Season of the Sun (Viking Era 1)

“Did Tostig not tell you where he found it? It wasn’t anywhere near the water. Lotti didn’t drown!”

“You are certain the wool strip is from the gown Lotti was wearing that day?”

He saw that she wasn’t completely certain. She was breathing hard, still too weak to sit up. He held her closer. “Easy, now, easy.”

“I think so. Eldrid would know. If it is Lotti’s, she made it for her.”

“Did she not make gowns for the other little girls using the same wool?”

She had, and Zarabeth was forced to nod.

“We will see. Bring her here.”

Eldrid did know. None of the wool used in the gowns was exactly the same. She looked at the strip of wool, clapped her hands to her face, and shrieked.

Zarabeth looked up at Magnus’ grim face. “Where is she? In the Danelaw with Egill? Orm took them both, didn’t he? Do you think Orm saved her? Do you think he was watching and pulled her from the water? Or perhaps Egill saved her and Orm captured both of them over there, on the outjutting land, out of the sight of you or your men. But why did he leave that rude drawing showing Egill, and nothing to show Lotti? Why?”

York, Capital of the Danelaw

One of King Guthrum’s Manor Houses

The Viking children amused her, the boy so protective of the little girl, yet proud and stolid, both of them. It was rare that they spoke, and when one of them did, it was usually the boy, Egill. The little girl spoke only the boy’s name. That single word seemed to convey a wealth of meaning to him, all depending on the tone and lilt of her voice. They made quaint signs to each other, their own private language, and Cecilia thought it clever. If they spoke of her, well, she was beautiful, gentle and kind to them, so their opinion of her could not be bad.

Guthrum had presented them to her on her twentieth birthday, smiling as he had said, “For my beautiful Cecilia, two children to do your bidding as I do, only they are small and won’t intrude whilst they carry out your wishes.”

She had expected jewels and had pouted for two days until she realized that her uncle and lover, also the king of the Danelaw, had provided her with a very efficient means of communicating with him whenever she wished to see him. No one paid attention to a little boy or to a little girl, particularly to slaves. One or the other would carry a token of affection or a message to the king’s chambers if need be, and no one thought about it, even Guthrum’s wife, that jealous bitch, Sigurd.

Cecilia sighed. She was bored. Guthrum should have already arrived, but he hadn’t yet come. He was likely closeted with his men, laughing and crowing at the news of more lightning raids into King Alfred’s Wessex. That, or he was likely immersed in strategies for Alfred’s final defeat, for the Saxon king had forced a treaty on him some years before and also forced him to mouth prayers to the Christian God. Aye, when need be, Guthrum could be as pious as one of Alfred’s bishops.

Cecilia picked up a honeyed almond and ate just a part of it. She smiled. It was just like Guthrum. He always was fond of nibbling at the edges of the English kingdom, always rubbing his age-spotted hands together at the huge revenues coming into his coffers.

Of course, he always denied any knowledge of raids into King Alfred’s lands when angry messages arrived from Alfred. He would shake his head, look mournful, and feign distress and send the messenger on his way, his palm filled with silver coin.

Cecilia looked again at the children. She frowned this time. ’Twas a very handsome Viking named Orm Ottarsson who had presented Guthrum with the boy and girl, along with more silver coins than Cecilia could count, in return for removing a Saxon family from rich farmlands on the River Thurlow, lands he wanted for himself. She’d seen the man, and found herself impressed with his arrogance and his sleekness. She thought herself a clever woman to his clever man, and thus tried to seek him out. But he had left York to return to Norway. It was depressing, but Cecilia knew that he would return, and when he did, why, then she would see.

Cecilia rose and walked into the small walled garden outside her bedchamber. The stone walls were eight feet high with roses climbing over the top, covered with red and white blossoms. There was a small fountain in the center of the garden, surrounded by an old Roman mosaic, rectangular in shape. It was still intact, showing strange seaweed-draped creatures rising from the sea, mating with the fierce Celts. Egill and Lotti were there, and he was speaking to her, using his hands as he spoke, as if to give emphasis to his words. She drew closer to listen.

“Say it again, Lotti. Come on, say it.”

Lotti made some slurred sounds, but Cecilia understood. The little girl had said “good morning.” What was going on here?

“Good morning to you,” Cecilia said gaily as she walked toward the children. The boy paled and took a protective step closer to the little girl.

They were both garbed in white wool tunics that were lightly belted with soft blue pleated leather at the waist. The tunics were sleeveless and came to their knees. The garments told others that they were slaves, but the soft, excellent quality of the wool also indicated that their master or mistress was of a generous nature. The children were fine-looking, and that pleased Cecilia. The little girl’s hair was a rich ginger color and her eyes were an odd golden hue. She showed promise of great beauty when she became older, but that didn’t bother Cecilia. She didn’t like to be surrounded with ugliness, even in little girl slaves.

“Lotti,” Cecilia said to the child, “go pick me a red rose and be quick about it. The king will be here soon and I wish to wear it in my hair.” She patted her thick brown hair as she spoke.

Lotti darted a glance toward Egill, and he moved his hands quickly and easily, pointing to the rosebush.

Cecilia didn’t notice. She was studying a scratch on the back of her hand, wondering where it had come from.

Egill waited, hoping that Lotti would pluck a red one and not a white one. They hadn’t yet made up signs for colors. He waited, tense and stiff, watching her.

She broke off a red rose and he felt a flood of relief. He had no idea what would happen if the woman realized Lotti couldn’t hear and spoke only very little. Lotti handed Cecilia the rose and Cecilia gave her an absent pat on the head, as

one would a dog that had performed well.

Egill felt naught but contempt for the woman and her ridiculous vanity. About King Guthrum, he didn’t know what to think. The man was older than Egill’s grandfather, yet he tried to pretend to youth, tried to caress and pinch Cecilia as if he were her lover and a young man of passion. And Cecilia played the game with him. Egill had first thought to tell the king who he was, but then he’d heard Guthrum tell one of his council, a man who leered at Cecilia behind the king’s back, that he was pleased the children were Viking get. He would see for himself if Viking children would become as dangerous as their sires in captivity. Egill had realized then that they knew they were his own countrymen. He didn’t care. He was amused.