“It is over and done with, Zarabeth.”
“What is, Keith? What do you here? Has something happened? Is Toki all right?”
“Were you going to try to escape on one of the vessels? Has another Viking offered to help you?”
She stared at Keith, wondering at his words, at his pallor, at the strained look in his eyes.
“What is this, Keith? What is wrong?”
One of the council, a man named Old Arnulf, who had danced drunkenly at Olav’s wedding feast, strode up to her and said in a voice filled with fury, “We know the truth now, Zarabeth. We know that you murdered your husband, that you fed him poison from the day he wedded with you. You will die now, and justice will be done.”
“Poison?” She looked from Keith to each of the three older men. They were serious. “You believe I fed poison to Olav? He was my husband! I cared for him throughout his illness, I didn’t try to kill him! This is madness. What goes on here?”
“ ’Tis too late for denials, Zarabeth,” Keith said, but when she turned on him, he took a quick step backward, as if expecting she would attack him.
“I did nothing to Olav!”
Old Arnulf just shook his head. “Both Keith and Toki are witnesses to your deed. That a wife would seek to kill her husband—’tis something we won’t tolerate, and thus you will die.”
“No!” Without thought, without conscious decision, Zarabeth grabbed Lotti up into her arms and ran down the long wooden quay. Two rough-garbed sailors stopped her, laughing, holding her, looking at her as if she were a feast and they starving men.
“Hold her! She’s a murderess!”
The sailors dropped their hands as if touching her would taint them or she would turn on them with a knife. This time, though, Zarabeth didn’t move. She waited for them to approach her again, then said, “You say that Keith and his wife say I poisoned Olav. How do they know this?”
Arnulf took her arm, saying briskly, “You will have a chance to ask your questions and make your pleas before the king, for he was Olav’s friend and has said he will pass judgment on you. Come along.”
And it was done. Zarabeth made no more protest until she realized they were taking her to the slaves’ compound. It stood on a barren moor just outside the city fortifications, a place of misery and filth. It was surrounded by its own earthen wall, three feet thick, and there was one great longhouse that was covered with a thatched roof. Around the longhouse were separate huts for the guards. There was a central well but nothing else.
Still she didn’t give in to the awful fear. She would tell King Guthrum the truth of the matter. It was soon clear to her: Toki had poisoned Olav and had convinced Keith to blame Zarabeth. No wonder Olav had gotten well once he had forbidden Toki and Keith to come back to the house. And then, because of her pleas, Olav had forgiven his son and allowed him and Toki back. And he had signed his own death warrant with his generosity. It was too much. She couldn’t at first take it in. There was no hope for it. She would tell the king what had happened and then she and Lotti would be left in peace.
Old Arnulf handed her over to the single guard, a huge man with a flattened nose and thick black brows that met, forming a single line. “Guard her well, for she is a murderess. She will see King Guthrum on the morrow. See that none abuse her or ravish her. See that her clothes aren’t stolen.”
The guard grunted and took her arm. Suddenly Arnulf said loudly, “Nay, the child cannot enter into the compound! Keith come and take your sister. She is your responsibility now.”
It was then that Zarabeth lost all control. Panic filled her and she whirled around, screaming, “Nay! You cannot take her, no! Keith despises her . . . Toki will beat her and kill her!” But they pulled Lotti from her arms, looking at the child with contempt as she cried softly, strangled, ugly sounds that sounded terrified and lost.
“Take her, Keith, and see to her. The child will come to no harm in your care.” Lotti struggled as Keith lifted her high in his arms to avoid her flailing hands.
“No!” Zarabeth went wild. She grabbed for Lotti, only to feel her arms pulled back and held painfully. The guard eased his hold, but still held her firmly. Tears streamed down her face and choked in her throat as she watched Keith try to hold Lotti still. The child reared back, trying to get free of him, but it was no good. Zarabeth felt a helplessness so deep that she wanted to die with it. But she couldn’t. Somehow she had to save Lotti. But first she had to save herself. She managed to say very softly, “Nay, Lotti, hold still, love. Keith won’t hurt you, nor will Toki. Arnulf of the council said that he will take good care of you. Go now with him, and I will come for you when this is over.”
