When she turned to listen again, the men were wagering on when Magnus would bed her. She remembered being kissed by him, held against his chest, feeling his strength, his gentleness flowing into her. It was over now.
Time passed. She emerged only once daily from the cargo hold to empty the slops.
Two days out of Hedeby, Zarabeth awoke suddenly with the knowledge that something was very wrong. She jerked upright, shaking her head to clear away the sleep. Lotti was missing. She felt fear pound through her, and dashed to the entry of the cargo hold. She could only stare. Lotti was sitting on one of the men’s bare thighs, a small monkey of a man with a thick black beard, whose name was Tostig. He was laughing and pointing out different seabirds to her. A seal played near the vessel, and Lotti was laughing, in her own way, and gesticulating wildly, and the other men had crowded around them. She was safe. Her bright ginger hair was blowing wildly around her face. Zarabeth stared in astonishment as one of the men came down on his haunches and began to braid her hair, so gentle his touch that Lotti scarce noticed. Another man produced a bit of leather to tie the braid. Lotti held out her hand to the man, and he laughed and patted her cheek and then his legs, and the man Tostig handed the little girl over to him.
It was unaccountable. Zarabeth couldn’t take it in, this gentleness and kindness to a child. But so it was. She saw that Magnus was still down at the steering oar, lolling at his ease next to the helmsman. She turned back into the hold and sat down, leaning against a wool-wrapped box filled with soapstone bowls and pitchers and plates, bound, she supposed, for the trading market at Hedeby. She closed her eyes, wishing she could forget where she was and why she was here.
He came in so suddenly that she didn’t have time to cry out, much less voice a protest. He filled the entry, the bright sun behind him, then pulled the pelts back down, and the small area was dim again.
“Lotti is fine and well-occupied with my men. I’m tired of waiting. I’ve come to take you, Zarabeth.”
She didn’t move, merely stared at him, disbelieving. “Why?”
He laughed. “I told you, I’m tired of waiting. You’re my slave. If I want you, I’ll take you whenever it pleases me.”
She saw that he meant it. She scrambled back against the side of the vessel. “Please, no. It isn’t right, it isn’t—”
“It’s what I want! I’ve paid dearly for you, Zarabeth!”
She was shaking her head wildly. “No, Magnus. I won’t be your whore.”
“You’re a slave, and that is less than a whore. Also, since you are the only woman here, I must make do with you. I would ask you, though, how many men you’ve had before me.”
She stared at him, remembering starkly the man who had professed to care for her, the man who had wanted to wed with her, the man who had held her close and kissed her tenderly and shocked her with his bold speaking. He was well and truly gone. In his place was this hard-faced man whose eyes were cold as the North Sea in the wintertime.
Feeling for him froze within her. She raised her face. “A dozen men,” she said. “Aye, I have had more men than I can remember or count. Once Olav breached me, I could see no harm in it, for he was old and had little to offer me. Aye, at least a dozen various men, all different sizes they were, some hairy and dark, others like smooth polished wood.” She shrugged then, smiling. “Since I am but a woman, counting comes with difficulty, but I do think it was at least twelve different ones.”
She thought he would strike her. She saw the pulse pounding in his throat, saw the rage building in his eyes.
“Do not lie to me, Zarabeth, it angers me.”
“Then do not ask me a fool’s questions, you brainless knave!”
“Very well, then. I will tell you what to do. Pull up your gown. I wish to see your woman’s endowments.”
“No.” The single word sounded strong and arrogant in the close cargo space, and Zarabeth wondered at it, for she was so afraid, she could feel the cramping in her belly.
She didn’t have much time to consider what he would do. She had no time to react. He dropped to his knees beside her, grabbed her wrists in his hands, and pulled her forward. He made no move to kiss her, just pulled her tight against him, hauling her up to her knees. He said inches from her face, “You will do as I tell you. I will have no more of your defiance, no more of your stubborn pride, no more of your lies.” He pushed her roughly onto her back and came down over her, pinning her down, her hands above her head.
He kissed her then, hard, forcing her lips to part. This was punishment and dominance and she wouldn’t accept it. She began to struggle against him, heaving and arching her back, twisting to the side, but he was twice her size and had twice her strength. She felt him rear back, easing off her so that he was on his side, and he was looking down at her, at his hand that was jerking up the skirt of her gown.
“No!” She twisted her head toward him and bit his forearm. He made no sound, just sucked in his breath at the pain. In the next moment he grabbed both her wrists in one hand and jerked them again painfully over her head.
“No more fighting me,” he said, and he was breathing hard and his voice was raw and she knew that he was going to take her, force her, as she knew some men hurt women. “Why do you care? I am just one more man to have you.” She felt his member hard and pressing against her thigh and knew that he would do to her what Olav hadn’t been able to.
“Magnus, please don’t hurt me.”
He laughed then, just laughed, and she felt humiliation fill her craw, for she had begged. She knew such hatred for him that had she been free, she would have sliced him with the knife at his belt.
He was smiling now, a cruel smile, and he looked into her face as his hand smoothed over her breasts, downward to her belly, then further again to the hem of her gown. Slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, he began to pull the gown upward.
He saw the humiliation in her eyes, the pain of what he was doing to her, the immense anger that filled her, and it pleased him. He would break her, this woman who had rejected him to wed with an old man, this woman who had murdered to satisfy her greed.
His hand touched her inner thigh, and for an instant he closed his eyes over the intense feelings that coursed through him. He didn’t want these feelings toward her, didn’t expect them. Then he touched her soft woman’s flesh and thought he would spill his seed.
He could bear no more. He knew his men were aware of what he was doing, knew they would hear her cry out when he thrust into her, but he didn’t care. She was naught but a slave; her only purpose was to be what he wanted her to be.
He ripped her gown open, baring her to the waist, and rolled over on top of her, freeing himself. “Now,” he said, his breathing harsh and raw and ugly. “Now. Hold still. Don’t fight me now, Zarabeth, it will do you no good.”