“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.