Season of the Sun

by Catherine Coulter

  He realized in a moment of truth that what he blamed her for, what enraged him to the point of near-senselessness, what he wanted to punish her for until she was pleading with him, was not the poisoning of her husband, but her betrayal of him, her humiliation of him, her freely given pain to him.

  He nearly rubbed his hands together at the pleasure of his revenge on her. She was alive and the king had agreed he could have her. He had paid Keith the danegeld for Olav’s life, an amount of gold that wasn’t all that great after all, for, strangely enough, Keith had seemed anxious that Zarabeth not be killed for her act. His wife, Toki, had carped and yelled and screamed at him, but he’d stood firm.

  Now Zarabeth was his slave. He could do with her whatever he wished to. He thanked Guthrum once again, then turned to walk toward her. He wanted to see the fear in her eyes, see her shrink back from him because of the lies she’d told him, because now she was whatever he dictated that she would be. He wanted to see her pale; he wanted to see her cower. Instead, to his surprise, her shoulders straightened even more and that damned pride of hers radiated outward like a shield.

  He met her then, halting but inches from her, and he said low, “Justice has been served. You are mine now, completely mine. We are leaving on the morrow.”

  Zarabeth felt the room darkening, felt the floor tilt toward her. She was going to faint, she realized, astounded, and the knowledge made her blink and shake herself. She looked up into his face, the beloved face that she had held close in her mind since the first morning he had come to her. She would make him understand. She had to.

  “There is no justice in this instance, but there seems to be nothing I can say to change that. Very well, I’ll come with you.” She would not thank him for saving her life, for it seemed to her that his words to King Guthrum had made her look all the more guilty.

  Magnus frowned. Somehow he hadn’t expected her to bend to his demands so quickly.

  “I need my clothes.”

  “You look like a witch, and your smell sickens me.”

  She merely nodded. “Very well, then, clothes and a bath and a comb for my hair.”

  “No.”

  She found nothing strange at his show of perversity. She’d lived too long with Olav. Again she nodded, saying nothing more.

  Actually Magnus had already had her clothing fetched from Olav’s house, over Toki’s loud and shrill objections. She had wanted to sell the clothing. The vicious bitch would die, so who cared what would happen to her clothing? But Horkel, a man of few words and frightening aspect, had merely taken Zarabeth’s things without heeding the shrieking woman. In fact, he had smiled as he’d left Olav’s house, Toki running behind him, yelling her head off.

  “Come. We will go to my vessel now.”

  She turned to walk with him from the presence of King Guthrum. She saw Old Arnulf standing there, displeasure weighing heavy on his face. Toki and Keith hung back, Toki looking furious and Keith looking, strangely, somehow relieved. And Zarabeth knew why. She wished she could place her hands around Toki’s throat; she wanted to kill her, for it was she who was the murderess. No, there was no justice. Zarabeth didn’t believe that Toki would ever be punished for her deed. As for being eaten with remorse, she doubted Toki had ever had a twinge of remorse in her life. She had won, but still she was furious because Zarabeth wasn’t to die. At least by King Guthrum’s order.

  Zarabeth waited until they were outside the palace compound before saying, “Magnus, please, I will explain everything to you. But first we must fetch Lotti. She is frightened of Toki and she will hurt her, I know it. Please, we must get her.”

  Magnus felt equal portions of rage and pain, and all because of this damned woman who stood disheveled and dirty in front of him, still so proud, so certain of her ability to charm him that she gave him no real notice. He said, his voice as cold as the viksfjord in winter, “No. The child stays here with her brother. I do not wish to have her on the journey home.”

  Zarabeth reeled back from his words. She’d never believed Magnus to be cruel; it hadn’t occurred to her that he would refuse her in this, no matter what he felt about her. By the saints, what a fool she was. If ever she’d thought that he could be so quick to hurt a defenseless child, she wouldn’t have come to care for him so quickly. She felt that pain, not elusive now, but full and deep, grind inside her. She wanted to scream at him that it was all a lie, that she loved him, but she knew that now, at this moment, he was set against her.

