It was Tostig who found it and brought it to Zarabeth. She was sewing, one of the few occupations the women deemed suitable for her. The day was hot and the sounds of building and men’s laughter and cursing filled the air. She looked up at him and smiled. “Aye, Tostig, how go you?”
“I am fine, mistress, ’tis just that...” He stopped and stuck out the piece of cloth nearly a foot in length. It was a jagged strip of wool dyed a soft blue, faded now to almost gray from exposure to the elements.
She raised her face. “What is it? Where did you find it?”
“In amongst some leaves at the base of a pine tree, just over there, on the outjutting land. We must have overlooked it when we were first searching for Egill.”
Zarabeth felt her heart thud, loud, slow strokes. Her fingers clutched the wool. She flew to her feet, yelling, “Magnus! Magnus!”
Tostig caught her arm. “It is the little girl’s, isn’t it, mistress?”
She looked at him, her eyes wild and vague. “Aye, it must be... Magnus!”
He heard her scream his name and bounded forward. He saw her standing beside Tostig, and she looked white and ill and she was weaving where she stood.
“Zarabeth!”
She whirled about at his voice, picked up her skirt, and ran toward him, shouting, “It is her, Magnus, it is!”
She drew up, weaving, and just as suddenly she turned utterly white and fell. Tostig tried to catch her, but he was off-balance and she bore him to the ground with her.
When she awoke, she was lying in her husband’s lap, and he was sitting in his chair, now set beneath a pine tree. “It is, Magnus, it is hers, I know it! It wasn’t in the water, it was on the land, at the base of a pine tree—”
“Mayhap, but you mustn’t—”
“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.
