Season of the Sun (30 page)

The king gave Magnus a deliberate stare, but
Magnus merely nodded and smiled. His voice was bland. “Orm has always been good at many things, sire. My wife and I thank you for your kindness and your generosity. We will remain loyal to you, as always.”

 

Magnus stared at his huge countryman, the master of the vessel
Water Path.
Grim Audunsson was rough and crude and the strongest man Magnus had ever wrestled with. He'd lost to him three times to date. Grim was also wily and greedy, and blessed, in his view, with little conscience. Magnus watched him spit and shake his shaggy golden head. They stood on the dock at the harbor, beside the
Water Path,
the smell of fish strong in their nostrils, the harbor wind sharp in their faces.

“Aye, Orm was here and he was as mad as the white death. He didn't try to hide it from me. He used to hide his anger years ago, or perhaps he didn't have it when he was younger, but he doesn't bother to hide anything now. A berserker, Magnus, that's what he seems now. His eyes were black with excitement, his hands fisting and twisting, ready to kill anything he could catch. I can easily see him clothed in naught but a bearskin, whipping himself into a frenzy before he kills without fear, without conscience. He is not an easy man now, Magnus. Nay, he is more dangerous than a berserker, for his rages come on viciously with a simple taunt, a smile, even a jest. Aye, he is as unpredictable as a Frenchman's moods, and he would speak so calmly whilst he cut your throat. Aye, I gave him the woman and the children. What else could I do?” Grim shook his head and spit into the water. “I wonder if he'd kill the woman. He looked ready to, I'll tell you.”

“The woman is my sister, Ingunn. The children are mine. Orm took them all, stole them from me, and set fire to my farmstead.”

Grim shrugged, but his eyes narrowed. “I am sorry, but again, what could I have done?”

“You could have killed him yourself. You are the strongest man I know.” He looked at the flexing muscles in Grim's arms. “Does age sap you, Grim?”

Grim gave him a huge smile, showing a large gap between his front teeth. “I could have snapped his neck with my hand, 'tis true. But he paid me, Magnus, paid me ten silver pieces. The woman had already given me silver pieces to take the boy back to Malek, so I am now rich enough to buy my wife a new brooch. She's a lively little creature. I stole her from a village in the Rhineland. She ran from me but I caught her about the waist and flung her over my shoulder. I married her six weeks ago. She has fine black hair, such a color as I've never before seen, and the blackest eyes you can imagine, and that sweet woman's nest between her thighs, well . . . I was thinking about that jeweler on Coppergate, Old Gunliek is his name. What do you think, Magnus?”

“I think I should kill you.”

Grim laughed, an uncertain laugh but one that conveyed the message that he could laugh and escape punishment. Magnus knew that Grim had tightened his body, had prepared himself for action. He wasn't a fool. Whatever Grim was, he would remain. It wasn't up to Magnus to make him sorry. He felt Zarabeth's hand lightly touch his back. He drew upon what little control he had left. Brawling with Grim Audunsson would gain him naught, Zarabeth was right about that. Besides, Magnus thought, his lips twisting, he just might end up with his face smashed or a broken arm, which wouldn't do him any good at all. He could imagine Zarabeth's reaction to that.

“Did Orm tell you he was returning to his farmstead?”

“Aye. He said he had preparations to make at
Skelder. He said he was expecting a visitor and he wanted to ensure his visitor had a proper welcome.”

Magnus nodded, then turned to leave. He said over his shoulder, “I shouldn't use old Gunliek. He cheats on the gold weights. Go to Ingolf on Micklegate.”

He led Zarabeth from the harbor.

“Orm knows we are here. He knows you will come.”

“Aye, he knows.” He hugged her close. “We must move carefully now, Zarabeth. Everything depends on how we proceed now.”

“If only Ingunn had left Egill and Lotti alone! If only she hadn't interfered! We would have them with us now, safe and sound.”

“It would seem my sister at last realized what she had done. She was trying to save them, even Lotti. And herself, it would seem.” He looked at his wife straight and said, “All that you say is true. However, we still wouldn't have Orm. And I will have him, Zarabeth.”

