Season of the Sun (3 page)

“But you are brutal.”

“From time to time,” he said again, and smiled. “When it is necessary. I am not a needlessly cruel
man, Zarabeth. I will protect you with my life, you will see. It is what I would owe you as your husband.”

“You seem to claim there is much owed to me, were I to accept you as my husband. But you command me now, when I scarce know you, and you expect me to obey you in all things. I owe you nothing, truly. You must—”

He ignored her words. He clasped her hand and turned it over in his and stared down at her palm. There were calluses on the pads of her fingers, and her hands were reddened from work. “I told you that I am not a poor man. You will have servants to see to the hardest work, and you will direct them. Aye, you will sew my tunics and see that my food is prepared properly, but your hands will be white again, for me, to soothe my temples when my thoughts are harsh, to stroke my back when my muscles are knotted, to caress me when I wish to bed you.”

She stared at him, unable to look away. She'd never met his like before. This painful boldness of his. This matter-of-factness that gave no doubts as to his thoughts or intentions. And when he spoke of bedding her, of her hands touching him . . . it was unnerving, and at the same time, she felt excitement pool deep in her belly. She felt suddenly alive, every sense awakened by his words and by his look.

“I will have you, Zarabeth.”

“I must speak to my stepfather,” she said, desperate now because she'd never seen this man before this afternoon, desperate at what he'd made her feel in only a few moments. He was beyond anything she'd ever before known, and he was beyond her ability to grasp, beyond her ability to deal with in her normally forthright manner. She was indecisive still, she was floundering, and it was obvious to him and to her. She looked away, feeling at once ridiculous and
confused. “I must speak to my stepfather,” she said again.

He smiled then, for it was his triumph, his victory, and why not savor it for the moment? He had chosen her and she would come to him. He had been clear in his intentions, not mincing matters, and she'd bowed to him. He was certain of it, and quite pleased with himself. “Very well. I will be patient, Zarabeth. I will see you here on the morrow, after your Christian morning matins.”

When she only stared up at him, unspeaking, he smiled, lightly touched his fingertips to her chin, and leaned down to swiftly kiss her closed mouth. Then he was gone, striding from Coppergate square as if he were its owner, as if all its minions were his to order.

She stood there silent and wondering until he disappeared from her sight. She saw several of the women coming toward her. She quickly turned and walked away. She wanted none of their sly questions. Doubtless they wanted to ask her what the wicked barbarian had wanted of her.

And he was a barbarian. She'd forgotten that, and she shouldn't have allowed herself to. And wicked, from what he had told her he did to his mistress. She was a Christian, as was Lotti. Ah, her little sister. When she wedded, Zarabeth had always known that Lotti would go with her, for Lotti was hers now and had been since Lotti's second birthday, that day when her mother had died. That day when Olav had told Zarabeth that her mother had run off with another man, taking Lotti with her, and he had caught them and her mother had died from the blow the other man had dealt her. But why would the man have wanted to hurt her mother? Hadn't he run away with her? Hadn't he loved her? Zarabeth hadn't understood, but she'd seen the rage, the boiling violence in her stepfather's eyes, and kept quiet. Her mother was dead,
her hair matted and bloody against her head—blood seeping from her nose and mouth, she'd heard some women say. Aye, her mother was dead, long dead. Her beautiful mother, who had supposedly loved her but left her, taking Lotti with her and leaving her behind.

Zarabeth shook away the memories. They lay in the past, dead as summer ashes, and no reason could be made of them, for there were none alive to explain them, none save Olav. And she would never speak of the past to him. Odd that the memories were still painful and frightening. Odd how she still shied away from them.

When she allowed herself to think about her situation as it was now, she realized quite clearly that Olav believed her to have taken her mother's place. Only she wouldn't run away from him as her mother had. She belonged to him as any child belonged to its father.

And now this Viking had come into her life.

O
lav stared at his stepdaughter as he chewed on the potato cake she'd prepared for supper to go with the broiled beef strips. It was moist and well-baked, yet oddly, it chewed dryly in his mouth, then settled badly in his stomach. He continued to stare at Zarabeth. She was serving her little sister now, that damned little freak that Olav should have thrown into the gutter that day he'd discovered what she'd become and from whose seed she had sprung.

The child was crazy and stupid, but Zarabeth refused to accept it. Aye, he should have killed her then, but he hadn't. And now he couldn't. Zarabeth loved the little idiot and he knew deep down that if he harmed the girl, Zarabeth would turn on him. She might possibly even kill him. He didn't want to be afraid of her.

He wanted to bed her.

