“Nothing, Magnus. Your slave here merely wished to know what the men were cheering about. I told her.”
Ragnar turned away then and left them, whistling. She suddenly had the feeling that she was completely alone with Magnus, even though Lotti stood just beside her and his men were within feet of them, their voices a low rumble over the flapping sail.
“The men take their ease now. The wind will stay at our backs until we reach the valley.”
“And your home? You called it Malek?”
“Aye.” He fell silent and his look was on the collar that encircled her neck. It looked heavy, too heavy for a woman’s slender throat. He hated it. Hated that he had done it. He turned away from her. “Stay in the cargo space. I want none of my men to succumb to your enticements.”
Her craw was filled to overflowing and she gave him an utterly false smile, saying, “Enticements, Viking? How odd that sounds. Perhaps I am a sweetmeat?”
“Mayhap sweet between your thighs, but no place else.”
She turned away, defeated by his distrust, but not for long, for she was too curious to hide herself in the cargo space. She sat in the opening with Lotti on her lap and watched the huge rising mountains on either side of the fjord, mountains jutting upward, their tops cloud-sheathed, covered with thick pine forests. How could one farm here, she wondered, when everything was so densely covered with trees? The water was so clear and so blue that it nearly hurt the eyes to look at it, particularly with the bright sun striking off it. The thick wadmal sail bulged and the men who held the ropes to control it struggled, their muscles clenching and twisting with the force it took to control the huge sail in the fast wind at their backs. The mast creaked with the pressure, and the man at the tiller was sweating and swearing loudly.
The air was cool and the sun hot overhead. Zarabeth couldn’t imagine the land frozen with snow and cold for five months of the year, not now, now with all the vastness of the green and blue and the softness of the air. She closed her eyes a moment. She should have been coming here as Magnus’ wife, not his slave, but the collar around her neck, dragging on her every moment of the day, told the endless truth.
She turned when Horkel said to her, “Do you know about the midnight sun?”
When she shook her head, he continued, “It is high summer, and here there is almost no night. The sun still holds its course in the sky even when it is midnight. We call this time the season of the sun. Alas, in the winter, the sun scarce ever shows itself, and its season passes. You will become used to it, in time.”
“It is very cold?”
“Aye, and the days are short and become shorter still. But there are feasts and games and nights filled with songs and drink and laughter.”
Two hours later, the men began to shout and point. Zarabeth looked toward the shore and saw a wooden pier stretching out into the water. Beyond it was a narrow beach covered with pebbles and driftwood. A wide path wound its way upward from the beach to a wide flat expanse of ground, cleared as far as the eye could see. In the middle of the flat ground was a circular wooden palisade some eight feet high. Beside the palisade were fields filled with rye and barley and wheat, shining gold and brown under the sun. She saw men and women alike working in the fields. Would she be doing that as well? The wide fields went to the very edge of the tree line. Magnus had used every bit of land available to him.
“This is my farmstead, Malek,” Magnus said with simple pride; then, just as suddenly, bitterness filled him and he added, “It is your home now as well. But you do not come to it as I had wished.”
“It is beautiful,” Zarabeth said, and meant it. He did not respond. The next minutes were busy as the men lowered the sail and took down the heavy mast. Two men jumped from the vessel to the wooden dock and tied the heavy ropes around the thick wooden stakes. Others began to empty the cargo hold of its goods.
“Come,” Magnus said. “The men will unload and then all will come together this night for a feast.” He pointed upward to the people who were pouring out of the wide palisade gates, waving wildly.
Ingunn, daughter of Harald, and younger sister to Magnus, looked down at the woman who was walking beside her brother across the beach. It was the way the woman walked, the proud set of her shoulders, that told Ingunn the truth. He had brought home a wife. She felt her flesh chill. What would she become now? The woman was beautiful, aye, she could tell that even from this distance. That red hair of hers, so vivid and lush. She felt Cyra stiffen beside her and felt a moment of pity mixed with pleasure at the woman’s comeuppance. No longer would Cyra dare to disobey her orders. No longer would she show her sly ways. No longer could Cyra use her, Ingunn, to gain her own way with her brother. But then again, they had shared an unlikely partnership and now it would be at an end.
Ingunn felt her hands clenching at her sides. She waited, dreading meeting this woman who was Magnus’ new wife. Magnus’ son, Egill, was standing beside her, his hand over his eyes, shading them from the harsh sun.
“There is a little girl beside the woman,” he said, pointing a finger. “See, she’s holding the girl’s hand.”
That gave Ingunn a start. Had he married a widow, then? She hadn’t expected that.
“Her hair is strange,” Egill said after another moment. “It’s redder than any of the reds in Grandmother’s tapestry. I hope she lets me touch it. I wonder what it feels like, hair like that.”
Ingunn wished he would just be quiet. They grew closer. When Magnus disappeared from view, only to appear the next moment on the flat ground atop the hill, he smiled at her and Ingunn ran into his arms. He hugged her, then quickly set her aside, his eyes on his son.
“Egill,” he said, and scooped the boy up high in his arms, then immediately set him down and buffeted his shoulder. He was a boy now, not a child. “I have missed you, boy. By Odin, you are larger than when I left you but a month ago. Have you been a good master in my absence?”
Egill nodded seriously, then turned in his father’s firm grasp. “Who is the woman, Father? Is she your new wife? Is the little girl her daughter?”
“No, she isn’t my wife. Now, away with you. You may go help the men bring up our new goods.” Magnus didn’t move until Egill had disappeared down the winding trail that led to the viksfjord.
He looked around deliberately. “Where is Cyra?”
“She is back there, waiting.”
The red-haired woman came into sight then. She stopped some paces behind Magnus. Magnus called out, “Cyra, come hither!”
Ingunn stared. The red-haired woman made no movement; her expression didn’t change. Ingunn turned to watch Cyra run to Magnus. Ingunn watched, stupefied, as he lifted Cyra from the ground and hugged her tight; then he bent her over his arm and kissed her long and deep and hard. “You are well?”
