Season of the Sun

by Catherine Coulter

  “Where is she?”

  Again Ingunn shrugged. “She is with four other slaves at the marsh, digging up bog ore. You know how much we use, burning it with the charcoal in the ovens. Rollo whined for more, since he is making more farm implements for you. You know how hot his ovens must be to melt the iron.”

  He could only stare at her. Digging up chunks of bog ore! By Odin, it was a terrible job, dirty, back-breaking work that required great strength and endurance, and she, a woman, was doing it? His mother was right. Ingunn would never ease in her jealous hatred.

  He turned and left the longhouse without another word. He strode from the palisade toward the clump of pine trees that bordered the marsh that lay a good hundred yards to the east of the farmstead.

  Zarabeth wanted to die. She didn’t want to cry or make a single sound. She just wanted to fall down and die. Her back burned so badly that she was beyond tears, beyond anything she had ever known. Her muscles were knotted and cramped. It didn’t ease; it simply got worse and worse. Yet she dug with the hoe in the filthy black swamp until the blade hit the hard clumps, then she bent down to dig with her hands when she had uncovered the isolated lumps of bog ore. It had taken her several hours to be taught how to find the ore, and now that she knew, she had found a rhythm. But it was hard to keep going. So very hard. She had been a fool to let Ingunn taunt her into this. She had been a fool to allow herself to flaunt her pride. Pride! She had nothing but pain, and an iron collar about her neck that told all she was nothing to anyone. Pride!

  A fool, naught but a fool, yet she kept digging, bending over and uncovering the bog ore from the slime, then pulling it loose, and finally lifting it out. She paused a moment, her breath hitching in pain that nearly bowed her to her knees, and in that instant she knew he was there, watching her.

  She was filthy, her gown rent and wet and smelling of the bog ore and the filthy marsh water. Her bare feet and legs were black with filth.

  Her hair had come loose from its braid. She breathed heavily and stood very still. She would not perform for him whilst he watched. She simply wouldn’t do it. Was he here to taunt her? To order her to go faster? Was he here to tell her he would sell her? That he found her less than useless? He had taken her three times and hadn’t found anything in her to his liking. Why should he keep her?

  Magnus nodded to the other serfs, men all of them, bowed but stronger than most from years of back-breaking work. He reached her and raised her dirty face in the palms of his cupped hands. He looked down at her for a long moment.

  Finally he said, “Drop the hoe.”

  She let it slip from her raw hands.

  “Are you really so stupid as to be here?”

  She stared up at him, mute.

  He frowned. “Do you not understand me?”

  “You want me to be here. You want to sell me because there is nothing more you want from me.”

  “We will speak of your strange fancies later. Come, now you will bathe and then I will tie you to my bed. You will remain there until I say that you may arise.”

  “I cannot,” she said slowly, pulling away from him. She tried to straighten, but the pain ground through her back and she remained before him like a bent old woman. “I am naught but a slave, your slave. You cannot allow me to be shiftless and lazy.”

  “You’re quite wrong. I can do anything I please with you. I suggest that you believe me and no other.” He lifted her in his arms, felt her shudder from the pain in her back, but since there was nothing he could do about it, he merely tried to shift her so that she was cupped against his chest, his arm around her waist. “Hold on to me.”

  Ingunn said not a word when Magnus came into the longhouse calling for clean cloths. She said not a word when he later carried in Zarabeth, clean from the bathhouse and wrapped in those cloths, and disappeared with her into his chamber. She felt rage and impotence and knew that there was nothing she could do to stop this except to kill the woman.

  She gave Cyra an assessing look and knew that she too would willingly stick a knife in the woman’s ribs. What to do?

  Then she knew. She trembled with her decision, yet knew that she would do it. She would not remain here. She would not remain to see this woman take her place. She smiled.

  17

  “Hold still. Do not flinch from me.”

  But it was difficult not to draw away, not to try to pull inside herself to avoid his hands on her. He was gentle, she knew, but it didn’t matter. The pain was great and she felt weaker in spirit than she could ever remember.

