Season of the Sun

  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.

  “I ask that you make no decision this night or tomorrow. You ar
e 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 unders
tands 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?”