Season of the Sun

  It was Tostig who found it and brought it to Zarabeth. She was sewing, one of the few occupations the women deemed suitable for her. The day was hot and the sounds of building and men’s laughter and cursing filled the air. She looked up at him and smiled. “Aye, Tostig, how go you?”

  “I am fine, mistress, ’tis just that . . .” He stopped and stuck out the piece of cloth nearly a foot in length. It was a jagged strip of wool dyed a soft blue, faded now to almost gray from exposure to the elements.

  She raised her face. “What is it? Where did you find it?”

  “In amongst some leaves at the base of a pine tree, just over there, on the outjutting land. We must have overlooked it when we were first searching for Egill.”

  Zarabeth felt her heart thud, loud, slow strokes. Her fingers clutched the wool. She flew to her feet, yelling, “Magnus! Magnus!”

  Tostig caught her arm. “It is the little girl’s, isn’t it, mistress?”

  She looked at him, her eyes wild and vague. “Aye, it must be . . . Magnus!”

  He heard her scream his name and bounded forward. He saw her standing beside Tostig, and she looked white and ill and she was weaving where she stood.

  “Zarabeth!”

  She whirled about at his voice, picked up her skirt, and ran toward him, shouting, “It is her, Magnus, it is!”

  She drew up, weaving, and just as suddenly she turned utterly white and fell. Tostig tried to catch her, but he was off-balance and she bore him to the ground with her.

  When she awoke, she was lying in her husband’s lap, and he was sitting in his chair, now set beneath a pine tree. “It is, Magnus, it is hers, I know it! It wasn’t in the water, it was on the land, at the base of a pine tree—”

  “Mayhap, but you mustn’t—”

  “Did Tostig not tell you where he found it? It wasn’t anywhere near the water. Lotti didn’t drown!”

  “You are certain the wool strip is from the gown Lotti was wearing that day?”

  He saw that she wasn’t completely certain. She was breathing hard, still too weak to sit up. He held her closer. “Easy, now, easy.”

  “I think so. Eldrid would know. If it is Lotti’s, she made it for her.”

  “Did she not make gowns for the other little girls using the same wool?”

  She had, and Zarabeth was forced to nod.

  “We will see. Bring her here.”

  Eldrid did know. None of the wool used in the gowns was exactly the same. She looked at the strip of wool, clapped her hands to her face, and shrieked.

  Zarabeth looked up at Magnus’ grim face. “Where is she? In the Danelaw with Egill? Orm took them both, didn’t he? Do you think Orm saved her? Do you think he was watching and pulled her from the water? Or perhaps Egill saved her and Orm captured both of them over there, on the outjutting land, out of the sight of you or your men. But why did he leave that rude drawing showing Egill, and nothing to show Lotti? Why?”

  York, Capital of the Danelaw

  One of King Guthrum’s Manor Houses

  The Viking children amused her, the boy so protective of the little girl, yet proud and stolid, both of them. It was rare that they spoke, and when one of them did, it was usually the boy, Egill. The little girl spoke only the boy’s name. That single word seemed to convey a wealth of meaning to him, all depending on the tone and lilt of her voice. They made quaint signs to each other, their own private language, and Cecilia thought it clever. If they spoke of her, well, she was beautiful, gentle and kind to them, so their opinion of her could not be bad.

  Guthrum had presented them to her on her twentieth birthday, smiling as he had said, “For my beautiful Cecilia, two children to do your bidding as I do, only they are small and won’t intrude whilst they carry out your wishes.”

  She had expected jewels and had pouted for two days until she realized that her uncle and lover, also the king of the Danelaw, had provided her with a very efficient means of communicating with him whenever she wished to see him. No one paid attention to a little boy or to a little girl, particularly to slaves. One or the other would carry a token of affection or a message to the king’s chambers if need be, and no one thought about it, even Guthrum’s wife, that jealous bitch, Sigurd.

  Cecilia sighed. She was bored. Guthrum should have already arrived, but he hadn’t yet come. He was likely closeted with his men, laughing and crowing at the news of more lightning raids into King Alfred’s Wessex. That, or he was likely immersed in strategies for Alfred’s final defeat, for the Saxon king had forced a treaty on him some years before and also forced him to mouth prayers to the Christian God. Aye, when need be, Guthrum could be as pious as one of Alfred’s bishops.