  Magnus rubbed in the cream his mother had sent, turning her back a sickly white. He had bathed her himself, from her filthy matted hair to her blackened feet.

  She had suffered it without complaint. He gently combed her hair, pulling it away from her head and fanning it out to dry more quickly. He rose and looked down at her. He had pulled the blanket over her hips. He said to the back of her head, “Your pride is ridiculous, Zarabeth, if it leads you to commit such stupidity. I grow weary of rescuing you from the consequences of your arrogance.”

  “Then don’t,” she said.

  He grinned down at her. Her voice was nasty and angry. It pleased him greatly. “But who else would rescue you?”

  She ignored that, coming up on her elbows, twisting to see him. Color came into her cheeks, and his smile widened as she said, “I am not arrogant. ’Tis you who flaunt yourself before me and all your people, shouting at them that you are the master and will allow no other to gainsay you!”

  “I do not have to flaunt. All know I am the master, and soon you will accept it as well.”

  She tried to strike him, but he merely grasped her wrists in one of his hands and pressed her back onto her stomach. “Don’t be a fool. Lie still. If you will, you may continue your screaming, but content yourself for the time being with your words.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Nay, you don’t hate me. When your back has healed, I will take you down under me and come inside you again. You liked that, Zarabeth, the way I moved over you, the way I touched you and filled you.”

  “Be quiet, Magnus!”

  He gently caressed her cheek with his fingertip. “I have never before wanted a woman as much as I have wanted you. And I still want you, all the time I want you. Do you believe I shall ever tire of you?”

  She pressed her face into the pillow. “You do not want me, you keep me in your bed only because you don’t wish it known that you are cruel.”

  “By Thor’s hammer, that is great nonsense that comes from your mouth. I want you in my bed now so that you will heal.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He shook his head, knowing Ingunn had somehow convinced her that he no longer wanted her. He said only, “Nay, sweeting, all will be well soon. Believe me.”

  She turned to look at him again. Her face looked quiet and still as a statue’s. “You will sell me, then?”

  “Why do you believe I would sell you?”

  “You won’t sell me and keep Lotti here, will you? You wouldn’t, would you, Magnus, no matter how much you hated me?”

  He rose then, saying nothing more now, for she had managed, finally, to anger him. How could she believe he would do such a thing? He stood over her, his legs slightly spread, his arms at his sides, his hands fisted. “Who would buy you? Look at you—naught but a whining female who grows thin and loses her charms before she has even learned to use them on a man. The only reason a man would buy you would be the promise of what you would bring to his bed. You have willingness, Zarabeth, but little else as yet. Nay, I must keep you until you become skilled with your mouth and your hands, until you have learned to hold me inside you and drive me to madness with soft words and gentle caressing.”

  “I have no willingness, ’tis just that my body has no way to judge what you are! Nor will I become skilled, Magnus, I won’t let you do that to me again.”

  “We will see. Hush now with your angry words. You must needs rest.”
<
br />   There was nothing more to say. She felt drained, empty of spirit and fight. She closed her eyes, pressing her face again into the pillow.

  “My mother sent the cream for your back. It is of her own making. She used it on me and my brothers as far back as I can remember. It soothes and warms and leaches away the pain.”

  “How did your mother know her cream was needed?”

  He was stymied, but only for a moment. “Why, we had no more, and it was just luck that brought one of her house slaves with another supply. Though, of course, I did hesitate to waste it on a slave.”

  “Wipe it off, then, I care not. I never asked for it or for anything else.”

  “No, you didn’t, did you?” He leaned down suddenly and pulled the cover from her hips to her ankles. She cried out and tried to rear up. He held her down with his hand flat on her waist. “I want to look at you. I cannot take you now, ’twould be cruel and I would not much enjoy it for you would moan and groan and complain I was killing you.”