  But she had to get Lotti. She shivered at the thought of the child with Toki for even another hour, let alone another day. But she was now Magnus’ slave. His slave. A creature with no rights, no choices, no freedom. She would have to figure out something. She had to. She would not leave Lotti here at Toki’s mercy.

  She walked in silence now beside Magnus, trying to gather the proper words together to speak to him. She had to explain, to make him believe her. It was a goodly distance to the quay, but neither spoke. She was tired, so weary she was trembling, unable to find words to beg him to stop, just for a moment. She realized she was hungry, for she had been given nothing to eat since the previous evening. It was hot, the sun brutal on her head, and she felt herself becoming light-headed. She tried to shake it away, to keep control of herself and her body. She couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not to Magnus, never to Magnus. She would die first.

  Magnus was fully aware that she was slowing beside him, but he didn’t shorten his step. He saw her weave, then get control of herself again, and against his will he admired her. He quashed it. He saw her swipe her hand over her forehead and rub her eyes. He said nothing. He knew that if he did, he would want to strike her, and a blow from him could kill her. He didn’t want her dead.

  He remained silent. When she fell behind, he stopped and turned to face her. “Quicken your step. I have matters to see to and have not the time to waste in coddling you.”

  The sun shone so brightly in her eyes that for a moment he blurred before her, his hair glistening nearly white in the shimmering heat. She raised her hand, then dropped it. She was so very thirsty. Her tongue felt swollen in her mouth. Slowly she shook her head and forced one foot in front of the other. One more step, she told herself, just one more step, and then perhaps another.

  She smelled the water, the sharp salty smell, and the odor of fish. So very close now to the Sea Wind. She would make it; she wouldn’t shame herself in front of him. And she would find the words to convince him of her innocence, soon, soon now.

  It was the stone in her path that did her in. She didn’t see it. She stumbled and went down to her knees, flinging out her hands at the last minute to protect herself. She felt the pain sear through her, felt the tearing of the pebbles and dirt into her palms. She remained as she was, on her hands and knees, her head lowered, her hair straggling to the ground on either side of her face.

  “Get up.”

  She thought about it, hard, and told herself to rise. But her body didn’t obey her.

  “Get up, else I’ll tether you and drag you.”

  She raised her head then, and her eyes were on line with his boots. She looked upward. He was bare-legged, his tunic coming to his knees, belted at his waist. A long knife hung from the belt. His forearms were bare save for a thick gold arm bracelet. Then she saw his face, saw the emotionless coldness, and felt herself shrink inside.

  “Get up,” he said again, impatient now, and she forced herself back onto her knees, drew her breath, and tried to rise. There were people gathering around them, people who knew her, and they were murmuring words she could hear:

  “Aye, ’tis a slave she is now, but what she deserves is to have her bowels cut out.”

  “Nay, ’tis our sweet Zarabeth, and she couldn’t have killed Olav.”

  “A sweeting she was when she was small . . . but now she is a woman grown, and greedy and evil, ah . . .”

  It was suddenly too much. Zarabeth looked around at the faces of men and women she’d known since her mother
had wedded Olav and brought her to York. She saw anger and contempt; she saw uncertainty and pity. She looked up at Magnus’ face and saw nothing but coldness. Then she saw nothing. She fell sideways, unconscious.

  He felt his heart lurch. Quickly he leaned down and drew her up into his arms. She felt lifeless, her head lolling backward, her hair wrapped around his arm and in thick tangles to the ground.

  He said not a word to any of the people, but strode to the Sea Wind. He crossed the narrow gangplank.

  Horkel greeted him. “This is the woman?”

  “Aye, she fainted. From the heat, from her guilt, I know not.”

  “I wonder when she last ate. She was in the slaves’ compound, you know. ’Tis not a place for such as she.”