  Cecilia picked up a honeyed almond and ate just a part of it. She smiled. It was just like Guthrum. He always was fond of nibbling at the edges of the English kingdom, always rubbing his age-spotted hands together at the huge revenues coming into his coffers.

  Of course, he always denied any knowledge of raids into King Alfred’s lands when angry messages arrived from Alfred. He would shake his head, look mournful, and feign distress and send the messenger on his way, his palm filled with silver coin.

  Cecilia looked again at the children. She frowned this time. ’Twas a very handsome Viking named Orm Ottarsson who had presented Guthrum with the boy and girl, along with more silver coins than Cecilia could count, in return for removing a Saxon family from rich farmlands on the River Thurlow, lands he wanted for himself. She’d seen the man, and found herself impressed with his arrogance and his sleekness. She thought herself a clever woman to his clever man, and thus tried to seek him out. But he had left York to return to Norway. It was depressing, but Cecilia knew that he would return, and when he did, why, then she would see.

  Cecilia rose and walked into the small walled garden outside her bedchamber. The stone walls were eight feet high with roses climbing over the top, covered with red and white blossoms. There was a small fountain in the center of the garden, surrounded by an old Roman mosaic, rectangular in shape. It was still intact, showing strange seaweed-draped creatures rising from the sea, mating with the fierce Celts. Egill and Lotti were there, and he was speaking to her, using his hands as he spoke, as if to give emphasis to his words. She drew closer to listen.

  “Say it again, Lotti. Come on, say it.”

  Lotti made some slurred sounds, but Cecilia understood. The little girl had said “good morning.” What was going on here?

  “Good morning to you,” Cecilia said gaily as she walked toward the children. The boy paled and took a protective step closer to the little girl.

  They were both garbed in white wool tunics that were lightly belted with soft blue pleated leather at the waist. The tunics were sleeveless and came to their knees. The garments told others that they were slaves, but the soft, excellent quality of the wool also indicated that their master or mistress was of a generous nature. The children were fine-looking, and that pleased Cecilia. The little girl’s hair was a rich ginger color and her eyes were an odd golden hue. She showed promise of great beauty when she became older, but that didn’t bother Cecilia. She didn’t like to be surrounded with ugliness, even in little girl slaves.

  “Lotti,” Cecilia said to the child, “go pick me a red rose and be quick about it. The king will be here soon and I wish to wear it in my hair.” She patted her thick brown hair as she spoke.

  Lotti darted a glance toward Egill, and he moved his hands quickly and easily, pointing to the rosebush.

  Cecilia didn’t notice. She was studying a scratch on the back of her hand, wondering where it had come from.

  Egill waited, hoping that Lotti would pluck a red one and not a white one. They hadn’t yet made up signs for colors. He waited, tense and stiff, watching her.

  She broke off a red rose and he felt a flood of relief. He had no idea what would happen if the woman realized Lotti couldn’t hear and spoke only very little. Lotti handed Cecilia the rose and Cecilia gave her an absent pat on the head, as
one would a dog that had performed well.

  Egill felt naught but contempt for the woman and her ridiculous vanity. About King Guthrum, he didn’t know what to think. The man was older than Egill’s grandfather, yet he tried to pretend to youth, tried to caress and pinch Cecilia as if he were her lover and a young man of passion. And Cecilia played the game with him. Egill had first thought to tell the king who he was, but then he’d heard Guthrum tell one of his council, a man who leered at Cecilia behind the king’s back, that he was pleased the children were Viking get. He would see for himself if Viking children would become as dangerous as their sires in captivity. Egill had realized then that they knew they were his own countrymen. He didn’t care. He was amused.

  He wondered if perhaps the king knew his father. As yet he hadn’t sensed a right time to approach him. Guthrum had an uncertain temper. Egill wasn’t stupid. He had no intention of angering this man who held the power of life and death over him and Lotti.