  Magnus knew he had to stop this. She had wounded his pride, but he was hurting her, and she had no recourse. He was become as vicious as Ingunn. He looked at her white buttocks, smooth and round, and he could feel them in his hands, and those long legs of hers, nicely shaped and sleek with muscle, and he could see her on her back, and he was deep inside her and her legs were wrapped around his flanks, drawing him deeper, and he was moaning and he never wanted to leave her, never, never . . .

  He drew the blanket to her waist again. His hands were shaking. “I want you to rest now, Zarabeth. You will remain here until I tell you to rise. I will have one of the girls bring you food, and then you will sleep.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  He paused at the doorway. “As I said, you grow thin, and a man doesn’t want to grind himself against a woman’s bones. You will eat or I will force food down your skinny throat.”

  When Anna, the eleven-year-old niece of Rollo, the blacksmith, brought food to her, she found Zarabeth deeply asleep. She returned to Magnus.

  “I did not wake her, Magnus.”

  “It is all right, Anna. Take the tray to Lotti and make certain she eats enough. If you wish to speak to her, you must remember to—”

  “I know. I must look directly at her so she can see me speaking.”

  Magnus grinned and ruffled the girl’s nearly white-blond hair. “You have a wise tongue, Anna.”

  The evening passed slowly. As much as he fought it, Magnus went several times to his chamber to see that Zarabeth was all right. She was sleeping soundly each time, but still he worried. Everyone noted his trips to and fro. He returned to hear the men discussing the killings on the Ingolfsson farmstead, a small property some two days to the south by boat. The Ingolfsson daughters had been raped, the younger boys killed outright. Haftor Ingolfsson had been gone hunting for winter stores with most of his men. He had returned to find carnage, his animals slaughtered, his slaves captured. There was outrage at what the outlaws had done, and word of the disaster had passed quickly. It was too bold, too daring. It was unexpected and frightening; no man liked the sound of it. No Viking would stand for it.

  There would be a special meeting of the thing held in three days in Kaupang to determine the men responsible by the proof presented, and what was to be done.

  Later in the evening, Magnus was sitting in his master’s chair with its beautifully carved seat posts, thinking about what a mess his life had become, when he suddenly heard a child bellow, “Papa! Papa!”

  He looked up to see Lotti running toward him, her thin arms outstretched, fear on her face, and again she shouted, clear as could be, “Papa! Papa!”

  He caught her as she dived for him and pulled her close against his chest, pressing her head against his shoulder. She was sobbing, her body heaving and shuddering against him.

  He spoke to her softly, his hand stroking up and down her back, then shook his head at himself. She couldn’t hear anything he was saying. Slowly he pulled her away from his shoulder and sat her on his thighs. He pushed the tangled hair from her face. “What is wrong, Lotti?”

  She was still weeping, but now her sobs were hiccups.

  “Did you have a nightmare?”

  She stared up at him, her eyes wide.

  “Did you dream about monsters and evil beings?”

  She nodded slowly, then said loudly, “Papa,” and clutched him about the throat.

  “A filthy little idiot—and you let her call you that! ’Tis disgusting!”

  Magnus paid no heed to Ingunn.

  Horkel said, “She spoke clearly, Magnus. She is learning very quickly here.”

  “I expect it is a word she spoke before she became without hearing. Zarabeth told me that Olav struck her head when she was two years old. She was not born without hearing.”

  He rocked the little girl in his arms, wishing fiercely in that moment that she had been born of his seed. She stiffened in his hold and he allowed her to lean back in the safe circle of his arms. “Zarabeth,” Lotti said, and she was frowning, and there was that damned fear in her eyes again. He wished he could wipe it out for all time.

  “Zarabeth will be fine. She’s sleeping now, just as you should be, little sweeting.”

  Lotti raised her hand and lightly ran her fingertips over his lips. It tickled, and he grinned at her, trying to bite her fingers. She laughed, that harsh, mewling sound. It delighted him, that laugh of hers, and made him feel fiercely protective.

  He hugged her to him again. She settled herself against his chest and was soon asleep.

  Horkel looked at his friend for a long moment, then shook his head. “ ’Tis no good,” he said, and there was great sadness in his eyes and in his voice. “ ’Tis no good at all.”

