When finally she herself was lying next to Lotti, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, she thought again about Magnus Haraldsson. She would see him on the morrow, after Christian matins, he’d said. Nay, he had ordered. She smiled into the darkness. He was only a man like any other man, she told herself, yet he had fascinated her. She heard her stepfather enter the chamber next to this one, a room larger, containing a feather-stuffed mattress on a wide box bed and a large trunk that held all his clothing. The walls were thin between the chambers. She heard him pull off his clothes, knew that he folded them carefully, heard him carefully remove his golden armlet and the three rings he wore. She heard him belch, imagined him rubbing his belly, then crawling into his bed. Within minutes his loud snores filled both chambers.
She lay there awake for a very long time, wondering where Magnus was and what he was thinking and doing.
Magnus was aboard his vessel, the Sea Wind. He was standing between two oar ports near the tiller, his elbows on the guardrailing, at ease with the slight movement beneath his feet and the gentle lapping sound of the water against the sides. The water was calm, for the inlet was narrow and well-protected with thick earthen banks. He looked around at the half-dozen other vessels docked along the lengthened quayside on the River Ouse. Unlike the Viking warships, all these vessels were used for trading, not for lightning attacks. They were much broader, the sides higher to provide more protection from the waves, their plankings nailed together, not lashed to the frames. There was a single large square sail of coarse white wadmal sewn with bright red strips for added strength attached to the mast and two small covered areas aft beneath overhanging oak planks to protect the precious cargo from storms and winds. Further protection for cargo existed beneath the planked deck.
Magnus had had his vessel built three years before and had plans this coming year to have another made by the builder in Kaupang who was known for both the quality of his work and the speed with which he completed it. He was also known as a madman, with his black flowing beard and his bright black eyes, and Magnus quite liked him. He was insolent in a completely impersonal way that kept others from taking offense.
Magnus rubbed his hands together. He looked toward the town of York, the largest trading city in Britain and the main Viking trading post in the British Isles. Just off to his left was the old part of the town, which was nothing more than a squalid collection of wattle-and-daub huts. The richer part of the town comprised close-crammed wooden houses, including that of Olav the Vain, low sprawling factories, and a good dozen stone churches. There were also buildings constructed of thick sturdy oak, overlooking the River Ouse and its tributary river, the Fosse. There was a bridge now over the Ouse, built by the Vikings a few years before, to take the increased traffic swerving past the old Roman fort. York had changed over the years since the Vikings had seized power. Now its size had doubled to thirty thousand souls. There were Christian churches next to Viking factories. There were Viking burial grounds next to Christian ones. There were dark-haired Vikings aplenty now, for Viking men had married the Anglo-Saxon women and bred in staggering numbers. And there was peace now, for the most part, but that could change at any time. With every Viking raid into King Alfred’s Wessex, there was always the chance of retaliation, even on York itself.
Life, Magnus had discovered, was rarely boring, for it was rarely predictable. Uncertainty always ran high, and Magnus relished it. He frowned then, thinking of Zarabeth, the softness of her upper arms, the smoothness of her cheeks. Uncertainty could mean danger to her, and he didn’t care for that thought. But he was strong-limbed and swift-witted. He would protect her and see to her safety, regardless of what threatened, whether it be man or the elements. He didn’t doubt that she would meet him in the morning. He’d seen her response to him after she’d recovered from her initial surprise. Most women responded that way to him. He was no stranger to shy, pleased smiles and softened expressions. She would come to him and she would suit him, he was sure of it.
It was early morning, and Zarabeth was at the well before Magnus. She was cold, for the April morning was chill and damp, a wind rising, heralding a coming storm. She was wrapped in a russet woolen cloak, pinned with a finely made bronze brooch over her left shoulder. Her hair, braided and wrapped around her head, was covered with a hood.
When she saw Magnus striding toward her as if he owned the square itself and her, she felt something give inside her. She hadn’t dreamed her reaction to him. If anything, she hadn’t remembered the sheer power of him, this natural dominance that came so naturally from him, this effortless smiling appeal. He saw her and his face changed from the intent expression of a man on a mission to one of swift approval. She was pleased he had noticed the way she looked.
Zarabeth felt strangely suspended as he approached her, slowing now, as if he wanted to look at her for a very long time before he reached her.
He didn’t draw to a halt as she expected him to. He walked up to her, grasped her chin in his palm, and forced her face up. He kissed her, in full sight of anyone who wished to look.
Zarabeth had been kissed before, furtive little forays, but nothing like this. And then he said against her mouth, his breath warm and sweet from honey mead, “Open your mouth to me. I want to taste you.”
She did, without hesitation. His arms went around her and he drew her upward, his hands clasping her firmly at the waist. And he didn’t stop kissing her. Deeply, then light nipping bites, followed by soothing licks, and she responded. She didn’t seem to have a choice, and when she did respond, he immediately stopped and straightened. He smiled down at her, that triumphant smile that made her want to laugh and punch him in his lean belly at the same time.
“You see how good I make you feel?”
“ ’Twas just a simple kiss, nothing more. Any man’s mouth could make me respond thus.”
He kissed her again, then several more times, each kiss more probing than the preceding one. Once again he didn’t stop until she responded fully to him. His look was filled with such pleasure when he released her this time that she did nothing at all, simply stared up at him, wishing he’d kiss her again. She felt his strong hands roving up and down her back, warm hands and big, hands that would give her endless pleasure, hands that would keep her safe.
“Good morning, Zarabeth,” he said at last. “You were here waiting for me. That pleases me. I like your taste and the softness of your mouth. In the future you will open your mouth to me without my having to instruct you.”
She nodded, words stuck in her throat.
He leaned down and lightly kissed the tip of her nose. He was smiling. He was completely certain of her now. “Did you speak to your stepfather?”
Her foolish besottedness faded and she was once again here with a man she’d never seen in her life before yesterday. She shook her head. “He asked me if something was wrong,” she said, looking toward Micklegate, the main great street of York.
“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.
4
Olav 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 kil
l 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.