  Egill brooded. He thought of Orm Ottarsson, who had taken him and Lotti even as they had lain sodden and gasping on the shore of the outjutting point, trying to suck life into their bodies. Egill had seen Lotti facedown in the shallow water and dragged her out, tearing the binding water reeds from her. He’d nearly drowned himself, but he wouldn’t have cared if the little girl had died. He had pounded her chest and her back and finally she’d begun to breathe again, wretching. And then he’d looked up and there was Orm Ottarsson staring down at them, smiling. For a moment Egill thought he would return them to his father. He’d wrapped them up in warm blankets and had taken them away. When Egill had asked Orm what he intended, the man had struck him hard and laughed. He had given them as a bribe to the king. And that was another problem. Surely then the king would believe Orm’s word and not that of a boy who was also a slave. Egill didn’t know what to do.

  He missed his father; he saw him in dreams, tall and fierce, his eyes going remote and sad when he looked inward, thinking of his only son. Egill knew his father must believe him dead, for he’d considered all the possibilities, seeing in his mind’s eye how his father and his men would have searched for him, and, not finding him, would conclude that he had died somehow with Lotti or been killed and dragged away by wild animals.

  He saw that Lotti had fallen to her knees and was raptly studying the Roman mosaic. She found it fascinating, her small fingers tracing over each of the brightly colored figures. Cecilia, having placed the rose in her hair, was now looking about for something to do. Egill thought her a useless creature. Even Cyra, who had been his father’s mistress, hadn’t been useless, not completely.

  “Egill.”

  Lotti was excited by one of the tiles. Egill gave her a tolerant smile and walked to her, dropping to his knees beside her.

  The tiles showed a very handsome man wearing nothing but a strange white pleated cloth wrapped around his waist and held with a wide leather belt. He wore a golden helmet on his head. He was large, muscular, and looked to be very sure of himself. He was standing at the bow of a boat, men bent over oars behind him, and he had his sword drawn and was looking toward the horizon.

  The handsome man looked like his father.

  Egill made a sound in his throat and Lotti quickly swiveled around and placed her hand on his arm.

  She was smiling and nodding. In the next tile the man was ashore, his sword still pointed at an unseen enemy, and he was ready to strike. In the final tile, there was the enemy, a monster cloaked in thick dark smoke, writhing and hissing. The handsome man severed the monster’s neck with his sword.

  “Father will save us,” Egill whispered. “It is a portent.” He heard footsteps and turned quickly. It wasn’t Cecilia; it was King Guthrum, and Egill felt both fear and hope build inside him. The king looked to be in a temperate mood today. Egill looked at the battle-scarred king, his face seamed and leathery from a life spent in the sun, his shoulders bent slightly forward, his thick ebony hair threaded with gray, as was his short beard. His clothing was rich with golden thread.

  Lotti was very silent, her eyes on the king. Her hand slipped into Egill’s. They waited, watchful and wary.

  King Guthrum nodded to them, not really paying them any heed. He was speaking to another man, one who was garbed like a soldier. Guthrum called out suddenly, “Bring us Rhenish wine, boy.”

  Egill didn’t want to leave. He wanted to listen to the men. He turned quickly to Lotti and made signs for her to watch the men and try to understand what they were saying; then he walked quickly away toward the antechamber where he would find one of Cecilia’s house servants.

  The king’s soldier, Aslak, was saying in a fierce voice, “I tell you we must cease these silly woman’s taunts, sire. We must gather in force and attack Alfred. The damned Saxons run hither and yon, without direction. The treaty with King Alfred means nothing. You have said so many times.”

  The king was stroking his beard. “Aye, ’tis true. What is it you want to do, Aslak?”

  “I would lead men to Chippenham itself, to the very gates of the king’s house. We would travel swiftly and stealthily, and that would give us the surprise. We would take all the gold and coin we can carry. Alfred must be shown that a Viking bows to no man, particularly to a Saxon. It is time to strike the death blow.”

  Guthrum liked the sound of those arrogant words, for he had himself spoken similar ones many times, but he wasn’t a fool, even though the words did stir his blood. Aye, but his blood was thinner now, much thinner. “Leave me to think about it, Aslak. ’Tis a risk we would take. Alfred isn’t like the other petty little lordlings. Nay, he is a man and a fighter. Let me think about it.”

