stout rope to thick wooden poles that ran the length of the quay. Most of them were Viking trading ships. Her eyes
scanned along them. So many of them, and they looked alike.

She stopped then, and nearly laughed aloud. She had come to find Magnus, yet she didn't know if he was here. She didn't even know the name of his vessel. She was appalled at herself. She had met a man and lost her wits as a result. She was a prize fool, and it was disconcerting, because normally she was thoughtful and slow to act either in joy or in anger. But she had simply walked out of her house, walked down Coppergate to Hungate, and directly right to the harbor. Well, she'd done it now, and if there were any outlaws lurking about, she deserved for them to see her. Still, she didn't turn back.

She paused, drew a deep breath, and proceeded to examine each of the vessels. There were at least a dozen, all the great square masts furled, all quiet, all the sailors asleep, the only sound the slap of water against the side of the boats. She hadn't realized it was quite so late. She walked very quietly, from vessel to vessel, the soft leather soles of her shoes nearly silent on the wooden-planked dock. She felt fear now, admitted it to herself. By all the saints, she was a fool. What to do? Then she saw a vessel that was larger than its neighbors, with elegant lines and a look of brutal magnificence. It flew Odin's Raven, carved in black, upon its bow. It was a beautiful vessel and she knew deep down, without question, that it belonged to Magnus.

She smiled then, slowly, threw back her head, and shouted, “Magnus! Magnus Haraldsson!”

There was utter silence, then the low rumbling of men talking.

“Magnus! Magnus Haraldsson!”

She heard a deep laugh. She saw a score of men's heads coming into view over the gunwales, sailors all, weapons in their hands, and then they were leaping
lightly off their vessels onto the quay, looking toward her, mouths agape, talking about her, pointing. She heard a blessedly familiar voice say, “Nay, all of you remain here. There is no danger. 'Tis my lady who calls to me. Any of you make a move toward her and I'll slit your fool's throat. If any other man makes a move toward us, come to my aid and we'll slit his throat together.”

It was Magnus, and he was striding toward her, his cloak billowing in the heavy air behind him, his head bare. He looked invulnerable and as brutally beautiful as his vessel, and she felt her flesh become warm and her breathing quicken. He was a powerful beast, this man, and she knew in that moment that she would have him and none other. Two days of knowing him was a lifetime. She forced herself to stand quiet, waiting for him to come to her.

Magnus stopped not a foot from her. He said nothing, merely stared down at her, no expression on his face. “I thought I heard a woman's raucous voice shrieking for me, shrill as the caw of a rook. Did you hear anyone like that, Zarabeth?” He looked over her head and to his right and left. “Nay, I see her not. No one is swimming in the water, neither a mermaid nor a sea dragon, and there are naught but hairy sailors yon. All of them were dreaming dreams of plunder and fat casks of silver, no doubt, until her voice came to slice through their dreams, and mine. Ah, behind you. There she is, and she looks the termagant, foul-tempered and sour-mouthed. How very ugly she is—”

Zarabeth whipped around and saw no one. Magnus began to chuckle. She felt his hand fall lightly on her shoulder.

His voice deepened and all humor fell away. “You are impulsive, Zarabeth. It is a dangerous quality, but I shan't chide you for it this time, though it angers me
that you would come to me alone. Come here and let me look at you.”

She smiled then and turned to find him there, just in front of her, and she leaned forward against his chest and lifted her face to his. She said, “I wanted to see you. It's been too long without the sight of your face.”

His hands came up to clasp her upper arms. “Was it, now? So you came here to the quay alone, with no protection, and bellowed out my name? What if another man had come in answer to your call?”

She had no intention of dwelling on that possibility, saying simply, “I knew it was your vessel. It is the most splendid one docked here. It looks like you, Magnus, lean and powerful and savage. I took little risk.”

“Your reasoning astounds me and pleases me alike. But do you really see me as being savage?”

“Nay, I meant brutal. It sounds odd, but 'tis true. Your vessel appears brutal in its beauty, as do you, its owner, its master.”

“All right, I promised not to chide you, and I won't, for you have made me feel a man above other men. Just know, Zarabeth, any brutality in my nature will never be visited upon you. If you ever annoy me, why, then, I'll simply kiss you.” And he did, swooping down, his cloak billowing around the both of them, pulling her up against his chest. His mouth was warm and firm, and when she didn't part her lips to him, he gently eased his tongue along her lower lip, caressing her, nipping her, until she understood what he wanted and opened her mouth just a bit. It was wondrous, feeling his tongue touch hers, feeling the warmth of his body against hers. His large hands were holding her tightly against him. She felt his thighs against hers, felt the hardness of him against her belly.

“Magnus,” she said into his mouth, and she felt him
shudder. She wondered at this seeming power she held over him, but only for a moment, for he suddenly swept his hands over her buttocks and lifted her, pressing her hard against him. She stiffened at his assault and he instantly released her, sliding her down the front of his body, slowly, ever so slowly, until her feet once again touched the dock.

He raised his head and looked down at her. “You're breathing hard, sweeting. That pleases me. And you're right. All my men and all the other men in every vessel along this quay are likely watching us behind the gunwales. Their dreams are no longer of plunder but of beautiful females beguiling them and seducing them. I will announce tomorrow that you are mine, and that will be the end to their sniggering and gossip.”

