Olav returned to the room, followed by his son, Keith. A man shorter than his father, Keith had dark hair and dark eyes, a sallow complexion, and a thick beard of which he was inordinately proud. He had the habit of stroking his fingers through the coarse strands endlessly. Keith was the image, Olav had always said with just a bit of sarcasm, of his mother. He was well-formed and not unhandsome, despite the slight limp from a broken leg when he had been a boy. There was also a thin scar from his temple to his jaw, but it didn’t disfigure him. He wasn’t stupid, though he hadn’t been able to copy his father’s success as a trader. He had not the talent, but Olav wouldn’t admit it. He was easily manipulated, Olav would say, shaking his head, though he was the one who usually did the manipulating. Aye, poor Keith was easily swayed, by other traders, by the tanner, by the smithy, by the jeweler—the list was endless.
He was twenty-two, married to a woman who pretended subservience in his presence and was a sharp-tongued bitch when he was gone from her. To his credit, he had, for the most part, simply ignored Zarabeth when his father had brought her and Mara back to York, showing neither like nor dislike for her. But it seemed to her that he had somehow changed during the past few months. He came more often to his father’s house, many times without Toki, and she had seen him looking at her while he stroked his beard, pretending to listen to his father’s endless stream of advice. She took care never to be alone with him.
She saw him staring at her now, and nodded, her expression remaining passive.
“Where is your wife?” Olav was asking his son.
“Toki is at home, where she belongs. She has her woman’s curse and claims she is ailing.” Keith shrugged and looked toward the wooden bottle of ale. “You bought her for me, you know her well enough. She has more of her mother’s character by the month. I am the only one who knows her sweetness of nature.”
Zarabeth wanted to hoot with laughter at Keith’s summing-up of his wife’s character. Olav chose to ignore his son’s whining and the hint of bitterness. By all the gods, he did know Toki’s mother, a creature to make a man’s rod shrivel. He said only, his voice vague, for his thoughts were still of the damned Viking and Zarabeth, “Excellent. Would you like a cup of ale?”
Keith nodded and seated himself at the table. He said to Zarabeth, “You are well, sister?”
She nodded, saying nothing as she poured him ale.
“And the little one?”
“Lotti is also well.’
Olav shrugged, giving his son a helpless look. “She is useless, but what can I do? She even spilled goat’s milk on my sleeve.”
“You could have taken her out of the city and left her,” Keith said, his voice matter-of-fact. “That is what Toki would have done immediately.”
Zarabeth straightened slowly. “You will cease your cruel words, brother, else I will make you very sorry.”
Keith spread his hands in front of him. “Acquit me, Zarabeth. It is what Toki would do, not I.” He paused, frowning, as if confused. “Nay, that could not be true. Toki is sweet-natured and gentle. She loves children in particular. She would not hurt anyone, certainly not a child, even such as Lotti.”
He was weak and blind as a post, Zarabeth thought; despite being a man and being strong, he was still weak. She imagined that Toki managed him very easily. She turned back to Olav when he said, “Don’t torment the boy, Zarabeth. Besides, your threat rings hollow.” He laughed. “What would you do to him if he displeased you? Hit him with a cooking spoon? Spear him with your dining knife? Perhaps shriek and try to pull out his hair?”
“Nay, I spoke without proper thought. My brother is the kindest of men.”
She wished she’d kept her mouth closed and not given him what he immediately saw as encouragement. She added, smiling, “Of course, were he to act a villain, why, I should pour a potion in his ale that would turn his bowels to water.”
Keith stared at her, then stared down at the small bit of ale left in his wooden mug.
“No, I did nothing, Keith, not this time. Mind your tongue in the future, for Lotti understands everything. I will not have her hurt.”
Keith gave her a helpless look, but she merely went about her work of clearing up the dinner remains. She wasn’t afraid of him; oddly enough, she felt somewhat protective of him. He didn’t deserve Toki, and she had always believed it a mistake to force a marriage between those two.
Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, Keith said, “I heard talk from the woodworker’s giddy wife that Zarabeth was kissing a Viking at the well this morning.”
There was instant deafening silence. Olav said nothing, but his mouth was tight, the cords in his neck bulged, and red flushed his cheeks. Keith frowned uncertaintly toward Zarabeth. “Ah, so ’tis true. I refused to believe it, for you’re known as a cold woman, Zarabeth, a woman who cares not for beautiful jewels or for a man. This Viking, he’s a karl, I hear, his father a chieftain and a powerful earl. He’s rich and endowed with fine lands in Norway.”
“Aye, it’s true,” Zarabeth said.
“Have you spread your legs for him yet?”
Zarabeth was surprised at Keith’s querulous tone, even more surprised at his words. They were unlike him. She felt a spurt of fear, then quickly repressed it. It was jealousy she heard in his voice. But she knew she shouldn’t recognize it as such. She looked toward the shelf on the far wall, where there was a row of covered jars. “I wonder how strong I should mix the potion for you, Keith.”
“All right, so you haven’t let him take you! What do you want with him?”
Olav said abruptly, “Enough about the Viking. He wants to wed with Zarabeth, but she hasn’t yet decided if she wants him. In three days she will give him an answer.”
Actually, Zarabeth thought, as Olav continued speaking, she’d already decided. The three days were her concession to him. Odd how it had come clearly to her in just that instant.
She looked up to see Keith watching her avidly. “I must wed someone,” she said emotionlessly. “Magnus Haraldsson seems a good choice.”
“You will go with him to Norway?”
