Season of the Sun (29 page)

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.

T
he 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 her 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.”

He'd been left with nothing to say, though angry words and commands and threats had choked in his throat, and finally he'd bellowed, “But she's with child!” to which both women merely frowned at him with tolerant scorn.

Now they had nearly reached their journey's end. Only another half-day, she'd heard Tostig say. Perhaps a day, depending on the wind and its constancy. Zarabeth felt Magnus beside her; then after a brief moment his arms went around her and he pulled her back against his chest.

“Soon,” he said, and hugged her more tightly against him. “Are you feeling well?”

“I feel wonderful.”

“I've decided to stop ignoring you. It does no good except to make me lonely and gain me condemning looks from the men. I'm tired of pretending you're not with me, Zarabeth. It does me no good, after all.”

She turned and smiled at him. “Nay, it doesn't, and I'm glad you want to see me again. I've missed you, husband, missed the touch of your fingers on my lips, and, aye, the fullness of you inside me.”

Magnus leaned down and lightly kissed her mouth. When he straightened, he studied her face intently. “Listen to me, Zarabeth. Despite all we think we know, despite all we want and expect, we cannot be certain if either Egill or Lotti is alive. Orm could have lied. He is a master when it comes to amusing himself at another's expense. Aye, tormenting others ranks very high with him. We must be prepared to face whatever comes, but we will face it together.”

“They're alive.”

“Even with the dream, I know it would be foolish of me to claim it for a fact.”

“They're alive.”

He merely hugged her again, but said nothing more. He was nearly as certain as she was that Egill and Lotti lived, but he feared to say the words, feared somehow that fate would turn against him were he to pretend to that knowledge.

 

Ingunn stood before Egill in the corner of the garden, uncertain what to do. The king's mistress, his niece Cecilia, had shrugged and left them alone. “I do not understand you,” Ingunn said, so irritated with him that she wanted to strike him. “I have come here to save you, and you refuse to leave this pathetic little girl!”

“Where is Orm Ottarsson? Does he know you are here? Does he know what you're about?”

Ingunn eyed her nephew. The boy had changed. His voice sounded just like Magnus'—sharp and imperious, as if he were used to giving orders and she, as a woman, was to obey them. She was angry. She was saving him—by Thor, she'd sold her most valued brooch to get the coin—and yet he was acting like she wasn't to be trusted, and she was of his flesh! “It isn't important,” she said. “You will come with me now and I will see that you go home to Malek.”

“It is important,” Egill said. “Orm Ottarsson stole both Lotti and me. We were barely alive. I feared Lotti would die at any moment, for there was so much water in her chest and she couldn't stop vomiting it up. But he didn't care, not until he realized how he could use us. He brought us here to York and used us as a bribe to the king for the farmland he wanted. He was pleased with what he had done. If you bring me back to him, he will be very angry.”

“Nay, he won't. Besides, you won't see him.”

“He hates my father. I heard him talking about how he would see my father pay for all his pride and his arrogance, that he would make him regret that he had married my mother. He bragged how he would steal Zarabeth as well, and use her as he wished. He boasted he could plant a babe in her womb and then he would return her to my father. He hates all of us except for you. I don't understand that.”

“What Orm feels for your father has nothing to do with me. He loves me. I am soon to be his wife. There's nothing more for you to understand. Come now, we must leave. I have a vessel waiting for you.”

Egill planted his legs wide apart, his fists on his hips. He smiled at his aunt. “I have already told you, I won't go anywhere without Lotti. Buy her as well and we will both leave here.”

“That cursed idiot child! She is naught but a pathetic scrap, a worthless slave. You didn't like her,
you never liked her! She stole your father's affections. She can't do anything save make those awful mewling noises. You will come with me now, Egill. Forget her.”

She grabbed his arm, but the boy merely stared at her, not moving. She shook him, but he held his place. He'd gotten stronger. He was no longer a little boy. Her breath hissed out when she saw the scorn in his eyes, his father's eyes, and they were cold and unforgiving.

“You betrayed my father, didn't you? You probably betrayed Zarabeth as well. You tormented her and abused her with that whip, and she had never done anything to hurt you. Is she here? Did Orm capture her as he vowed to do?”

Ingunn stepped away from him. “No, you stupid boy! That bitch is safe as can be at Malek. Malek is now hers! She is wedded to your father! How do you like that—she is now your
mother
! By all the gods, she won!” Ingunn rubbed her palm over her forehead. “I was a witless fool to come here, risking my own life to save you. You ungrateful whelp, if he knew I was here, he would kill me!”

“At least I am not a traitor. If I had to die, I would not go to my death with shame or guilt heavy on my soul.”

“You little prig!” She slapped him hard. Egill's head snapped back on his neck, but he held his place. He made no move against her. He planted his feet more firmly. He stared at her with contempt.

