Olav raised a tired hand and merely shook his head. “Leave, Keith, and take this cursed witch with you.”
Toki was silent for once in her life. She was trembling with rage, but she held her tongue, knowing that words now would only further endanger her in her husband’s eyes. She mustn’t allow that to happen. By the saints, he was her only chance, this man who was her husband and thus superior to her, though he was a dolt and couldn’t trade a walrus tusk for a rag without losing gold. She would reason with him later; she would convince him to make peace with his father, and quickly. She had no choice but to convince him. Everything depended on it.
Otherwise, Toki wouldn’t be able to continue slipping the poison in the old man’s nightly food.
Ah, but she couldn’t tell Keith that, the squeamish fool, for he was weak of spine. No, she’d spin a tale to turn his head, and he would end up praising her generosity of spirit. She’d been imprudent to attack Zarabeth with the old man in the outer shop. She wouldn’t be stupid again. She would play the silly sow, and beg dear Zarabeth’s forgiveness.
After Toki and Keith had left, Olav was silent. He remained silent during the evening meal. He ate slowly, as if studying each bite to be certain the soup wouldn’t make him immediately ill. But as he ate his second bowl, he began to eat more rapidly. “It is amazingly good,” he said, picking up his bowl and drinking the remaining liquid, making loud slurping noises.
Lotti giggled, and Olav, rather than looking at her with ill-disguised loathing, smiled. He said slowly, looking directly at her, “I’m hungry, have been since my wedding day. But not now. Aye, methinks your sister’s fine soup will settle without contempt in my belly.”
“I pray God it will do so, Olav.”
It did. The next day, he was afflicted with bloody bowels but once. The next day not at all. He smiled, he laughed, and he even worked in his shop for an hour. And that night he looked at Zarabeth and she knew what he was thinking. He wanted her and soon he would have the strength to take her. She swallowed. Endure, she would endure. There was no choice. She looked at him whilst he sorted through several otter pelts, here, in the living area, not in his outer shop. He had changed, becoming kinder to her and to Lotti, gentler in his dealings with both of them. This was owing to Toki’s vicious attack, and, Zarabeth guessed, it was also the specter of death that had made him judge things differently. Still, the thought of him mounting her, of him touching her, made her recoil.
She could say naught against him. He was her husband, and thus to take her was his right.
The following day he said to her at the noonday meal, “I have met with the council of elders. I have told them that my son is no more a son to me. I have told them that in the case of my death, it is you who will have all my earthly goods.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Why, Olav? This cannot be! You still do not hold Toki’s silly words against Keith? Of a certainty, she brings anger with her barbed tongue and her ill-humor, but Keith is your only son and he deserves something from you. He has not your talents and your gifts. He has need of you.”
“You are too generous, Zarabeth. The boy became a man, and thus he is responsible for himself. It is done. I will not change it.”
“But you arranged for his marriage with Toki. Do you not remember? He was not overly pleased, but he did as you bade him do. How can you turn your back on him now?”
Olav didn’t like that reminder, but he said naught to her. It was true that Toki’s parents had brought him much gold, but that had been spent in foolish ventures, by Keith, within a year. Still, it gave him pause. Not that it mattered much what he did in the near future regarding his heir, for now his sickness seemed to have abated.
That night Zarabeth lay stiff and silent on the box bed beside Lotti, listening to Olav move about in the living area. She felt her flesh grow cold. He would come to her and ask her to visit him in his bed. She knew it, and she prepared herself for it, yet when it happened, when he pulled aside the animal hide that separated her sleeping area from the living area, she pretended sleep.
“Nay, Zarabeth, ’tis time. I know you’re awake. Come with me and I’ll teach you things you will enjoy.”
She rose, knowing there was naught else she could do. She was wearing her sleep shift, and it came but to her knees. She felt exposed and ashamed and helpless. She had braided her hair and it hung in one thick tail down her back. He took her hand and led her into his sleeping chamber. His box bed was large and made of sturdy oak planking, covered with soft furs and wool blankets.
“I will try to become husband to you, Zarabeth.” With those words he leaned forward and kissed her. She forced herself to bear it. She tried not to think of Magnus, but he was there nonetheless, deep in her mind, a part of her that would never be gone. In time, perhaps, she thought frantically, he would be a ghost, a whisper of a smile, and a look, but now he was real and alive and vital within her. And another man was kissing her.
“Unbraid your hair. A woman shouldn’t have her hair scraped back from her face. It pleases me not.”
She pulled the braid over her shoulder and untied the leather tie. Slowly she pulled the loosely woven hair free of its braid, smoothing her fingers through it until Olav stopped her and freed the tangles himself. “Soft,” he said, and brought her hair to his cheek, rubbing it back and forth. “Red as a sunset that tokens a night storm, and so very soft.” He sifted his fingers through her hair as she stood still as a stone. When he was done, he stood back.
“I require stimulation even though I have gone a long time without a woman’s body. My illness did me no good and dulled my body’s appetites. I will sit here and you will disrobe for me. ’Twill make my manhood spring to life again, Zarabeth.”
He sat on his box bed, leaned back against the smooth-planed wooden wall, and crossed his arms over his chest. He watched her. His heart pounded in slow, deep strokes. He had left the animal skin pulled back, for he was always cold, it seemed, and he needed the heat from the fire even in the summer. He felt the warmth of it on his flesh now, even as he watched her.
She stood there in the dim light of the dying fire, her hair wild around her face, and wanted to die.
“I cannot, Olav.”
He didn’t move. “You will not deny me this time, Zarabeth, like you did before. I understood then, for I was unable to become your husband, but now it will be different. You have made me well with your fine care. Now make me a man again.”
What could she do? She wished in vain for the numbness, the blankness, that had kept her from feeling much of anything after Magnus had left. But the numbness was only a faint memory now. She felt fear and hideous shame, and she wished wildly that Olav had remained ill.
“Now, Zarabeth.”
Her hands went to the narrow straps on her shoulders. Slowly she pulled the straps down until the shift dropped to her breasts. He was staring at her, and she froze. He sat forward suddenly and touched his outstretched hand to her breast. His fingertips were smooth and soft. He jerked the shift down to her waist and stared at her until she was trembling with the strength of her fear. She doubted he saw the revulsion in her eyes, for he wasn’t looking above her breasts.
“By Thor’s ax, you are beautiful. I hadn’t realized . . . so white and soft.” He sighed then, and sat forward to press his face against her breasts, his arms wrapped around her back. She didn’t move. She closed her eyes and held herself perfectly still. She felt his hot breath against her flesh, felt his tongue lick her cold flesh. His breathing quickened and his arms tightened around her, pulling her more closely against him. His hands went to her buttocks and he was jerking at the shift to have her naked.
“So beautiful,” he whispered, then drew back, staring up at her white face. “You don’t want this, Zarabeth, but you will learn to accommodate me. Now, I will show you my manhood and you will help me.”