Season of the Sun (Viking Era 1)

“A father should not have to bear this,” Harald was saying. “How many men will you take to the Danelaw, Magnus?”

“I cannot go after them yet. First we must rebuild. All must be secure before winter comes, else it will all be for naught.”

“Mattias and I will be here to help you with many of our men.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Zarabeth awoke, wincing at the hard ground beneath, yet wonderfully warm from Magnus’ body curved around hers. His hand was cupping her breast, her head resting on his upper arm. She nestled closer and he kissed her ear, whispering, “Nay, don’t do that, for I cannot take you now.”

She smiled and turned to face him, snuggling against him. “What will happen, Magnus?”

“We will rebuild. I promise that you will know no want, come this winter, Zarabeth.”

“All I want this winter is to have you with me.”

He felt himself swelling with pleasure at her words. He hugged her tightly to him, his arms enclosing her closely. “When the snow is higher than your head, you will want more than my warmth.”

“Perhaps. I also pray that we will have Egill returned to us as well. Magnus, I am so sorry. If I had not come here, if Ingunn had not hated me so much—”

“I doubt it would have made any difference to her,” he said sharply. “Bleat not, Zarabeth, for I won’t allow you to carry any guilt for this.”

“I pray you will cease likening me to a goat, Magnus.”

“A ewe, sweeting.” He kissed her mouth and hugged her tightly against him. “I want you very much. You can feel that, for I am obvious in my feelings. But I will make it up to you, Zarabeth, and to myself as well.”

Their people were beginning to stir and Magnus roused himself, coming up onto his elbow. He looked toward the burned-out longhouse, and rage seared through him again. His grandfather had built the longhouse and had seen that it was Magnus’ upon his death. Now it was gone. Still, it was only timber and waddle and daub and thick beams and thatch. Unlike a life, all the buildings could be replaced.

Magnus said aloud to Zarabeth, “I pray that Ragnar will live.”

Ragnar worsened that day despite the poultice Helgi prepared for his wound. His body burned and he spoke of strange things, of memories from long ago, Magnus said. Zarabeth remained at his side, bathing him with a cool wet cloth, praying hard. By the following evening, he was still and Helgi was saying, “He sleeps. I think he will live.”

Zarabeth rose, so relieved she could shout. Just as suddenly, she felt the ground tilting upward, felt herself swaying as if pushed by unseen hands. She felt light-headed. She collapsed where she stood.

As darkness closed over her mind, she heard Magnus shout. She wished she could speak to him, but there was only blackness now, shrouding her mind, and she succumbed to it.

“It must be exhaustion,” Harald said, looking down at his daughter-in-law, held in his son’s arms. Magnus was sitting in his master’s chair, which was in splendid isolation, Zarabeth in his lap.

“Aye, I should not have let her work so hard, not after her ordeal at Orm’s hands.”

“Nonsense,” said Helgi. “Zarabeth is no frail little female. That is not it at all.”

“What is it, then, woman?”

Helgi smiled at her husband’s intolerant tone. “You cannot bear not to know everything, can you, Harald?” she remarked as she patted Zarabeth’s forehead with a wet cloth. “You men must always have the last word, the last right word about everything. Well, this time you don’t.”

“Woman, I swear I will discipline you if you do not mind your tongue!”

Had Magnus not been so worried, he would have laughed. The thought of his father raising his hand to his wife was ludicrous. Helgi was smiling, knowing her husband as well as did Magnus.

“So what is wrong with the girl?” Harald finally asked. “Since you are the all-wise witch.”

“She is carrying Magnus’ babe.”

Magnus nearly dropped Zarabeth. He stared at his mother. “She is with child?”

“Aye, I imagine so. When she awakens I will question her. There are very simple signs, you know, my son.”

He sat there clutching his unconscious wife to his chest, thinking back, trying to remember when last she had suffered her woman’s bleeding. It was not too long before. It was when Lotti had drowned and Egill had disappeared. He stared up at his mother, who was smirking toward her husband.