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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.”