  Magnus knew what he meant, but he refused to accept it.

  * * *

  Zarabeth was sitting up on Magnus’ box bed the next morning. He had gone before she awakened, but now she was hungry and needed to relieve herself. But she hesitated to go into the main hall. Ingunn would be there, and Cyra and all the others who had heard and seen and held her as naught but a murderess and a liar and a slave.

  “Coward,” she said to herself, and rose. She was stiff and it hurt to straighten her back. Ingunn was there, naturally, overseeing all the household chores as she sewed.

  Lotti was with Eldrid, and the woman was showing her how to sew. Zarabeth had to lean down and hug her before the child noticed her. Lotti gave her a big grin and pointed to the stitches she had just made in a small gown.

  “ ’Tis lovely,” Zarabeth said, and kissed her. But Lotti wasn’t to be distracted, and turned back to Eldrid.

  Ingunn said in a very neutral voice, “Aunt Eldrid is looking after her. It is Magnus’ order. He is not here, but out hunting with the men. He said you were not to do anything.”

  Zarabeth wasn’t aware that there was strain in her voice, but all the women and children in the longhouse who were listening heard it and felt the pain of it. “I would like to bathe.”

  Ingunn snorted. “I had heard stories that the people of the Danelaw were animals and smelled like the pigs they tended. Why wish you to bathe as often as a Viking?”

  “I did not tend pigs. Perhaps that is why.”

  “Ah, is it because Magnus demands it? ’Tis true he likes his women to be sweet-smelling. You still think to hold him, don’t you? Have you looked at Cyra, you stupid woman?”

  “Aye.”

  “You are nothing compared to her! You are but a new diversion to him, nothing more, just a fresh woman’s body to use and then discard. It is your coloring that fascinates him, but that is already passing. He already sees your hair as coarse and common. He will have Cyra again, you will see.” Then, to Zarabeth’s surprise, Ingunn turned a vicious eye to Lotti. What was happening here? She moved unconsciously nearer her sister.

  It was Eldrid who spoke, her voice loud and clear and seemingly guileless. “Magnus loves the little girl. He gave her into my charge. Nothing will hap
pen to her, I have vowed it to him.”

  “Ha! He merely feels pity for her, as he would for a wounded animal. See you to the little idiot, then. I care not!”

  Zarabeth wanted to yell at Ingunn that her bile was foolishly wasted on Lotti. The child couldn’t hear her, and thus the vicious words could not wound her. But they hurt Zarabeth deeply. She forced herself to turn away. She went to the bathhouse.

  “Remove the gown. I wish to examine your back.”

  “Leave my gown alone. My back is fine. I have no need for you to strip me again.”

  He smiled at the fierceness in her voice. The pain had lessened and she was feeling stronger. She was hardy, Zarabeth was, and he suspected she could hold her own easily with Ingunn, if she weren’t a slave. But she was; he had made her one.

  He said with great patience, “Be quiet and remove the gown. I will rip it off you if you don’t obey me, Zarabeth.”

  She didn’t want to. It was daylight. The chamber was dim, as usual, but she knew he would look at her, and she couldn’t bear it, she simply couldn’t. He was a man and he had taken her, and, truth be told, he had given her a pleasure she had never expected could exist, but he didn’t love her, he scorned her, and this assumption of his that she would do whatever it was he wanted was beyond what she could endure.

  She turned and ran from the chamber. Her back was stiff and sore, but she had no more of his mother’s healing cream, no more need for him to bathe her back.

  “Zarabeth! Come back here!”

  But she didn’t. She turned to see him, only to run into the solid wall of Horkel’s massive chest. His hands grasped her upper arms.

  “ ’Tis enough,” he said, and merely held her as she struggled against his grip.

  Magnus looked over her head and met his friend’s eyes. “She might have run all the way to Kaupang. She has little sense and more pride than my father. However, hers isn’t tempered with wisdom.” He held out his hands, and Horkel turned her about and shoved her toward Magnus.