Season of the Sun (Viking Era 1)

She gasped and locked her hands around his neck. He leaned closer and kissed her even as he worked her. He felt her excitement build, and because he himself was nearing his release, he quickly eased his fingers over her and felt her tighten and jerk against him.

Her body exploded into pleasure, and he kissed her hard, shoving into her until he could go no further, and he let himself go, heaving and gasping in the steaming hot air. He held her head against his shoulder and gently rubbed his hands up and down her back.

Her hair was wet and thick on her back, and he lifted it to stroke her better. His fingers touched the slave collar and left it, scorched.

He eased her off him then and silently handed her the soap and wet cloth. She stood before him for a moment, utterly naked, her body flushed and weak and soft, and she hated herself and him and she was helpless against him. He saw it and accepted it and told himself he was pleased. He remained quiet, sitting on the bench, watching her bathe him from her body.

There was a small antechamber in the bathhouse. Someone had brought clean clothes for them. She closed her eyes. Someone had come in and seen them naked, perhaps seen him taking her and making her scream. Her fingers were clumsy on the fastenings of her gown.

He leaned down and picked up a clean dry cloth and wrapped it around her hair. He forced her face up with his fingers beneath her chin. She was scrubbed clean. He kissed her then and led her outside. The sun was bright overhead and the morning air cool. There were servants about, and slaves going through the gates in the palisade out into the fields. Why didn’t they simply leave? she wondered. She would have, in an instant. Magnus halted her, pulling her toward him. He kissed her again, long and deep, in front of all his people.

“There,” he said with deliberation. “Now there will be no more questions.”

When Zarabeth came back into the longhouse, her hair was a damp mass down her back but she was gloriously clean and her face was shining. She tasted Magnus on her lips. She felt sore inside her body. She saw Lotti sitting with four other children next to Eldrid, Magnus’ aunt. She was seated in front of the large loom weaving thread into cloth. She was as large as her sister, Helgi, Magnus’ mother, but there were hard edges to her that softened only when the children came to her. She hadn’t yet spoken a word to Zarabeth.

But Ingunn was free with her speech. “Magnus has finally finished with you, I see. I am surprised you can still walk. Did you have that many men in York?”

“Who knows?” Zarabeth said to Ingunn, and nodded to Cyra, who stood behind her, a distaff in her hands, h

olding it like a weapon.

“He always liked to have Cyra in the bathhouse. You do not bring him new amusements.” Ingunn waited, but got no reaction at all from the woman. “I have already set your tasks. Get to work now.”

Zarabeth only nodded. She cared not what she did—churning the butter or mixing the grain flour with water in a large wooden trough to make the bread dough. Her arms ached from kneading the dough. In York she’d never made so much bread at one time, nor had she ever in her life seen such a huge butter urn. Yet, basically, they were familiar tasks and she escaped while she worked. She thought of escape. She closed her eyes as she kneaded the dough, and he came into her mind. Magnus had touched her, no matter how hard she had tried to keep him from her. He had touched her, the deepest part of her, again and again. It wasn’t just the pleasure he had brought to her, though that had made her lose herself in those precious moments, lose herself into a beginning she had not before known could be. She looked down to see that the dough was properly mixed. She supposed that it was; she had never seen so much of it. It took her another hour to shape all the dough into small loaves and ease them onto the long-handled paddles. She laid them carefully over the hot ashes of the fire. Sweat covered her forehead. Her arms quivered from fatigue. She thought fondly of the bathhouse and the dousing with cold water Magnus had given her. Then she thought of him taking Cyra there and doing the same things to her.

When she had finished, Ingunn was waiting with more duties for her. She sent her to the barley field with instructions to speak to Haki, who would tell her what to do. She went. The day was warm, but after the dim light of the longhouse and the close air, it felt wonderful to be outside. Haki was a bent old man with beautiful white teeth. He smiled when she came to him, and told her to go down the barley rows and pull out any weeds she saw and to wave her arms at any birds who dared to swoop down. She merely nodded and did as she was bidden. Her task was easy and mindless. Her stomach growled and she realized she had eaten nothing that day, for Magnus had dragged her to the bathhouse very early. She hoped there would be a meal soon. Heat poured down on her and through her. She was sweating freely and her back began to hurt from bending and straightening so many times. There were other slaves between the rows doing what she was doing. They were laughing and jesting with each other. She supposed she would become used to the work in time.

