Season of the Sun (Viking Era 1)

4

Olav felt his breath hitch in his chest when the Viking strode into his shop. There was no mistake, this man was the one Zarabeth had spoken about. She had lied. This man was formidable, arrogant, and she desired him. He looked like a man who was used to having exactly what he wanted when he wanted it. He looked a proud bastard.

Aye, she wanted this man. She didn’t want her stepfather. She would leave with this man without a backward look. He felt rage fill him. Zarabeth was just like her whore of a mother, Mara, ready to leave everything important for a handsome face and glib promises. She had probably believed every lying word out of the man’s mouth. Aye, she was just like Mara, that witch who’d beguiled him and seduced him into taking her for his wife. He wouldn’t allow Zarabeth to leave him, not like Mara had. He drew a deep breath, schooling his features, and prayed his thoughts didn’t show on his face. He recognized that this man, young as he was, was nevertheless an enemy to be reckoned with. He had no intention of underestimating him, not for a single moment. He dropped the pelt he was examining and moved forward to greet the Viking courteously. They exchanged names.

Magnus eyed Olav the Vain. A fine-looking man despite his years. He was well-garbed in fine woolen trousers and a soft blue woolen tunic. His soft leather belt was studded with jet and amber. He wore three silver rings on his right hand and one heavy gold ring on his left. There were three armlets of fine silver inset with amber on his right arm. He was certainly better clothed than his stepdaughter, Magnus thought, his jaw tightening. But despite Olav’s adornment, despite his display of wealth, there was a paunch at his belly that couldn’t be hidden by the wide belt, and a distinct sagging of his jowls beneath that gray-threaded beard of his. But to be fair, he was nearly as tall as Magnus and looked reasonably fit for his years. Magnus disliked him immediately and intensely. He didn’t waste time. He said without preamble, “I have come for two reasons, Olav. The first and most important is that I wish to wed with your stepdaughter, Zarabeth. The second is that I wish to trade with you. I bring fine beaver and otter pelts from the Gravak Valley in Norway. Also I have sea ivory from walrus tusks, antler, and birds’ feathers for pillows, all from the Lapps who live to the north. When we reach agreement, I wish to be paid in silver.”

“Naturally,” Olav said, dazed a moment at the thought of the birds’ feathers. King Guthrum wanted feather pillows for himself and his new consort, wanted them badly, and no one had been able to suit his fancy with the proper kind of feathers. The man who would bring the desired feathers to him would doubtless place himself in favor with the Danelaw king. The young man stood before him—arrogant and proud and sure of himself. Aye, Olav’s initial impression of him had been quite correct. And he was comely as a man should be: lean, strong, amazingly handsome, as most of the Norwegians were, with his thick blond hair and vivid blue eyes. He was clean-shaven and possessed of a stubborn square jaw. There was a small cleft in his chin. A mark of the devil, some of the more backward Saxons would claim, and cross themselves. Olav merely wanted to kill him and steal his feathers. Instead, he said easily, “I will willingly trade with you, Magnus Haraldsson, if your goods are of the quality I require. Now that I know your name, I realize I have heard of you from other traders. Your name is respected.”

Magnus merely nodded. “Now, I would know the brideprice for Zarabeth.”

Olav wished he held a dagger in his hand. He wished he could strangle the life out of this insolent man with his bare hands. At the moment he didn’t care about the damned birds’ feathers, he didn’t care about anything but killing this man. But he didn’t have a weapon, nor did he have the strength to kil

l the Viking with his bare hands. He played for time, saying, “Zarabeth is my only daughter, aye, and even though she carries not my blood, it matters not to me that she doesn’t, for I hold her in high esteem. So high is my esteem that I give her free choice to choose her mate. As for her brideprice, it is beyond what most men could pay, for she is valuable, not only to me but also to a man who would wish to take her from me.”

“What is her brideprice?”

Olav raised a thick blond eyebrow. “First, Magnus Haraldsson, she would have to tell me that she wished to wed with you. I will not discuss brideprice until I know that I am speaking seriously.”

“Zarabeth wants me, doubt it not. I do not lie. What is her brideprice?”