  Magnus hadn’t known. He’d assumed she was being kept in Olav’s house, with Keith . . . but no, that couldn’t be, else Horkel would have told him. He hadn’t asked her whereabouts and no one had said anything. He swallowed, then hardened himself. “I will take her into the cargo hold. It’s covered and there is privacy and protection from the sun.”

  “I will bring water and some food for her.”

  Magnus nodded, then strode carefully over the planking to the bow of the vessel, where there was a goodsize space aft, enclosed for cargo. There was also room enough for three or four men to be protected from the weather when it was foul. He heard Ragnar, another of his men and a cousin, say to Horkel, “Will he kill her, I wonder.”

  Magnus could practically hear Horkel shrug. If the man felt deeply about anything, he never let on. He was always so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it was a challenge to get him to bend, to yell, to jest even.

  “Do you think her guilty of murdering her husband? All of York speaks of it. They call her young and greedy and evil. They say she betrayed Magnus.”

  “I know not. Magnus believes it is so. He will bend her to his will.”

  “I cannot believe she would not have him,” Ragnar said, his voice now more distant, for he’d moved away. “I thought he had forgotten her, for he bedded Cyra until she was sprawl-legged from his plowings. But now we are returned and he has taken her.”

  Magnus smiled grimly at that, then pushed aside the otter skins that partitioned off the cargo hold.

  It was hot in here, but he couldn’t help that. He laid her on the woven mats that covered the bare planking. He paused, then pulled a woolen blanket from a trunk, spreading it out, and placed her on it. She was so pale. It brought him pain to look at her. By Odin, she’d nearly broken him with her lies and her deceit. But now that he had her, she could do no more to hurt him, for she was completely in his power.

  The otter skins were suddenly shoved aside and Horkel entered, bending, for the wooden ceiling of the hold was low, and offered Magnus a wooden cup of water.

  Magnus slapped Zarabeth’s cheeks. She stirred and moaned softly.

  “Zarabeth, wake up!” He took the cup of water from Horkel and put it to her lips. She didn’t open her eyes, but her lips parted and she tried to gulp at the water.

  “Slowly. Nay, go easy, else you’ll choke.” He withdrew the cup and she cried out. “All right, but slowly.” After she’d drunk all the water, she regained some of her color. She opened her eyes and looked up at Magnus.

  Without thought, she smiled and raised her hand to touch her fingers to his face. “Magnus,” she said. “I thought I would never see you again.” He jerked back, fury darkening his eyes, and he saw the truth of her situation come back to her.

  “You give me much trouble already. Here, Horkel has brought you some food. Are you hungry?”

  She wanted to cry, but she didn’t. For a brief instant he had been there with her and all had been as it was; now was now, though, and he was distant from her, so she merely nodded. She tried to sit up, but was too weak.

  Magnus cursed softly. He helped her up so she could lean back against the ship side. He gave her a wooden bowl filled with stewed potatoes and chunks of mutton. She felt her mouth begin to water. When she swallowed the first bite, she closed her eyes, savoring the food.

  It angered Magnus, this weakness in her. Had they starved her? By Thor, the slave compound! “Eat your fill, then you will rest here. Do not come out into the ship, else you will be sorry.”

  He rose then, still bent, for the roof of the tented space was low, and followed Horkel from the cargo space.

  “Her hair is like flame,” Horkel said matter-of-factly, with no undue sign of interest.

  “Aye, as red as the flames in the Christian hell.”

  “You saved her life.”

  “She won’t thank me for it, however, for I intend to break her.”

  Horkel said nothing more, but he wondered silently at his friend’s depth of hatred of the woman. Every man had been rejected by a woman; surely Magnus wasn’t above a woman’s scorn, a woman’s perfidy. He went about his tasks, leaving Magnus alone to brood. There was always activity aboard a vessel, always some job to be seen to. But each of the twenty men were good and experienced and they knew what had to be done without instruction from Magnus.

  The woman wanted her little sister. Magnus shook his head even as he recalled her request, her only plea to him. No, the little girl would be safer here; Zarabeth was wrong that Toki or Keith would try to harm her. Besides, he could not give in to her. Not on anything.