“Damn you, you're free. I paid the king a lot of silver for you. It matters not to me whether you leave or not. I have tried to do my duty by you.” She whirled about, only to pause and turn slowly to face him once more. “Listen to me, boy. You know nothing, do you understand me? I was your father's steward, his helpmeet, the one he could depend upon to
take care of Malek. It was my farmstead as much as it was his! I was more than a wife could be, for I am flesh of his flesh. I oversaw everything at Malek, even his women, and yet he threw me away for that filthy whore. Ah, and there is that whore's sister, that squalid little idiot! See how she cowers behind you, just as her slut sister cowered behind Magnus, telling him lies about me! Aye, and complaining that I had hurt her, mistreated her. All lies, everything she said was a lie. Stay with her sister, Egill, I care not!” She took an unmeasured step toward Lotti, her hand raised.

“Don't,” Egill said. “Don't touch her, Aunt, or I will make you pay for it. I am no longer a child. My father would want me to protect one who is weaker than I. Lotti is not only in my care, she is also mine.”

Ingunn stared at the boy. He meant it. He would very likely attack her, she who had cared for him after Dalla had died, she who had treated him like her own child. Suddenly it was too much. Tears came to her eyes and she sobbed. She turned on her heel and left the manor house, only to stop abruptly, unable to go on, though she wanted to. By Thor, would it never end? She paused yet again, furious with the boy, but she knew what she had to do, aye, she knew. She had no choice.

 

King Guthrum rubbed his fingers over the richly carved oak post of his chair and stared at Magnus Haraldsson. He'd agreed immediately to see the man. He liked him and trusted him, as far as he'd trust any man, and he was infinitely curious as to what he wanted.

“So,” he said slowly, his eyes on his fingers tracing over the elaborate carvings, “the boy is your get. I thought he looked familiar, as did Aslak. Aye, he has the look of you. His aunt bought him back from me
and took him away. 'Twas yesterday she came. I assume he is gone now.”

“And a little girl? Her name is Lotti.”

“Aye, I recall the little one. The woman didn't want her, though even my dear Cecilia knew she and the boy were inseparable. It is almost as if they acted as one. I assume she is still with my, er, niece Cecilia.”

Guthrum heard Zarabeth's sharp intake of breath and turned to her.

“I recognize you now. You are the woman Magnus saved some months ago, the woman we believed had poisoned Olav the Vain. It is odd, aye, very odd indeed.”

“What do you mean, sire? And no, I did not poison my husband.”

“Aye, all know now that you were innocent of his murder. It was Toki, wife of Keith, Olav's son, who killed him. She is dead now.” He rubbed his hands together, obviously pleased at the solution.

Magnus stared hard at the king, wondering at the vagaries of fate. If he hadn't returned, Zarabeth would have been put to death for the crime and everyone would have been pleased and relieved, certain that justice had been meted out. Now Toki had been shown guilty and she was dead. By the gods, it was more than a man could explain to himself.

Zarabeth echoed some of his thoughts, her voice disbelieving. “Dead? Toki has confessed to what she did?”

King Guthrum shook his head. “Nay, 'twas her husband who told the council that it was she and not you who had killed his father. He said she confessed it to him when she was drunk. He beat her to death for it.”

Zarabeth moved closer to Magnus. He felt the quiver of her flesh, the withdrawal of her being from the coldness of the king's announcement.

“Aye, Keith said she was a vicious shrew, filled with envy and malice. He said she deserved to die by his hand, for as her husband he was in part responsible for the evil of her act.” Guthrum nodded wisely, his countenance certain and benign. “I agreed with him, as did the York council. He prospers now and is gaining stature. He looks more like his father by the day. He begins to strut about wearing silver and gold armlets and many rings, and he wears only the finest clothes. He has taken a new wife, a lovely girl of fourteen who will bear him many sons. He has given me several gifts.”

Fate, Magnus thought again. Its workings eluded him, as they did all men. He took Zarabeth's hand and squeezed her fingers as the king continued, his look one of a ruler endeavoring to be just. “I had forgot that Olav the Vain had said you were to receive all that he owned were he to die. Since you were innocent of his death, you should be recompensed.”

“Aye, I believe it just, sire,” she said. She looked up at her husband and smiled. “I should like back the coin Magnus paid to Keith in danegeld for his father's death.”

“It will be done.”

“Sire, we wish to fetch my son and Zarabeth's sister. If my sister, Ingunn, took the boy away, then I must also know where to find Orm Ottarsson, for she is with him.”

The king said nothing for many moments. Then finally he said, “If the little girl is still with my niece, why, I will give her to you, for Ingunn Haraldsson paid me much for the boy. Go, then, Orm Ottarsson lives by the River Thurlow, on the north side. He has named his farmstead Skelder, and it is three hectares in size. He is a good subject, a man who will bring me strength and coin.”