 

Ingunn couldn't move. She'd tried, two times now she'd tried to move, but the pain had been so great she'd nearly lost consciousness again. She lay huddled on the earthen floor, the cold seeping through the thin material of her gown, her bruised flesh rippling with agony, her cheek pressed into the dirt. She knew several ribs were broken, as well as her left arm. She was thankful she couldn't see her face, for he'd struck her with his fist repeatedly. She'd tasted blood and her own tears on her mouth.

And Egill had tried to protect her. By Thor, he was just like his father.

She whimpered softly. Everything she had done had been wrong. She was weak and spiteful and blind, and now she would die alone, locked away in this filthy
hut, and Egill would die as well. Or Orm would sell him again as a slave, both him and Lotti.

Ah, Lotti. She'd seen how much the boy loved the little girl, how he had shielded her, shared everything with her, his impressions, his thoughts, no matter how private, no matter how frank. At times Ingunn had thought them nearly as one, so closely attuned to each other were they. And she'd seen herself then, suddenly and without warning, seen herself hating the child because she was of Zarabeth's flesh and she'd hated Zarabeth and had wanted to hurt anything that was part of her. And that was why she'd gone back into the manor house and taken both children to Grim's vessel. She'd had to make amends. She'd had to do something right, something to redeem herself.

Orm had been there, waiting for her. She realized she hadn't really been surprised that he had been there, standing on the dock, his legs spread, staring at her, his eyes cold and black and dead. She couldn't even shudder with the memory of it without the pain roiling through her, making bile come into her throat, choking her. He hadn't touched her until they'd returned to the Thurlow River and Skelder, the name he'd given to his new farmstead, the one he'd stolen from the Saxon family, with King Guthrum's blessing.

Failure tasted vile. She tried again to rise, but when she tried to balance herself on her elbow, her arm collapsed and she fell hard again to the packed earth.

She couldn't die. She couldn't leave Egill in Orm's power. Slowly, very slowly, she moved her left arm.

Inside the longhouse, Orm brooded, his chin balanced on his palm. The house was filling with rancid smoke, for the hole in the roof was nearly clogged. Saxon pigs! They'd accepted this fault, not even considering fixing it? There was no bathhouse either, and he'd put the slaves to work immediately to building one. He turned his head to look at the boy and the
little girl. They sat together in a corner, the boy speaking softly to the girl. There were others surrounding them, but the pair seemed oblivious of them.

Magnus' get! Ah, it tasted good, this victory over his enemy. He'd been a fool to sell the children to Guthrum. The man had treated them too finely, not showing them what it was to be a slave, another's property, alive at another's whim. He thought briefly of Cecilia, the king's mistress, and smiled. She would enjoy a young man in her bed. Perhaps he would oblige her. He'd found her silly and charming, and her body wasn't displeasing to him. Nor did he now have to concern himself with Ingunn, the faithless bitch.

“Egill! Come here!”

The men and women in the longhouse went silent for a moment with the sound of his voice. The boy was still, raising his eyes. He stared across the room at Orm. Slowly he rose, patting Lotti's shoulder, trying to silently calm her, for her eyes were large and frightened.

“Now, or you'll taste the whip!”

The men and women looked furtively at the boy. They resumed their duties, afraid for the new master to see them doing nothing.

Egill stopped in front of Orm, standing straight and silent, waiting.

Orm wondered if he should simply beat the boy to death. Instead he said, “I have decided to sell you to the Saxons in King Alfred's Wessex. What do you think of that?”

“Will you send Lotti home to Malek?”

Orm laughed. “Perhaps I will.”

Egill felt a leap of hope, then a squeezing of a fist around his heart. Orm was mad. Nothing he said could be believed. He would kill Lotti before he would ever free her.

He still saw Orm beating Ingunn, his fists hammering her face. The man was without mercy, without conscience.

“Aye, but then again, perhaps I won't. Your father should come soon, boy. Then we will see. Don't look so surprised. I left him messages. He isn't stupid. He will know and he will follow. And that strip of material from the little girl's gown. Aye, I left that for Zarabeth so she would know. I wish I could have seen her face. She has a very expressive face, one that gives away all her feelings and thoughts. I do wonder if she cried with hope.