She carried none of his blood. She was simply Irish trash, just like her mother had been, trash, but not the whore Mara had been, and he would have her in his bed, soon now. And after he was done with her, why, then he might just sell her back to the slave market in Dublin, or possibly simply take her to be his wife. Her and that little idiot, curse the fates. Perhaps he wouldn't remain in York. Perhaps, if he married her, he would take her back to Hedeby, where he'd been born and which he had left some twenty years before.

He swallowed some of the beef, realizing even as he nearly choked on it that it was quite tasty with the honey and flour coating it. He licked his fingers, pausing a moment before he said deliberately, his voice laden with suspicion, “You seem different tonight, Zarabeth. Did something happen today? Something you're not telling me?”

And because she knew Olav was, unaccountably, jealous of every young man who spoke to her, she looked immediately guilty, even as she quickly shook her head and said no.

“You met a man, didn't you?”

She knew her mistake and said calmly enough, “He is a Viking trader, from Norway, near Kaupang, he told me. He was at the well in Coppergate square. He startled me when he spoke, and that is how I lost the pail.”

It sounded plausible, but Olav wasn't satisfied. A man was stupid if he trusted a woman's word. He eyed her closely and decided he couldn't let this pass. “Tell me, what is this Viking's name?”

“I do not know. He didn't tell me, merely spoke to me of the weather, and of you, of course. Aye, he spoke highly of you, for, as I said, he is a trader and interested in doing business with you.”

“Perhaps he will come to the shop then,” Olav said, and this bite of potato cake tasted quite good in his mouth. Still, she
was
different. It bothered him.

“Why didn't he tell you his name?”

Zarabeth shrugged. She hated this lying, yet the lies had come unbidden and immediately to her tongue. She wasn't certain why. She thought of Magnus, pictured him in her mind, tall and arrogant and sharp-eyed; then she saw that smile of his, that look in his eyes when he had stared down at her. She smiled unconsciously even as she spoke to Lotti and placed her small fingers around a strip of beef and said, “Do
eat just a bit more, sweeting. That's right, just another little bite. You must grow up to be a big healthy girl.”

Olav watched Zarabeth lean down and kiss the top of the girl's head. Little moron! He felt his loins tighten as his eyes dropped to Zarabeth's breasts. She'd finally grown into a woman's body. She'd been thin and flat as a board until just a year before. Then suddenly she'd become a woman and all the young men had come sniffing around her, lust wetting their lips, all of them wanting her, badly. But, thank the fates, she hadn't seemed at all interested in any of them, so Olav hadn't been forced to name a brideprice that would make their eyes bulge with chagrin and disbelief. And every day she grew to look more and more like her mother, beautiful, gentle, unfaithful Mara. He hadn't controlled Mara well, he'd been too easy with her, too tender, and look what it had gotten him. But Zarabeth, her mother's image, wasn't at all like Mara, except she shared what all women shared, a woman's lying tongue. She would obey him and she would remain faithful to him, for he would bind her firmly to him.

His own son wanted her, and that amused Olav, for Keith was well and firmly married to a girl Olav had selected for him. Keith was always coming around, presumably to see his father, but Olav knew better. He knew that young man was infatuated with Zarabeth. He wouldn't get her. Olav would kill his own son before he let him touch her. He suspected that Toki, Keith's wife, would also kill him were he to stray. He wondered if Toki knew of her husband's infatuation for his stepsister.

Olav stroked his soft golden beard, as was his habit when he was thinking deeply about a problem. There were white strands in the gold now, but not many. He wasn't an old man, not for many a year would he be that. His rod still stiffened easily and his back was still
straight. There was a bit of fat puffing out his belly, but not enough to repel a woman. His beard was thick and grew fully, as did the hair on his head. He was proud of his appearance and stinted nothing in the jewels and golden brooches he bought for himself. He'd heard himself called Olav the Vain, and it amused him. Why shouldn't a man of decent aspect be a bit vain?

Olav suddenly pushed away his chair and rose. “There are furs I must inspect before it darkens more. If your Viking comes to see me on the morrow, I will tell him that you spoke of him to me.”

He paused a moment to see her reaction, but she merely nodded, saying nothing, her face giving nothing away. That in itself made his suspicions boil, but he said nothing more, merely left her to go into the front of the house, which was his store. The way she was able to make her face blank bothered him, for it hid her thoughts—be they happy or sad or guilty. He lit a bear-oil lamp and looked at the piles of beaver, mink, and otter fur. He dropped to his haunches and began to methodically separate them according to their quality and their size, mentally setting a price to each one. He was good at this, and knew it, and blessed his long-dead father for teaching him.

In the back living area, Zarabeth went about her chores automatically, for her thoughts strayed again and again to the Viking. She spoke to Lotti as she washed the wooden plates and the knives. She bathed her little sister and tucked her firmly in soft furs on the narrow box bed in the small chamber they both shared.

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.