To everyone’s surprise, Lotti looked at her sister, then smiled, a beautiful smile that held faith and complete trust. She then lay against Keith’s shoulder, small hiccups coming from her mouth.
“Come,” the guard said, and his voice was rough and ugly as his face. He wouldn’t let her walk, no, he had to drag her toward the longhouse. She turned and saw the council leave, Keith holding a now-silent Lotti behind them.
The guard shoved her inside the longhouse. It was so dark within that at first she could see nothing. Then she saw the people. They were a sorry lot, filthy, some of the men manacled, the women slovenly and uncaring, their eyes empty of hope. Each one, she knew, had a home, a story to tell, and both would become garbled and vague in future years. It was sad, perhaps, but it was the way things were. Slaves were property, nothing more.
Zarabeth gave her attention to the guard as he said, “You won’t be harmed.” He raised his head and looked at all the men and boys who had stirred at their entrance. “Any of you beasts touch her, and the flesh will be flayed from your backs and your cocks severed clean off.”
He turned to her then, and shoved her toward the end of the long dark room. “Keep your tongue in your mouth and you will be all right.” And he left her there in the middle of the thatched longhouse, and it was dark within, for there were no windows, and the stench of the people was raw and ugly in her nostrils. She walked slowly toward a bare place against the far wall and sank down. No one said anything to her. No one even paid heed to her now. There was silence.
She was numb, but not so numb that she wasn’t aware of the awful silence. There were some twenty men and women waiting here, waiting for someone to buy them and remove them. Then they began talking amongst themselves, and she recognized the accents of her homeland, Ireland. She wondered what they been before the Vikings had capture them and brought them here to York. She wondered if they’d been so ragged and scraggly then, or if their captivity had made them look like filthy animals.
The day passed, as did the night. Zarabeth ate a thin stew from a rough wooden bowl. She didn’t have to worry that any of the men would try to ravish her. They were too locked into themselves and their own fates to concern themselves with her. She was cold during the night, but it didn’t matter. No one cared. She thought about Lotti and felt sweat trickle down her back and sides. The dirt was in her nostrils, covered her gown, and when she awoke the following morning, the ugly guard was standing over her and in his hand he held the beautiful brooch Olav had given her. He had pulled it off her gown, and the soft linen was ripped off her shoulder.
She said nothing. It didn’t matter. She said to the guard, “I will see the king soon. I am dirty and need to bathe myself.”
He looked at her as if she’d sprouted a pheasant’s wings. Then he laughed, throwing his shaggy head back, and soon he was shouting his mirth. She tried to comb her fingers through her hair but knew how she must look. She felt cramped and dirty and wrinkled.
It was nearly noon before Old Arnulf arrived to take her to see the king. He looked at her and just shook his head. Zarabeth again pleaded for a bath, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
“There is no place for you to bathe or change your gown. Keith and Toki have moved into Olav’s house. Come now, for we don’t wish to keep the king waiting.”
King Gut
hrum’s palace stood on high ground above York harbor, stone walls surrounding it, and its white stone, quarried nearby at Helleby, gleamed in the summer sunlight. She had visited the palace once before in the company of Olav when he’d delivered a magnificent otter pelt to the king as a birthday present. She had waited in an outer chamber and been awed by her surroundings. She wasn’t awed now, she was too frightened. Exquisite tapestries in bright colors still covered the stone walls. Those walls that were wooden rather than stone had been smoothed down and covered with more hangings of vivid red silks and blue wools. The king, Olav had told her then, was fond of red silk. He wore little else. And jewelry. He loved finger rings and neck chains and arm bracelets of thick, heavy gold and silver.
But today she wasn’t in Olav’s company. She was no longer a girl to gawk and admire. She was a prisoner. She straightened her shoulders, waiting.
Old Arnulf’s hand stayed flat on her back. He pushed her forward as if she hadn’t the ability to walk herself without his direction. It angered her. She wanted to turn on him and scream that he was a fool, and more than that, he was blind to the truth. No, no, she must wait, she would tell the king the truth and he would at least have to consider her words.