“I have wanted Magnus for a very long time now. For a very long time I've wanted to kill him slowly, wanted to hear him scream with pain, beg me to release him from his pathetic life, just like that bitch sister of his did. I wonder if she still clings to life. Perhaps I should go and see. If she does, perhaps she needs another lesson in obedience.”

“Why do you hate my father? He has never done anything to you. Surely it isn't because my grandfather judged him to be the better husband for my mother.”

Orm raised his arm, then slowly lowered it again. The boy wasn't being impertinent. Orm pondered the question, his brow furrowing. “Did I say I hated Magnus? Nay, I merely want to kill him because of what he is, how he thinks, how he behaves. He has annoyed me for a long time now, this just and proud sire of yours, boy. As for your mother, Dalla, she was silly and vain, but I had selected her. It wasn't right that I not have her. It wasn't right that Magnus be the one to win. I don't like defeat, boy. I won't accept it.”

Egill remained silent now. Orm Ottarsson was a frightening man. There was no way to reason with him that Egill could see. No, the only thing to do was to escape. He had to warn his father. He had to save
Lotti. He felt very old for his eight years, and very small. But he had to try.

Orm rose then, towering over Egill. The boy didn't back away or cower. He would bring the boy to heel, but not now. There was time for him to do just as he wished.

“I believe I will see if your aunt still whines and clings to life.”

I
ngunn knew he was coming. Any moment now he would appear in the doorway of the hut and he would look inside, his eyes accustoming themselves to the darkness, and then he would see her. He would grin, for she wouldn't be able to hide her pain from him. She wouldn't be able to get away from him, and he would know it and enjoy it.

He would hit her again and he would laugh, that or he would remain serenely silent, his eyes flat and calm, and he would continue to strike her until she was dead. Then he would leave her, there in the dark chill storage hut with its damp earthen floor, and he would kill the children.

Ingunn dragged herself to the rough wooden door. Slowly, gasping with the pain that each move brought her, she pulled herself up. She was panting, trying to keep the black dizziness at bay. In her hand she held a heavy farm tool, a long piece of wood, indented at the top so a man could grasp it firmly. The base was a curving iron hook for digging up rocks and turning hard soil. To grip it tightly brought shuddering pain. She didn't know how she would raise it and strike him with it, but she would, she had to. She didn't want to die.

 

Orm strode from the longhouse, keeping to the narrow rutted path that led to various huts that
surrounded the main structure. It was muddy from a rain from the early morning, strengthening the smell of manure and rotted flesh. He looked at the piles littering the ground. Damned pig Saxons! He had yet to clear away all their filth.

The night was still and black, with but a sliver of moon in the sky. The land was flat before it sloped gently to the banks of the Thurlow River just a hundred yards beyond. How different this alien land was from Norway, with its midnight dim light that cast shadows and hinted of mysteries, and faded slowly, finally, into warm darkness. It was too gentle, too soft, this land, but he would accustom himself to it, as would his men. All the slaves he now owned would accustom themselves to him, their new master. He'd had to flay the back of one surly fellow, a Saxon, who had spit at the ground at his feet. He was probably dead from his wounds by now.

Orm smiled. Soon Magnus should come. He was ready for him. His men were hiding along the paths to the farmstead, ready to send him word when Magnus and his men approached. Orm whistled, slapping his arms, for it was cool now. He looked down at his hands and frowned. He'd broken the flesh over his knuckles from striking Ingunn. His fingers hurt to flex them. He should have finished the job he'd started. He would finish it now. She'd betrayed him; she was of no use to him now.

He pulled the crossbar from the narrow wooden door and shoved the door inward. He stared into the darkness, adjusting his eyes. He saw nothing but the vague outlines of farm tools. He was quick of reflex, but not quick enough. He heard her breathing, heard a whoosh of air, and just as he turned, he felt pain sear through his head. Then he felt nothing.

Ingunn watched him fall to the ground. He was unconscious, not dead, curse the fates. She raised the
tool to strike him again, this time with the curved iron hook, but her broken arm wouldn't stand for it. She watched helplessly as the tool slipped from her fingers. She realized her leg was broken and she stumbled, flailing her good arm frantically, then fell to her knees beside Orm. She lurched onto her side and lay there, breathing hard, trying not to lose consciousness.