  And so the evening fell and he did not go into the cargo hold to see to his slave. He left orders that Ragnar, handsome, brash, arrogant as a cock, and filled with boundless energy, guard her, and left to visit with a trader who had messages and goods to send to his father, Harald Erlingsson, earl and chieftain of the Gravak Valley. A powerful man, his father, a man who was beginning to feel cramped and crabbed about by King Harald Fairhair. He wondered what his sire would say about his bringing Zarabeth home with him. He would say something, for his father always spoke his mind, regardless.

  Zarabeth finished the stew and felt strength seep back into her body. She moved slowly at first, waiting until she was certain she wouldn’t faint again. She rose. She didn’t have to bend over, for the stout wadmal covering was a good two inches above her head. She had to regain her strength and her wits. She had to rescue Lotti. She felt a numbing pain but ignored it. Magnus wouldn’t help her. She must help herself, and then she would escape from Magnus, from York. She would journey with Lotti south, to Wessex, to the land of the Saxons ruled by the great King Alfred. Her mind made up, she began to plan. Any pain she felt at leaving Magnus, she ignored. He’d left her no choice when he’d refused to get Lotti.

  Ragnar was leaning against his oar when he saw the young woman pull back the otter pelts and emerge into the open vessel. She looked weary and dirty and afraid, and he felt stirrings of pity for her. Then he remembered that she had scorned Magnus and was naught but a murderess and now a slave. He called out to her, his voice rough, “Go back inside and come not out again. Those are your master’s orders.”

  Zarabeth ignored his words and came toward him, saying as she made her way carefully along the center plank, “I have need to relieve myself. Please help me.”

  Ragnar was on the point of telling her to relieve herself and be done with it when it occurred to him that Magnus might not be pleased. She was in a miserable state. There was no need, surely, to make her relieve herself in front of him and the other men. Such humiliation wasn’t necessary. Thus, he rose and motioned for her to follow him. Zarabeth ignored the ten other men who lounged about in the vessel, and went after Ragnar. In the folds of her skirt she held an ivory-handled knife that she had found in one of the trunks in the cargo hold. She had no intention of hurting this man, merely disabling him so she could escape. The knife represented freedom, and she would die before she gave it up.

  Ah, Magnus, she thought, you will but hate me more, but I have no choice. She walked silently beside Ragnar.

  He took her but a few steps from the Sea Wind and motioned her into the small dirty alley. “I will wait here and see that no one comes.
Hurry, for Magnus would not be pleased to see you out of the cargo hold.”

  She nodded, her head down, the picture of meekness, and made to walk past him. Then suddenly she stumbled, crying out as if she had fallen into the alley. Ragnar, without thought, jumped after her, and when he did, he felt the sharp pain of the knife handle on his temple. He crumpled where he stood, his last thought that Magnus would kill him for his stupidity.

  Zarabeth stood over him, panting, staring at the knife handle and shivering with reaction at what she’d done. She pulled him deeper into the alley, then quickly, silently, she moved swift as a shadow along the quay away from Ragnar, away from the Sea Wind. She’d struck a man, knocked him unconscious. The thought that he could even be dead terrified her. No, she wouldn’t worry about him. She had to get to Lotti and rescue her and then escape from York. She firmly rejected any thoughts of ever seeing Magnus again, for if she did, she doubted not that he would kill her for escaping him and striking Ragnar.

  It was twilight when she reached Olav’s house, and no one that knew her had seen her. She eased up to the single window in the living area and looked within. She sucked in her breath, thanking Odin for her luck. Keith wasn’t there, only Toki, and by all the gods, she could handle Toki. Where was Lotti? Then she saw the child curled up in a corner, her face silent and still, her eyes wary, fastened on Toki, who was shuffling about preparing a meal. Zarabeth felt pain and anger twist in her belly. Had Toki already hurt Lotti? At the very least she’d terrified the child. Zarabeth firmly intended to gain revenge on Toki herself.