King Guthrum was no longer the handsome young Viking who had held all the Danelaw in his hands for nearly three decades. He was old and gnarly and white-haired and his face was deeply creased from the sun. He was seated in a magnificently carved throne chair of oak with finely ornamented arms. He believed them magic. Whenever he fought, the chair arms went with him. He was garbed splendidly in red silk, as was his wont, and he wore many arm bracelets and rings. Around his neck was a thick gold neckband, polished and inset with rubies and diamonds. At least a dozen men stood around him. None sat save the king. Arnulf shoved Zarabeth forward and she stumbled to her knees.
“Stay there,” he hissed behind her.
She looked up into the king’s eyes.
“You are Zarabeth, widow of Olav.”
“Aye, sire.”
“Before, you were his stepdaughter, and then he condescended to wed with you. At your wedding I believed Olav had made a fine choice.”
She jerked back at the cold words and the wrong conclusion. She shook her head. “Nay, sire, ’twas not like that. He wished to protect me and Lotti, my younger stepsister. Thus he insisted that I wed him.”
King Guthrum turned to Keith, and she followed his gaze and saw Keith shake his head. She saw Toki standing behind him. She looked around frantically for Lotti, but the child wasn’t there.
She felt fear and rage pound through her, choking her, but she managed to hold herself silent.
The king turned back to her. “Arnulf tells us that you wish to speak in your own defense. Do it now. There are more important matters that await my attention.”
Slowly Zarabeth got to her feet. She straightened her gown and pulled back her shoulders. Her chin went up. She knew her life hung on her words.
“I will say the truth, sire. I did not kill Olav. I tended him faithfully during his illness. He was kind to me. You were there at our wedding and you saw that he was pleased. That night he was drunk, as were all the guests. The next day, he became ill and his illness remained for weeks and each day he worsened. I did all I could for him. Then there was an evening when Keith’s wife, Toki, was more than passing cruel to me and Olav ordered both his son and his wife from his house. They were not to come back. Almost immediately Olav began to improve. He was nearly well when he forgave Keith his wife’s ill-temper and they returned yet again to share our evening meals. He became ill and died that same night. I did not poison him, sire, but I imagine that Toki did, and now she has convinced her husband to have me blamed.”
The king said naught, sat there stroking his gnarled fingers over his chin.
“We have heard speech from both Keith and Toki and now we have heard your words. A young wife seeks to have her husband’s wealth but she doesn’t want him, for he is old and no longer comely. She wishes to free herself of him and his demands on her.”
At least part of it was the truth, and Zarabeth felt herself paling under the king’s gaze. Then she shook her head. “You will ask Arnulf about my husband’s wishes. He wanted to leave to me all his earthly goods, not to his son, for he felt no more kinship for him. This is why Keith and Toki blame me for it. They are responsible, there is no one else! They want what is mine, what is my sister’s!”
The king raised his voice then, and it was stern and cold, cutting her off. “I have heard how you wished to leave Olav’s house to travel away with a Viking, a man young and comely and finely hewn, but then you changed your mind, for Olav had offered to wed with you. You decided to stay and have your wealth, for you saw it there and did not wish to take a chance on offerings in a faraway land.”
“That is not true! Where did you hear this, sire?”
Arnulf poked her in her ribs. “Watch your tongue, stupid wench!”
“Hold,” the king said, lifting a beringed hand. “Leave her be, our good Arnulf. She deserves to know all the proof against her, then perhaps she will beg and plead for forgiveness. Now, girl, I heard it from the man you encouraged, then scorned, for you could not be certain that he would give you all that you wanted. Aye, I have it from Magnus Haraldsson that you are a perfidious, faithless wench who, in our view, decided to make Olav jealous, and thus prodded him until he promised to wed with you. And then you dismissed the man who wanted you and promised you all his loyalty and his wealth. And thus there will be no consideration for you. Olav’s son deserves his father’s possessions, not a young wife who wedded him only to gain his wealth, a young woman who eagerly turned away another man, a young man with true honor, and taunted him with her decision in full view of York’s citizens so his humiliation would be all the greater.”
