Season of the Sun

by Catherine Coulter

“Aye, but the old man wouldn’t have wedded with you in the first place! You are ugly as a rutting boar and you have not what any man would want between your legs!”

  There was laughter to that; then a man said, “She’s pretty, aye, I’ll give you that, but stupid she is, drawing Magnus in and then spitting on him. Why would she betray him? She’ll pay, though, you’ll see.”

  “Aye, when she sees Cyra . . . by Thor, that girl would make any man hard as a stone. She’ll regret that she did.”

  “Forget not Ingunn, a hard taskmistress, that one, whose tongue feeds on contention, despite her angel’s face. Life won’t be pleasant for the slave.”

  And on and on it went, and Zarabeth wondered who Ingunn was. As for Cyra, Zarabeth remembered her well. She was also a slave, and she bedded with Magnus. That wouldn’t touch her, Zarabeth thought. She didn’t care what women crept into his bed, just as long as it wasn’t her. She wouldn’t be his slut.

  When she turned to listen again, the men were wagering on when Magnus would bed her. She remembered being kissed by him, held against his chest, feeling his strength, his gentleness flowing into her. It was over now.

  Time passed. She emerged only once daily from the cargo hold to empty the slops.

  Two days out of Hedeby, Zarabeth awoke suddenly with the knowledge that something was very wrong. She jerked upright, shaking her head to clear away the sleep. Lotti was missing. She felt fear pound through her, and dashed to the entry of the cargo hold. She could only stare. Lotti was sitting on one of the men’s bare thighs, a small monkey of a man with a thick black beard, whose name was Tostig. He was laughing and pointing out different seabirds to her. A seal played near the vessel, and Lotti was laughing, in her own way, and gesticulating wildly, and the other men had crowded around them. She was safe. Her bright ginger hair was blowing wildly around her face. Zarabeth stared in astonishment as one of the men came down on his haunches and began to braid her hair, so gentle his touch that Lotti scarce noticed. Another man produced a bit of leather to tie the braid. Lotti held out her hand to the man, and he laughed and patted her cheek and then his legs, and the man Tostig handed the little girl over to him.

  It was unaccountable. Zarabeth couldn’t take it in, this gentleness and kindness to a child. But so it was. She saw that Magnus was still down at the steering oar, lolling at his ease next to the helmsman. She turned back into the hold and sat down, leaning against a wool-wrapped box filled with soapstone bowls and pitchers and plates, bound, she supposed, for the trading market at Hedeby. She closed her eyes, wishing she could forget where she was and why she was here.

  He came in so suddenly that she didn’t have time to cry out, much less voice a protest. He filled the entry, the bright sun behind him, then pulled the pelts back down, and the small area was dim again.

  “Lotti is fine and well-occupied with my men. I’m tired of waiting. I’ve come to take you, Zarabeth.”

  She didn’t move, merely stared at him, disbelieving. “Why?”

  He laughed. “I told you, I’m tired of waiting. You’re my slave. If I want you, I’ll take you whenever it pleases me.”

  She saw that he meant it. She scrambled back against the side of the vessel. “Please, no. It isn’t right, it isn’t—”

  “It’s what I want! I’ve paid dearly for you, Zarabeth!”

  She was shaking her head wildly. “No, Magnus. I won’t be your whore.”

  “You’re a slave, and that is less than a whore. Also, since you are the only woman here, I must make do with you. I would ask you, though, how many men you’ve had before me.”

  She stared at him, remembering starkly the man who had professed to care for her, the man who had wanted to wed with her, the man who had held her close and kissed her tenderly and shocked her with his bold speaking. He was well and truly gone. In his place was this hard-faced man whose eyes were cold as the North Sea in the wintertime.

  Feeling for him froze within her. She raised her face. “A dozen men,” she said. “Aye, I have had more men than I can remember or count. Once Olav breached me, I could see no harm in it, for he was old and had little to offer me. Aye, at least a dozen various men, all different sizes they were, some hairy and dark, others like smooth polished wood.” She shrugged then, smiling. “Since I am but a woman, counting comes with difficulty, but I do think it was at least twelve different ones.”

