Zarabeth turned at his approach. Without thought, without conscious decision, she smiled at him.
Magnus came to a dead halt. Her smile warmed him to his heart, and he found that he was smiling back at her. Then, as he watched her, it seemed that she realized that she was smiling, realized that it was wrong of her to smile, for Lotti and Egill were dead, and the smile fell away, leaving that damnable blankness in her expression.
He shook his head and came to her then where she was stirring porridge in the huge iron pot. He leaned down, lifted the thick braid off her neck, and kissed her. Her flesh was moist with the heat from the fire and sweet with the scent that was hers. The slave collar was gone. Her flesh was soft and smooth again. She tried to draw away, for there were many in the longhouse, and she hated to think that they were looking and seeing Magnus kiss her. Nor did she want him to touch her. It made her want to shrink inside herself, to pull the coldness deeper and keep it close.
“Don’t move,” he said against her throat, and kissed her again, his mouth firm and smooth.
She stopped her stirring, and her hand fell away from the long-handled spoon.
She waited; she suffered him. He stopped then, and he pressed his forehead against hers. Then he raised his head and simply looked down at her. It was as if he were trying to make a decision, trying to figure something out. She said nothing, merely waited.
“You are my wife,” he said, and kissed her mouth. “Don’t forget that, Zarabeth.” He kissed her again, lightly, gently, not trying to part her lips, then released her. She started back, her face pale, her hands in front of her as if to ward him off. He said nothing.
That evening when Magnus and his men returned with a freshly killed wild boar, he went immediately to the bathhouse, as was his wont. When he came into the longhouse, he strode to her as if she were the only person in the room, and took her in his arms. He kissed her in front of all his people, and if he was aware that she was stiff and unresponsive, he made no sign of it. Again she suffered him, not moving. He hugged her, kissed her eyebrows, her nose, her jaw. When he released her, he looked grave, but still he said nothing.
Whilst they ate veal stew, scooping up the thick gravy with fresh warm bread, Magnus turned to her and said, “What did you do today?”
She stared at him. Such a mundane inquiry. It shook her, this realization that life continued with no pauses in its allotment of minutes and hours, no differences to show that death had come. She was silent for many moments.
“The meal is good. You prepared it well.”
“Thank you, your aunt Eldrid helped me with the herbs. I . . . I have done the mending today. There were several of your tunics that were in need of my needle. There was blood on another one from one of your kills. Your mother showed me how to remove bloodstains.”
He smiled at her and took another bite of veal stew.
“I also had Haki make a figure stuffed with grass and straw and stick him on a wooden pole to frighten away the birds. They would eat all our apples if I hadn’t done something. Perhaps it will also be useful in the barley fields. I had heard about it from a traveling merchant in York. The farmers in King Alfred’s Wessex use them.”
In the past, one of the servants would remain in the orchard banging on a brass plate to keep the birds away. Now that servant could be used elsewhere, if her straw figure worked. “It is a good idea, and we will see if the birds agree. I am very fond of apples. Will you make apple jelly this fall for the winter?”
She nodded.
“Is all in readiness for Horkel and Cyra?”
“Aye, very nearly. Aunt Eldrid is making more of her special beer.”
Since Eldrid’s beer was actually from his mother’s own recipe, Magnus merely nodded.
“What did you do today?”
“I killed a wild boar.” He paused a moment, scooping up peas with his spoon. “I set several of the women to preparing the meat.”
When she would speak, he added, “I knew you had no experience in it. There will be time. You need no more to do right now.”
It was kind of him, she knew. She sighed and took a sip of milk. After the meal she directed the women to their duties and listened absently to the men speak of the day’s hunt.
She heard Ragnar, a man who still held her in dislike, say suddenly, fury in his voice, “It is Orm—even his father knows it, and has rejected him. It seems he failed to kill everyone on the Ingolfsson farmstead. One of the women survived. She will speak against him at the meeting of the thing. He will be banished, if he isn’t killed first by one of the Ingolfsson men, and all that he owns will be forfeit for the lives he has taken.”
The man Ingunn had wanted to wed, Zarabeth thought. Orm Ottarsson, the man she still swore was innocent. Zarabeth tried to stir up a bit of pity for Magnus’ sister, for this man was worthy of no one, but she could find none.
The other men added their thoughts and opinions—there were many, for they had drunk much beer—until one of them, a slender fellow named Hakon, who seemed to wear a perpetual frown, said, “Magnus, you agree, do you not? You will go to the thing, won’t you?”
“Aye,” Magnus said after some moments. “I suppose I must go. My father has asked it of me.”
Ragnar made a rude noise. “He scarce hears you, Hakon, for his mind is on her.”
Magnus didn’t allow his anger to show. He smiled and rose. “What you say is true, Ragnar. She is beautiful and she is gentle, and she is my wife.”
Zarabeth was sitting near the far wall, sewing a tunic for Magnus, when suddenly he was there, standing over her.