It was as she lay there, next to the man who had betrayed her, that she knew what she would do. She pulled herself toward the open doorway. Just a little bit further . . . She could do it.

Orm groaned.

She closed her eyes and prayed to Freya, her goddess. A spurt of strength shot through her. She grabbed at the door grip and pulled herself to her feet.

Orm was shaking his head now. He was trying to sit up.

Quickly she heaved herself outside. She slammed the door and leaned against it, a bent old hag wearing torn rags, her right arm hanging uselessly at her side, weaving about drunkenly on one good leg. She could barely draw a breath for the pain in her chest. She knew she had to lift the crossbar into place. If she didn't, he would burst through the door and it would be over. Freya, she prayed, her lips moving, saying the name over and over. Help me.

She lifted the heavy crossbar and set it into its iron slots. She'd done it. She couldn't quite believe she'd done it. Now she needed a torch. She had no idea where Orm had placed his men. Some were surely in the longhouse, guarding Egill and Lotti. Others were doubtless spread about waiting for Magnus. There were at least a dozen small fires dotted around the longhouse, men gathered about them.

All she needed was a torch. Slowly she staggered forward, her left arm around her ribs.

A man appeared suddenly through the smoky haze of a campfire. “Hold! Who are you? What goes on here?”

Ingunn felt all strength and hope slip away from her. She saw the man, one of Orm's bullies, striding toward her. Then the man stopped suddenly, like an animal who had heard a strange sound and must place it.

Ingunn heard it then. It was Orm, shouting and banging on the hut. The man ignored her and raced toward the hut.

No, she thought, oh, no. She'd been so close, so very close. She felt tears burn her eyes. She picked up a broken branch from an elm tree and stumbled forward. No one was at the campfire; it had been only the one man. Ingunn pressed the branch into the glowing embers and watched it burst into flame, for the leaves were long dead and dry. She carried the torch forward, not slowly, not weaving, but straight and tall, marching like a soldier toward the hut. The man was there and he was heaving at the crossbar.

It didn't move.

Ingunn came up behind him and set the blazing torch to the back of his head and his tunic. He whirled around, staring at her as if she were a vision from hell itself. Then he smelled the acrid odor, realizing then that he was on fire. He screamed and ran, slapping at his head.

Ingunn heard Orm yell, “Open the door quickly, you fool! I must get the woman. By the gods, she'll pay for this! Open the door! It's just a simple block of wood! Pull it out!”

Her smile deepened. “Orm . . .”

There was dead silence.

Then his voice came, calm and soothing. “Let me out, Ingunn. You shouldn't have hit me, sweeting. I believe you cracked my head. I was coming to release
you, coming to bring you to the longhouse and tend to your wounds myself. I didn't want to hurt you so badly, but I had to punish you for what you'd done. But no more now, Ingunn, no more, ever again. You will be my wife and I will love you and protect you.”

“Will you truly, Orm?”

“Aye.”

She heard the confidence in his voice and smiled more widely. “You would marry me tomorrow?”

“Aye, open the door now, sweeting.”

“Soon, Orm, but first, you must be chilled, for the night air is crisp. It will be fall soon and then snows will come, but you won't be here then.”

“Ingunn, what mean you? Come, don't speak such nonsense. Open the door, else, I'll—”

“You will what, Orm?” She set the torch to the wooden walls, but they didn't catch fire easily. She raised her arm, moaning softly with the pain of it, and touched the flame to the thatch roof. It caught immediately, and sprang up, bright orange, the heat intense, the smoke billowing upward.

She knew the instant Orm realized what she'd done. There was panic in his voice. And fear. He shouted, “Open the door, you stupid woman! By Thor, I'll make you pay for this, you bitch, I'll—”

She interrupted him gently, but firmly, her voice chiding him as if he were a heedless child. “Be not so impatient, my love. In a little while, Orm, I'll release you, but first I want to warm you. I want you to feel the same warmth you intended for Magnus and Zarabeth and all of Malek's people when you set the torches to the longhouse. I shouldn't have believed you, I shouldn't have forgiven you for burning Malek, but I did. I accepted your word that it was an accident, something you hadn't intended, something one of your men had done. I knew, of course, that you lied, but I didn't want to admit it to myself. If I had, I would
have had to admit that I was a fool and naught but your dupe and a traitor to my own family.