  She thought he would strike her. She saw the pulse pounding in his throat, saw the rage building in his eyes.

  “Do not lie to me, Zarabeth, it angers me.”

  “Then do not ask me a fool’s questions, you brainless knave!”

  “Very well, then. I will tell you what to do. Pull up your gown. I wish to see your woman’s endowments.”

  “No.” The single word sounded strong and arrogant in the close cargo space, and Zarabeth wondered at it, for she was so afraid, she could feel the cramping in her belly.

  She didn’t have much time to consider what he would do. She had no time to react. He dropped to his knees beside her, grabbed her wrists in his hands, and pulled her forward. He made no move to kiss her, just pulled her tight against him, hauling her up to her knees. He said inches from her face, “You will do as I tell you. I will have no more of your defiance, no more of your stubborn pride, no more of your lies.” He pushed her roughly onto her back and came down over her, pinning her down, her hands above her head.

  He kissed her then, hard, forcing her lips to part. This was punishment and dominance and she wouldn’t accept it. She began to struggle against him, heaving and arching her back, twisting to the side, but he was twice her size and had twice her strength. She felt him rear back, easing off her so that he was on his side, and he was looking down at her, at his hand that was jerking up the skirt of her gown.

  “No!” She twisted her head toward him and bit his forearm. He made no sound, just sucked in his breath at the pain. In the next moment he grabbed both her wrists in one hand and jerked them again painfully over her head.

  “No more fighting me,” he said, and he was breathing hard and his voice was raw and she knew that he was going to take her, force her, as she knew some men hurt women. “Why do you care? I am just one more man to have you.” She felt his member hard and pressing against her thigh and knew that he would do to her what Olav hadn’t been able to.

  “Magnus, please don’t hurt me.”

  He laughed then, just laughed, and she felt humiliation fill her craw, for she had begged. She knew such hatred for him that had she been free, she would have sliced him with the knife at his belt.

  He was smiling now, a cruel smile, and he looked into her face as his hand smoothed over her breasts, downward to her belly, then further again to the hem of her gown. Slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, he began to pull the gown upward.

  He saw the humiliation in her eyes, the pain of what he was doing to her, the immense anger that filled her, and it pleased him. He would break her, this woman who had rejected him to wed with an old man, this woman who had murdered to satisfy her greed.

  His hand touched her inner thigh, and for an instant he closed his eyes over the intense feelings that coursed through him. He didn’t want these feelings toward her, didn’t expect them. Then he touched her soft woman’s flesh and thought he would spill his seed.

  He could bear no more. He knew his men were aware of what he was doing, knew they would hear her cry out when he thrust into her, but he didn’t care. She was naught but a slave; her only purpose was to be what he wanted her to be.

  He ripped her gown open, baring her to the waist, and rolled over on top of her, freeing himself. “Now,” he said, his breathing harsh and raw and ugly. “Now. Hold still. Don’t fight me now, Zarabeth, it will do you no good.”

  12

  Zarabeth stared up at him, watching his eyes darken, his expression become more intent, color stain his cheeks. But he wasn’t looking at her face, he was staring down at her naked belly, at the fiery red curls, as vivid and brigh
t as the hair of her head. Strangely gentle, as if uncertain of himself, he lowered his hand and his fingers lightly skimmed through the curls to find her.

  She couldn’t believe he was touching her like this, couldn’t accept it. She felt such shame, such fear, she thought she would choke on it. When his fingers slid between her legs, she cried, out, bucking wildly upward to dislodge his hand. But instead of defeating him, she felt his middle finger push slowly into her, widening her.

  She cried out.

  Magnus closed his eyes against the onslaught of feeling. It was just lust he felt, nothing more, just lust for a woman’s body, any woman’s body, but the heat of her and her smallness were overwhelming, and he knew his finger was hurting her, stretching her, for she was narrow and dry, her body fighting him. He pressed with difficulty further into her. She was crying now, twisting madly to get him away from her, but she couldn’t move him, couldn’t make him stop. She reared up suddenly, freeing one of her hands from his grasp, and struck him on the mouth as hard as she could. He simply thrust his finger further into her and watched as she gasped with pain, her eyes going blank, all movement frozen in that instant. Their eyes met in that moment and he cleared away all expression and stared at her. He smiled at her as he shoved his finger in more deeply. He pushed her back down, holding her there with his palm splayed on her belly. She was striking him, but he felt no pain, felt nothing but the heat of her body, the softness of her, the pain—no he wouldn’t accept that, he wouldn’t care about that. What she felt mattered not to him.