Time passed and the sun was in the western sky now. She was so hungry she felt faint with it. And thirsty, but Haki said nothing.

She wondered where Magnus was. She hadn’t seen him since he had left her at the entrance to the longhouse that morning.

Finally Haki called to her to leave and return to the longhouse, for he had heard her stomach rumble. She tried to smile at him but could not quite manage it. When she came into the dim coolness of the longhouse, she immediately searched out Lotti. The little girl was listening intently to something Eldrid was saying. She noted the older woman was speaking slowly, pronouncing her words with great care, and she smiled. At least Lotti was not to be treated as she was. It took her another moment to realize that Eldrid was teaching Lotti about weaving. Other little girls were there, all listening. None of the male children were in the longhouse. She supposed they were with the men, learning woodworking, learning to fight, learning to make weapons.

She picked up a wooden bowl and scooped some hot porridge from the huge kettle suspended by a chain from a ceiling beam.

“I have not told you to eat,” Ingunn said from behind her.

Zarabeth turned slowly to face Magnus’ sister, and said calmly, “I have been working in the barley field. I have had nothing to eat since last night.” She turned away from Ingunn. In the next instant the wooden bowl was slapped from her hold and she cried out when the hot porridge spattered on her hands and arms.

“Careless slut! Pick up the bowl and place it on the counter. I will have you beating the flax now, if you have the skill for it, and if you do not, you will remain at it until you have gained some!”

Zarabeth forced herself to take deep breaths to regain her calm. She wanted to murder Ingunn, and that would never do, but she could not let this continue. For whatever reason, the woman hated her. She said then, her voice low and calm, “I am hungry, Ingunn. I will beat your flax into threads when I have finished eating. No, I have not done it often, for in York there were others to do it. Now that I have explained, you will please leave me alone until I have eaten. You will wait with your orders until then.”

Zarabeth bent down and picked up her wooden bowl. She heard a strange hissing sound behind her. She whirled about but wasn’t quick enough. Ingunn brought the leather-thonged whip down across her shoulders. She felt pain sear through her and gasped. She flung out her arms to grab the whip, but Ingunn was faster. She stepped back and struck again, so hard this time that Zarabeth fell against a huge cheese barrel and tripped. She was on her hands and knees now and the whip struck her full on the back, and she felt the wool of her gown split wide. She tried to fling herself on Ingunn, but the leather thongs struck her again, wrapping around her sides, the pain burning through her so that she gasped with it. It had to stop, but it didn’t. Again and again the whip struck. She had to get up; she had to stop it. She shuddered with the effort to rise, and fell again to her knees.

She heard the women and children all talking, heard Cyra calling for Ingunn to kill the bitch. She heard Eldrid yelling at Ingunn to stop, but she didn’t. She could hear Ingunn’s deep, wild breathing. It only seemed to madden her more. Zarabeth’s gown was shredded now, but she knew if she raised her head, Ingunn would strike her face and her chest. She felt blackness pulling at her and fought against it with all her strength. Then she heard Lotti, the strangled mewling sounds she made when she was distressed. Lotti was close now, and suddenly Zarabeth was screaming, “No, Ingunn, do not touch her! No!”

The beating stopped. Zarabeth raised her head, holding her shredded gown up to cover her breasts. Ingunn had grabbed Lotti and was shaking her hard. Then she was raising the whip to the child.

“No! You touch that child and I will kill you!”

Ingunn laughed. “She’s naught but an idiot, your sister, and you are nothing but a slave!” She lifted the whip. Zarabeth jerked to her feet, only to fall forward.

“No!” she screamed. She realized it was only a whisper.

16

“By Thor’s wounds! What are you doing? Ingunn! Stop it, woman!”