“Do you feel the warmth yet, Orm? The thatch is burning nicely now. Soon, my love, soon now you will be so warm you will yell with it.”

Ah, yes, he knew now what she had done. She smiled as she listened to him yelling and cursing her, listened as he tore at the door and the walls of the hut. She listened as he struck the door and the walls with the tool with which she'd struck him. She wondered vaguely if he could possibly free himself. She didn't think so. She moved back from the hut, for the flames were jumping outward now, and the heat was bright and intense. She saw the hut shudder, heard the low rumbling of the beams that supported the thatch on the roof.

She heard him scream as the roof crashed inward. Then there was madness.

 

Egill stood next to his father, his hand on his arm. He was content with the simple touch, knowing now that all was well. Lotti was on Zarabeth's lap, sleeping soundly, her fingers stuffed into her mouth.

“Ingunn is alive, but I don't know if she will regain her mind.”

Magnus nodded at Tostig's words. Tostig was exhausted. He moved to a scarred wooden bench and sat down, leaning his elbows on the table. They'd killed those of Orm's men who elected to fight. They'd simply released the others, who had thrown down their axes and swords. He looked down at the wooden table and saw layers of grease and bits of old food ground into the wood, rancid and rotten. The Saxons lived like animals.

Magnus' sister was lying in a small back room, a torn and bruised woman with dull and empty eyes, her body as broken as her mind. He had hoped to see
her die for all she had done. Now he wasn't so certain. He shuddered, thinking of Orm Ottarsson's death. When they'd come to the hut, Ingunn had been kneeling in front of it, the strange firelight casting madness itself onto her bruised face. She was speaking to Orm, saying soft love words, telling him that she would never leave him. They'd stood there even as his screaming had stopped.

Ingunn had looked up at Magnus and said, “Orm knew you would come. He enjoyed taunting you, 'twas a game that pleased him mightily. I am glad you're here.” She had fallen silent. She'd said nothing more.

Zarabeth leaned over and kissed Lotti's forehead. Then she looked up and smiled at Egill. “You saved her. Thank the gods you were there to pull her from the water, to press the water from her body. You saved her and then you protected her with your own life. I give you all the thanks in my heart. You are a brave boy, Egill.”

“She needs me,” Egill said. “She grows more certain of herself with each passing day, but she still needs me. She says many things, now, Zarabeth. I feared that she would give up when Orm caught us with Aunt Ingunn at the harbor, but she didn't. She told me that we would be all right. She patted my hand. I was proud of her.”

Magnus could only marvel at the man-words coming from his son's mouth. The changes the past months had brought stunned him. He supposed he had expected to find Egill just as he'd been the day he disappeared. But he hadn't. He'd found a boy who was strong and responsible and caring. Magnus rose, grabbed Egill beneath the arms, and lifted him high. Then he lowered him and hugged him until Egill protested that his ribs were crushed. Magnus eased his hold and whispered against his son's cheek, “By Thor,
I have missed you. I will guard you more carefully in the future.”

Zarabeth laughed, then immediately sobered. She was looking puzzled. “How did she tell you, Egill, that you would be all right? I don't understand.”

Egill showed her, speaking the words slowly, accompanying them by swift hand gestures.

Lotti stirred in Zarabeth's arms, straightened, and yawned. She smiled sleepily, then said, her voice imperious, “Egill! Come here!”

The boy grinned at his father. “She becomes more the female by the day, Father.”

Magnus watched his son walk to Lotti. He watched him lightly stroke his palm over the child's face. He heard him speak softly and distinctly to her, watched him make the quick hand and finger gestures. Then, to his surprise, Lotti nodded and eased back into Zarabeth's arms. She was asleep within moments.

“Zarabeth is your mother now, Egill.”

“I know. It is good.”

“She carries my babe.”

The boy was silent for many moments. Zarabeth realized she was holding her breath. Then he said, “That is good too. Lotti and I both want more brothers and sisters. I'm tired now, Father. We will remain here for the rest of the night?”

“Aye. Tomorrow we will return to York.”

Zarabeth said with great relish, “And then we will all go home to Malek.”

“Aye,” Egill said. “That's what Lotti wants too.”