Zarabeth stopped thinking, nearly stopped breathing, for as the king spoke, the deep crimson silk curtain behind his chair parted, and Magnus came through to stand beside Guthrum. He stared at Zarabeth and she saw the coldness in his eyes, the loathing for her in his heart. She felt shock at the sight of him, an instant of wild hope, then despair. Only he could have told the king these things.
“It isn’t true,” she heard herself say in a low whisper.
“Well, girl, speak if you would, for I would have this done and punishment meted out!”
“Olav made me dismiss Magnus! He forced me to do it!”
“And how did he do this?”
“He threatened to kill Lotti, I swear it!”
Keith yelled, “ ’Tis a lie, a damnable lie! My father loved the little girl, gave her all that she wished to have. He favored her and played with her. Zarabeth killed him and now she lies! My father was a sainted man. Never would he threaten a child!”
The king said aught for several minutes. Then he turned slowly to Magnus and said something in a low voice. Zarabeth waited, so terrified that she couldn’t have moved in any case. She saw Magnus lean down and reply to a question.
Then slowly Magnus straightened and looked directly at her. He said nothing. Then he smiled as the king rose and said, pointing a finger at Zarabeth, “Your punishment for murder should be death, but Magnus Haraldsson, a young man of good faith and fine family, has convinced me otherwise. You, Zarabeth, who could have once been his wife and lived a life of honor, are now his slave to do with as he pleases. If he pleases to kill you, then so be it. If he pleases to beat you until you are senseless, then so be it. Go with your master and never again return to the Danelaw, for death awaits you here if ever you return.”
“No,” Zarabeth said, “no.”
She stood still as Magnus strode toward her, his face set and cold, nothing but contempt in his eyes.
10
Magnus stared at her from behind the crimson curtain. He felt such pain he thought he’d choke on it. As he watched her, his pain cleansed itself into pure anger. Even though she was dirty, her hair straggling down about her face, her gown torn at the shoulder whe
re someone had ripped off a brooch, still, she looked proud and unbending.
By Odin, he had missed her, had dreamed of her more nights than he could remember now, for she always seemed to be there with him, in his mind, soft beneath his hands and whispering his name only the way she could; and yet she was naught but a fraud, the woman who had played him for a fool, the woman who had betrayed him.
He listened to her speak, so impassioned she was, and felt the pain return in full measure, but not with pity or longing for her, but with building rage. She had wronged him. She deserved to suffer for it, and she would.
When he came out to stand beside King Guthrum, when she saw him, he thought she would faint. For an instant he thought he saw joy in her expressive eyes, and hope . . . nay, it was surprise and chagrin he saw, for he was here now, to face her. It was guilt too, he realized, for what she’d done to him, perhaps even a moment of remorse.
Had she killed Olav?
He hadn’t wished to believe it, had initially dismissed it as absurd, but the witnesses were many and their words rang true to his ears and to the king’s ears as well. They reported how Olav had told all of his love for the little girl, how Olav had wanted Zarabeth and the little girl to be protected and thus he wedded with her, how Olav had planned to give Zarabeth all upon his death because of her hold on him. Did that make her guilty of murdering him? Did that mean she had turned Olav away from his own son? Evidently most believed so.
But then, many witnesses also spoke of Zarabeth’s kindness, her care of Olav during his illness, and her love for her little sister. Still, he found himself looking again and again at Keith and Toki. Again he found himself going over Zarabeth’s story in his mind, and he looked toward Toki. The woman’s eyes were lowered now, modestly, her mouth a tight line, but he felt something malignant about her, something that was cold and unwholesome.
Not that it really mattered to him. He was glad Olav was dead, truth be told. The man was no longer Zarabeth’s husband and she was free now to be whatever he, Magnus, wished her to be. He had come in time to save her, and that should have amused him. He, the man she’d betrayed, saving her. Aye, there was humor in that. But when he tried to find the humor, he failed. The thought that if he had been just several days later she would have been dead made him nearly double over at the empty blackness her death would bring him. But he refused to dwell on that. No, what would happen now would give him pleasure, great pleasure. She would get the punishment she deserved.