  “Someday, sire, we will hold all of England. Do you not want to be the man to lay the final claim? The man to hold all in the palm of his hand?”

  The king laughed as he looked down at his gnarled hands. “Ah, Egill, you bring the wine.”

  Aslak said abruptly, “The boy looks familiar. His features touch a chord in my memory.”

  Guthrum agreed. “Aye, the boy looks familiar to me as well.” He crooked his finger. “Egill, come here, lad. Have you a father still living?”

  Egill didn’t know what to say. The moment had finally come, and he stood stupid and stiff as a rune marker. Did the king hold Orm in high regard? It would seem that he did from what Egill had observed going on between the two men. The king thought he looked familiar. Did he know Magnus Haraldsson? Did he hold him in favor? Would Orm see that he and Lotti were killed if he spoke the truth? Egill looked toward Lotti. By Thor, she was his responsibility, and if she were harmed, he would never forgive himself. He had nearly lost her once. He wouldn’t lose her again, ever. He shook his head even as he said, “Nay, sire, my father is dead.”

  King Guthrum had already turned away. Egill’s words had fallen on departed ears. Egill sighed silently, wondering if he were a fool.

  Both men drank their wine from finely wrought glass goblets. Guthrum said after a moment, “You take your notion of a surprise attack on Chippenham itself from me, Aslak. Aye, and that pleases me. We did it before and brought them bloody death. Why not again? They’ve had time to replenish all their goods and ready new plunder for us. Let me ponder this.”

  “Wait not too long, sire.”

  “Nay, I shan’t. Ah, here is Cecilia.”

  Aslak grunted even as he stared at her with such ferocious lust that even Egill recognized it for what it was.

  Egill looked at Lotti, hopeful that she hadn’t recognized anything. She was smiling at him and he moved toward her. Suddenly, without warning, one of the king’s stewards appeared. Behind him waited a young woman with white-blond hair, a young woman who was Ingunn, his aunt, his father’s sister.

  Lotti saw her and made a frightened moan.

  27

  The morning was bright; the North Sea waters were calm and smooth. The thick wadmal sail flattened, then puffed out with a loud snap in the erratic westerly breeze. Zarabeth brushed her hair from her face and shaded he
r eyes against the glare and the slick droplets of salt water. She fancied she could see York in the far distance, but as they drew nearer, it was in truth a cloud bank, gray and billowing thick and deep, stretching across the horizon. The Sea Wind moved smoothly forward, closer and closer to York, trailed by seabirds hopeful for food scraps.

  A gull swooped down onto the railing, ruffled its feathers, and squawked loudly, but Zarabeth paid it no attention. She was seeing Ragnar standing at the head of all Malek’s people, their line stretching from the long wooden dock up the winding narrow trail to the gates of the palisade itself. She could nearly smell the raw new lumber, sweet and moist, in the morning air. All Malek’s people were waving at them, shouting advice and good wishes. Ragnar stood silent, nearly whole again, his left arm still in a loose sling, having accepted the protection of Malek in Magnus’ absence. It was Eldrid who would oversee the work in the longhouse, though she’d carped and complained that she was too old, too weak, for such responsibility, to which Magnus had said, “Nonsense, Aunt. You are wise and just. Rule my home and be in readiness for our return.”

  They were going to find Egill and Lotti, alive and healthy, Zarabeth was certain of it. As for her stubborn, overly protective husband, Magnus would accustom himself to her presence. He would stop scowling at her and ignoring her. He had agreed, finally, to her accompanying him, for in the end she’d given him no choice.

  She had looked him straight in the eye on that final evening before he had announced departure and sworn that she would leave Malek in his absence and find her way to York on her own.

  He’d ranted and cursed and thrown two wooden bowls, stomped around the palisade grounds, even threatened to lock her up. Finally he’d tried to enlist his mother’s help, for she’d been visiting during those last days, but she, to his utter astonishment, had taken Zarabeth’s side. “It is her right,” Helgi had said, lightly stroking her callused palm over her son’s cheek. “Understand, my son. Lotti is her sister and she must see the child and touch her and bring her home herself. It wouldn’t be right for you to deny her this. She is a Viking woman now, Magnus.”