  By Odin, he couldn’t believe her still a maid, yet her passage was so narrow, so tight, he thought she must be. He felt his member swell and harden; he was in such need he knew he must come into her now or he would spill his seed.

  He withdrew his finger suddenly, wanting to retain his control. He felt her flinch as he did so, but she didn’t quieten, but only increased her struggles against him. He paid her no heed. He said nothing, merely jerked her legs apart and rolled over on top of her, pressing himself against her. He reared up then to free himself from his loincloth, his hand trembling, his body quivering with the pulsing need that was filling him to overflowing. Suddenly, his hair was being yanked off his head. He heard a shrill mewling sound and he felt small fists pounding at his shoulders.

  With an animal growl, fury blinding him, he jerked about to fight off his attacker. It took him a moment to realize that it was Lotti, trying to save her sister.

  From his rape.

  He didn’t believe it was happening, but it was, and he was both enraged and bewildered. He heard Horkel then, saying from without, “Nay, go not in there, Tostig. Magnus will deal with the child. It is not our business.”

  “Aye, but we should have stopped her! By Thor, he will not be pleased about this.”

  He wasn’t pleased; it was a vast understatement. Magnus wondered just what he was to do with a writhing woman beneath him, a sex that hurt him so that he thought he would die with it, and a small girl striking him with all her strength. He suddenly laughed, at himself, at the ridiculous situation. He gave it up; his need dwindled as the ashes on a summer hearth. He released Zarabeth and quickly rolled off her, coming up on his knees, quickly covering himself.

  Zarabeth hadn’t at first understood. Then she saw Lotti and realized that the child had thrown herself on Magnus. Lotti drew away from Magnus now, her eyes on her sister, tear streaks down her dirty cheeks. The child was terrified, but still she stood her ground between Zarabeth and Magnus, her mouth quivering, her small shoulders squared.

  Zarabeth wanted to weep at the loyalty of her little sister. “Come, sweeting,” she said quickly, scrambling to her knees and holding out her arms, “ ’tis all right. I’m all right. Nay, don’t weep, and don’t be frightened. Magnus and I were just playing, aye, that’s it, playing, wrestling the way boys do, but he wanted to show me some of the moves he knew, nothing more. Come and let me hug you.”

  She gathered the child to her, and soothing Lotti calmed her. She pressed the child’s head to her shoulder and looked up at Magnus, who sat cross-legged not two feet from her. He was still breathing heavily, but had himself well in hand now. She watched a strange smile curve his lips as he said, “Aye, wrestling. Naught but a game, just as you told the child. Aye, but a game you will lose, Zarabeth, for I am your master in all things.”

  “You are an animal,” she said clearly, and was surprised at the calm of her voice. “ ’Tis no game to you, but a savage contest of might. You are the stronger, so you think you can take what you want from someone weaker. You disgust me.” She looked away from him and continued stroking Lotti’s back and whispering soft sounds to her.

  His mouth tightened and he felt the familiar burning anger at her twist in his belly. But now wasn’t the time. He waved his hand at the child. “What is wrong with her? She makes strange noises. Is she half-witted?”

  “No, she is without hearing.”

  Magnus looked disbelieving. Suddenly he reared up on his knees and clapped his hands loudly at the back of Lotti’s head. The little girl didn’t move. He looked perplexed, then sat back again.

  “Was she born this way?”

  “Nay, Olav struck her when she was but two years old. She was unconscious for two days after, and when she awoke, she was without hearing.” She paused, remembering her fear, her fury at Olav. “I wanted to kill him for what he’d done, for he didn’t even care. She could have died and it wouldn’t have touched him. To excuse what he did, he pretended she was a half-wit, and that is what he told others.”

