He paused a moment, though, when he heard Cyra say to Zarabeth, “I do not sleep in there. I sleep in the longhouse, with Magnus.”
And Zarabeth said with sweet laughter, “I am pleased for you, Cyra. You will continue to bed the savage, and I will be free from his attention.”
Blood pounded through him. He wished now that he had taken her that day, that he had ignored Lotti and just taken her and been done with it. Damn her, he wanted to hurt her. He was shaking as he walked into his longhouse. No, he could not have done that; he couldn’t have taken her in front of the child, nor could he have abused Lotti in any way. But he would have her soon. There would be naught for her to do about it.
Did she really believe he would allow Lotti to sleep with the other slaves in that cold damp hut?
He watched Egill run to Horkel, who had followed him into the house.
Everything looked familiar; everything felt exactly the same, smelled the same. But it wasn’t. Life had changed now, and no matter how he had thought to shape it according to his own whims, he knew in that instant that the future was no longer his to control.
Zarabeth was wearing one of her gowns, a soft pink wool with a white overtunic that she had worn in York. Then she had fastened it with two finely worked brooches at the shoulders. They were gone; she assumed that Toki had taken them. Now she’d knotted the ties of the overtunic at her shoulders. Her hair was combed and hung freely down her back. Ingunn had told her to serve the guests all the mead and ale they wished. She had merely nodded, half her attention on Lotti, who had come to a beginning understanding with several of the small children who played freely throughout the longhouse. She didn’t know who the children were; it seemed not to matter. They were all thrown together and there was always an adult who chided them or played with them, or gently pushed them out of the way.
Magnus’ longhouse was rather like a low, wooden barn. The floor was of beaten earth, so hard that walking on it raised no dirt or dust. There were smooth slabs of stone around the perimeter of the room, set firmly up to the walls. The walls were made of split tree trunks set side by side in a double layer, standing upright. Zarabeth looked up to see that the roof was supported by big wooden beams and sloped sharply. At the close end of the long room were rows of clean wooden tables where all the family and guests were now sitting eating beef and mutton, venison and wild boar. There were trays of peas and cabbage and potatoes, and huge bowls of apples and pears and peaches. Over the huge rectangular fire hearth, bounded with thick stones that rose a good three feet high, were two huge iron pots suspended by chains that were hooked to the ceiling beams. One pot was filled with veal stew, the other with a mixture of potatoes and onions and garlic and beef. There were iron bars over the bed of hot coals upon which thick slabs of boar meat spit and sizzled. On a low table at the end of the fire hearth stood at least six bowls filled with a variety of herbs.
The men were drinking from carved cow horns. The women drank from wooden cups, except for Magnus’ mother, who drank from a fine glass from the Rhineland. Zarabeth moved silently with the heavy wooden pitcher that held sweet wine from France that Magnus had traded for at Hedeby. She was very careful with it, for she knew the wine was valuable. She walked slowly toward the main table, where Magnus’ father, Earl Harald Erlingsson, sat in Magnus’ own carved chair, his wife next to him. He was as tall as his son, so fair that his hair seemed white in the dim rushlight. He looked as hard and lean as a man of twenty. It was very likely, she thought, that Magnus would look like him in some years.
“Wench,” Harald called out. “Bring me more of my son’s wine!”
He had done it on purpose, she thought vaguely. He had seen her approaching with the wine, yet he had chosen to call attention to her presence. In that instant Magnus looked up at her. He frowned. It was hot in the longhouse and he saw the glistening perspiration on her forehead, the wet tendrils of hair that curled around her face. Her face was flushed from the heat and she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her. He felt a clenching deep within him and quickly said to his older brother, Mattias, “I am sorry your babe died, but Glyda looks well again.”
Mattias cast a worried eye toward his pale-faced girl-wife. “She is very young,” he said. “She knows not how to carry a babe.”
“What is there to know?” Magnus said, giving his brother a questioning look. “She is young, yea, that is true, but you get your seed in her and a child grows and is birthed. What else is there?”
“She was foolish whilst she carried the babe.”
“How?”
“She wished always to take me into her, if you would know the truth, Magnus!”
Magnus stared at his brother and then a smile tugged at his mouth. “You complain because your wife likes to bed you?”
“The babe came early and was born dead.”
Magnus shook his head. “You seek to blame where you should not. Stop it now, Mattias. Glyda is a sweet girl. She will bear you other children, healthy children.” He shrugged, looking toward the gaggle of boys and girls who played in the corner, far away from the fire hearth, two of the women near them. Four of them were Mattias’ children from his first marriage. “Besides, even if she does not bear you other children, what does it matter? You have cast your seed to the four corners of the Vestfold already.”
“More wine?”
Mattias stilled his tongue to gaze upon Magnus’ new slave. All his brother had said was that he had bought her in York. Mattias wanted to reach out his hand and touch her magnificent hair. The color was so unusual, so rich and deep, its redness incredible. “Aye, more wine,” he said only. He turned to speak to his brother, when he stopped cold. There was hunger in Magnus’ eyes, and something else... it was pain and anger and perhaps frustration. There was a mystery here. Mattias continued to study the woman after Magnus had waved her away. He heard his father call out to Magnus, “I wish to buy the wench from you, Magnus. How many silver pieces do you want for her?”
Magnus said easily, “You do not want her, Father, for with her she brings a little girl who is without hearing. A responsibility that I doubt would give you pleasure.”
“Then why did you buy her if all this responsibility weighs so heavily on you?” It was his mother, Helgi, who asked the question. “The little girl with the ginger hair is hers?”
“Aye, her little sister.” He waited until Zarabeth neared his younger brother, Jon, and said loudly, “I knew not the little girl was deformed until it was too late.” He watched and was pleased to see Zarabeth react. He saw her hand shake; he saw her whirl about to face him, and she took a step toward him, stumbled on a child’s feather-stuffed leather ball, and dropped the wine pitcher to the ground.
“Stupid wench!” Ingunn was on her feet in an instant and at Zarabeth’s side. Before anyone knew what she was about, Ingunn struck her hard on the face. Zarabeth reeled back, coming perilously close to the fire hearth.
“Watch out!” Magnus leapt from his chair and ran for her, grabbing her arm as she flailed the empty air to regain her balance.
“Let her fall,” Ingunn said in disgust. “’Twould serve her right to have a burn or two, the clumsy slut! The wine, ’tis gone now, and not in our bellies as it should be. Nearly half a pitcher!”
Zarabeth was breathing hard. She tried to pull away from Magnus, but he didn’t immediately release her. She looked up at him, fury in her pale face. “You lied, Magnus! ’Tis true you didn’t know Lotti could not hear, but you had already agreed to bring her. You lied to your father!”
He shook her. Didn’t she care that Ingunn had struck her hard? His sister’s palm imprint was red and clear on her cheek. He could imagine that it still stung. He shook her again, angry at her for accepting his sister’s attack. Then he drew himself up. With his actions, he was giving all his people and his family a great many bones to chew upon.
“Be more careful in the future,” he said, his voice low and harsh. “I do not want you to harm yourself. I paid too much silver to have you.”
