Season of the Sun (Viking Era 1)

She sounded lost and afraid and strangely bereft, and he didn’t know which emotion to address first.

“Except Lotti. She was my child.”

Now he knew where to begin. “Zarabeth, we are not going to replace Lotti. She was special and she will always remain in our hearts and in our memories. Nothing can change what she was to us.” He drew a deep breath. “I cannot claim for certain that Egill is alive. It would be foolish of me to assume that I will find him and bring him back safely with me. If he, like Lotti, is dead, then both of the children will remain in our hearts. This child . . . we will pray that he reaches manhood and that he knows the health and happiness his parents will know.”

She leaned her cheek against his chest and he held her there, his face against the top of her head.

“What will happen?” she asked, her voice muffled against his tunic.

Magnus opened his mouth to speak, when there came a furious roar from behind him. He slewed about in his chair, clutching Zarabeth to him, to see Ragnar trying to rise, Eldrid attempting to hold him down. He was yelling and cursing, his arms flailing about. He struck Eldrid away and staggered to his feet, weaving where he stood.

26

Zarabeth couldn’t bear Ragnar’s pain. If she could have held Ingunn’s throat between her hands, she surely would have squeezed the life out of her. Ragnar was shuddering with pain and with the knowledge of what Ingunn had done to him, to Magnus, to Malek.

“Orm struck me himself,” he said over and over, even as he tried to pull free of Magnus. “She watched. She stood near him and watched. She told him that I had beaten her. Beaten her, Magnus!” Ragnar stopped, sucking in air, his face gray with pain, clammy with sweat, trying to get free and get hold of himself at the same time. “Then she told him not to kill me, she told him that I deserved to feel pain for what I had done to her. I deserved to look the fool.”

Eldrid was trying to soothe him, clucking at him, and he knocked away her hand.

“Lie down, Ragnar,” Magnus said. He didn’t wait for his friend to respond. He simply picked him up and laid him flat on his back. “Now, you will stay there. What was your intent? To go after Orm now, this minute? Control your rage or use it to heal yourself. We will all go soon enough, and you will be with us. Nay, Ragnar, keep your fury under your tongue for the moment, and obey Eldrid. She doesn’t want to see you underground. Nor do I.”

Magnus, satisfied that his friend would hold his peace, turned back to his wife. “How do you feel?”

In truth she felt weak and dizzy, and her stomach was pitching. “I’m all right,” she said instead, and tried for a sickly smile. Magnus merely shook his head at her, looked back at Ragnar, then lifted her in his arms. “The both of you will rest. I fear, though, that Ragnar will regain his bloom before you do. Nay, hush, Zarabeth. I want you happy and well.”

And that, she thought, settling down on a pile of blankets, her back propped against a tree, was that. She was asleep within minutes.

It was the oddest thing, Zarabeth thought later. The slave hut hadn’t been touched by the flames. It was the only building left intact. More men arrived from Harald’s farmstead, and rebuilding began. It was a slow process, for the old wood still smoldered, and several times men turning up stumps were burned when embers flamed up.

The sound of falling trees became a familiar one. The raw wood smelled sweet and soft. They could use only oak, and since there were few oak trees, treks to find them took time. Everything took time.

Helgi remained, helping Zarabeth oversee the cooking and the washing and all the other myriad chores. The men erected thatched huts, for Magnus knew it would rain and he wanted to protect Zarabeth.

Whilst the rebuilding went on, Magnus went quietly about refitting the Sea Wind and finishing repairs. Anger burned in his gut, and it grew each time he viewed the devastation of his home. His grandfather had selected the name Malek for his farmstead, but none knew where the name had come from, even his father. In truth, no one cared now, not even Magnus. Malek belonged to him, and it would remain his.

On the fourth day after the fire, Haftor Ingolfsson arrived, two of his sons with him.

They viewed the destroyed farmstead and stayed to help. They wanted to know if Magnus knew the whereabouts of Orm. Magnus denied any knowledge. He lied smoothly, and Zarabeth kept her thoughts to herself. The Ingolfssons were huge men, fair-haired, well-knit, and fierce. Their anger at Orm was great. They wanted to find him badly.

“Why did you not tell them the truth?” Zarabeth asked Magnus one night when they lay side by side under the stars. The night was warm, so there was no need to retreat under the thatched hut roof.

“I want him myself.”

She accepted that. She sighed and pressed closer. She felt a soft pulsing in her belly. Magnus had not made love to her since that night of the attack and the fire.

“I also want you.”

She smiled and moved closer, pleasure filling her at his words.

“But I’m afraid that I will hurt you.”

She came up over him, her face but inches from his. She bit the end of his nose and grinned. “What happens to a man if he does not relieve himself?”

“Choose another way of saying it, Zarabeth.”

“Very well. If you do not spend your man’s passion, what happens?”

“I become a bent old relic, my belly swells, my hair turns white, and my teeth rot out.”