She lowered her eyes. “That is kind of you, Magnus. Actually, I have come to become better acquainted with you. I told Olav that I would give him my decision in three days. He cares about me, you see, and doesn't want me to be overly impetuous.” She paused; then, to his surprise and fascination, she giggled. “He fears your manliness sways me unduly, though he didn't say that precisely. I should have told him he was quite right.” She was serious again. “I wanted to see you, Magnus, to see if you truly were the man who was in my mind all the day long.”

“And am I, Zarabeth?”

She smiled at his off-kilter pronunciation of her name as she stepped back, still held in the loose circle of his arms, and looked up at him. The moonlight was scant but she could see his features perfectly. She studied him, cocking her head to one side in serious contemplation.

He held himself perfectly still, not moving, not changing expression, just waiting for her to complete her study.

“You are as you should be, and to me that is all that is perfect.” She lightly touched her fingertips to the small notch in his chin. “This is clever.”

He raised a thick dark blond brow. “ 'Twas not of my doing, though if it pleases you, I will claim full knowledge and the planning of it. One girl told me once that Odin had rejected me, pressing his thumb into my chin to show the world his repugnance.”

“This girl who told you that—did you hurt her to make her speak so evilly?”

“Actually, it is so.” His voice lightened as he spoke his memories. “She had seduced me, this older girl who was then yet younger than you are now, and I was but an innocent lad of twelve summers when she first took me inside her and I learned the pleasures of a woman's body. Then I discovered that year I preferred hunting walrus to covering her. She cursed me, ranting that my cleft was the sign of Odin's displeasure.”

Zarabeth chuckled. “I should have cursed you also. Walrus hunting! 'Twas not well done of you.”

“I was but twelve years old, Zarabeth.”

“Aye, but were you so beautiful even then, Magnus?”

“When you birth my sons, perhaps one of them will be in my image, and then you will know.”

Zarabeth was silent. He continued to do this to her, to speak so bluntly that it robbed her of her wits.

“What bothers you, sweeting?”

“You and the effect you have on me. It's strange and it confuses me and makes me stupid.”

He stroked his fingertips over her jaw. “I would make you happy, not stupid.”

“Would you bear with both?”

“I will manage to bear with all you ever show me.” He leaned down to quickly kiss her. He didn't try to part her lips, just kissed her warmly and lightly.

“I'm afraid,” she said, looking up at him, at his
mouth, damp from their touching, firm and gentle. “You come from a land I've only heard about, a land where all the people are strangers to me, a land where the weather is harsh during the winter and there is little sun for many months.”

Magnus had considered taking her on board the
Sea Wind,
but he quickly changed his mind. It wasn't at all chilly here in the open, and she felt safe here, with him, a man she'd known for only two days, the man she would marry. He smiled at her and sought to reassure her. “They will be strangers only until you smile at them and tell them hello. My kin will love you, as will Harald Fairhair himself, our king. He comes from the Vestfold, you know, though at present he has no royal residence there. But he is a cousin to my father, and thus of my kin, and he will come to visit and he will approve of you, you will see.”

“I have heard of Harald Fairhair. I have heard he is ruthless and he seeks to subdue no matter the cost. It is said he rarely shows mercy.”

“Aye, and he is greedy and wants more and then more after that.” Magnus shrugged. “He wants every chieftain, every earl in Norway, to bend to his will and obey his every dictum. He is a man and he is a Viking. There is no limit to his appetites, and his power grows by the year, and he falters not, though he is near my father in age. He has conquered an entire country and brought it to heel. He searches for more, as do most men of my country.” He grinned then, shaking his head. “The men in my country—if they feel at all crowded by their neighbors or persecuted by their king, then they simply leave to find new lands. We all cherish our freedom and we allow no one to curtail it.”

“And does he wish to have your lands and those of your father? Will you wish someday to leave your home?”

“Not as yet, but it would not surprise me to have him levy taxes on us that would break our backs. Then, of course, we would have to fight him, king or no. Distant kin or no. Or we would leave.”

She saw that he was perfectly serious. He would enjoy the fighting, she guessed, and he would be as brutal as he had to be and feel no regret. Nor would he flinch at the thought of leaving his home bound for a distant land. He would always do what had to be done. It pleased her, this certain knowledge of him.

“It's also true that during five months of the winter there is little sun and snow covers the ground. We will spend much time in the longhouse, but you won't fret with inactivity. Skalds visit in the winter months and sing songs to amuse everyone. They tell sagas that have been handed down for hundreds of years, and invent new ones to make the master of the farmstead feel like a king with all their flattery. We play games and dance and drink until our heads pound. And when you are not in my bed, or playing, or dancing, you will be sewing, spinning, cooking, directing all the house jarls and the thralls. Do you know how to make butter, Zarabeth? And buttermilk?”

“Butter?” she repeated, bemused yet again with the sudden shift in his talk.

“Aye. I remember my mother lifting and dropping and shaking the churn—such a size it was, but then again, my mother is a woman of great strength—until she had separated out all the yellow butterfat. Ah, but the buttermilk that's left is sweet and wondrous to drink. Children always fight for the first mug fresh from the churn.”

“I make butter,” she said. “But my churn is small and requires no great strength to shake it.”