  “You did get your revenge on Olav,” he said, then immediately added, “She says your name, but it’s in a slurred way.”

  “Aye, she could say several things before he hit her. And since she knows some sounds and some meanings of things, with patience, she can learn to speak more words.”

  “You should have told me this.”

  She stared at him, amazement, contempt, writ clear on her face. “Why? So that you could have planned your brutality with more craft? So that you would have but another weapon to use against me?”

  “I would not use a child against any man.”

  “Aye, but I’m not a man, merely a woman.”

  “Nay, you’re a slave first, and then a woman.”

  She looked down, not responding to him. What was the use? She patted Lotti and spoke quietly to her, pulling away so she could see the child’s face. It was as if she no longer recognized that he was there. She’d simply retreated from him, withdrawn into herself. It enraged him.

  “If the child cannot hear, how came she to enter in here?”

  Zarabeth didn’t bother to look up. “I do not know. I suppose that she saw you come in and pull the skins down. She is afraid of you. She sought only to protect me. I ask that you do not hurt her.”

  “I have told you before that I do not harm children.”

  “That is a lie. I know of Vikings such as you, and of your raids and the fighting madness that consumes all of you. You kill without reason and with no hesitation. King Alfred must continually fight you to keep his lands intact and his people from slaughter.”

  He was silent for a moment, for that was true. He shrugged then. “It is our way. Sometimes things happen that are not what I would wish. But it is the way such things are. Why do you feel pity for Alfred? He is naught to you, a chimera, a fable with no substance, spoken of by unhappy Saxons over their fires during winter nights. If Alfred were their king, he would abuse them endlessly. Guthrum is your king and their king and your dead husband’s king. Your loyalty is to a Viking, not to the Saxon king.”

  She shrugged. “I hate all of you, truth be told, your senseless violence that leaves people dead or broken or slaves. All of you are savages, and I doubt not that the noble Alfred is just as savage as are you. You are right about that.”

  “Now you are the slave of a savage. I will hear no more of your plaints.”

  “I do not wish you to rape me.”

  “I don�
�t particularly wish to force myself on you, but I will if you so foolishly continue to fight me. If you do, your pain will be but worse. I care not about your pain, but perhaps you will wish to think about it. I will take you, Zarabeth, make up your mind to it. What you want, what you feel now, make no difference to me. You are still a maid, are you not?” He did not wait for her to answer, merely spoke his thoughts aloud. “You were stretching around my fingers. Aye, no man has been inside you yet. So, you wed with an old man . . . perhaps you knew he couldn’t take you and that you would not have to suffer him mauling you? Aye, or is it true that you began to poison him the very day you wedded him so you wouldn’t have to suffer him in your bed? That he would not have the strength?”

  “You speak with the voice of a mindless savage. Aye, it smacks of such truth, does it not? That I would prefer an old man to wed with rather than become your wife?” Her voice was weary and mocking and he wished he had simply kept quiet. “Aye, look at what I would have gotten had I not been so stupid . . . a strong man, so tender and gentle that he will rape an unwilling woman. All those wondrous words you spoke to me, they were lies, naught but a Viking’s savage lies.”

  He rose suddenly to his feet, towering over her. “I did not lie! I would have loved you and guarded you with my life, I would have given you all that I was, all that I owned, but you chose that old man. Oh, aye, you murdered him, Zarabeth, of that I am certain. You see, I heard all the witnesses before you even came into King Guthrum’s chamber. They all said the same thing, that you wanted the old man’s wealth, that you knew you could control him, for he desired you and had even granted you all his earthly goods upon his death. Mock me no more.”

  He left the cargo area. She sat there still holding Lotti close, not moving now, frozen, wishing that somehow she could die but knowing that she couldn’t, for there was Lotti, her brave little sister. She heard no man’s laughter from without. Surely they would have guessed what had happened. She heard naught of anything. She held Lotti closer and rocked her back and forth. The child had saved her this time. And the next time? Magnus would never make such a mistake again. She knew too that he would have his way eventually. Again she was without choices.