Olav knew that a brideprice quoted to a Viking meant that if the Viking believed the price too high, he would simply steal the woman with no more bargaining, and no warning at all. Thus Olav shook his head. He would take no chances that the Viking would kidnap Zarabeth and sail back to Norway with her. “Not as yet, Magnus Haraldsson. First I must speak with my stepdaughter. If she tells me that she wants you—without your being present to coerce her or in any way influence her—why, then we will discuss the brideprice.”

Magnus was impatient to have it done, impatient with this old man and his delaying tactics, but he supposed that Olav was behaving as a parent should. He assumed his father had behaved the same way when young men had asked to wed his younger sister, Ingunn, before she had decided not to wed and to come live with him and take care of his farmstead. He remembered vaguely the discussion between his father and Dalla’s father, watching each man preen and strut out his offspring’s virtues and ignore the failings. The young people’s lust wasn’t mentioned, as Magnus remembered.

He smiled then, mostly from that memory, and said, “Very well, Olav. I will return on the morrow to discuss what you will ask for her.” Magnus left without another word, strode from the shop without a backward glance. Olav’s fingers itched for that dagger. They also itched for the birds’ feathers. He would have liked to see the dagger vibrating from the force of his throw between the Viking’s shoulder blades. As for the feathers, he would like to see them beneath King Guthrum’s head and himself a richer man. He shouldn’t have let the Viking leave, for he doubted that on the morrow he would be so eager to sell the feathers to Olav. Others would tell him of their value, curse the fates.

Olav did not immediately go to speak to Zarabeth, for if he found her now he might kill her, so great was his rage, his sense of betrayal.

What to do?

He knew without doubt that she was his and she would remain with him. Ah, but this Viking, this Magnus Haraldsson, he was a man to judge carefully, for he was no simple merchant’s son to be easily manipulated or dangled about. He was a man of determination and strength of purpose as well. Olav worked steadily, dealing with other traders, showing his wares to buyers, coming out the victor in most of his negotiations, for he was talented in bargaining, swift in his wits, and adaptable in his tactics. He waited until the evening meal.

When he stepped through the back of his shop into the living area, he saw that Zarabeth looked flushed. Her eyes looked brilliant. He felt his body harden. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, her mother included. Because it was warm in the room, tendrils of deep red curled about her face and forehead. He wanted her now, but he wasn’t stupid, and knew he must bide his time. It was with near-pain that he watched her, content for the moment to say nothing.

He watched her bend over to stir a spicy-smelling stew in the iron cook pot. He watched her scoop a fresh loaf of bread from its place over the ashes of the fire and wrap it in a square of coarse wool to keep it warm. He waited until she had served him, waited until she was seated beside the idiot child, then said with the calm of the eye of a storm, “A Viking named Magnus Haraldsson came to see me today. He wants to do some trading with me.”

She looked up, the peas falling from her spoon. “Trading?” she said blankly. She paled just a bit. “He wished to speak to you about trading?”

“Aye. It seems he has feathers, exotic feathers he obtained from the Lapps. King Guthrum seeks feathers for pillows. Perhaps you heard—”

“Feathers? You spoke of feathers?”

“Aye, and other things, of course.” He saw her lean forward, her lips parting slightly. “He has otter and beaver pelts as well.”

She stared at him, white now, silent as death itself. He smiled, delighted, took another bite of the beef stew, shrugged with elaborate indifference, and said, “Oh, he did mention that he wished to wed with you.”

She drew back and he saw her release a breath of relief. She was nearly standing now, tense and excited. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him that it would be your decision.”

“Ah.”

“I told him I wouldn’t discuss a brideprice with him until you had assured me that you wished to wed with him. Do you wish it, Zarabeth?”

She paused then, a frown furrowing her forehead. “I’ve known him but two days, Olav. But I feel like I have truly known him for much longer. I suppose it sounds odd, what I’ve said, but he is a good man, I think, a strong man, and he would make me a fine husband.”

“You speak as though you were discussing the merits of a new cloak. He is a man, Zarabeth, a man who is doubtless brutal and cruel, a man who will have what he wants, no matter what he must do it get it.” His voice rose to a near-shout. “You foolish girl, don’t you understand his kind? Are you so besotted that you can’t see the violence in him, the ruthlessness?”