Season of the Sun (Viking Era 1)

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: