Season of the Sun by Catherine Coulter

and gripped it firmly. “Don’t, Olav, else I’ll slice you.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t,” he said, watching her hand warily.
    â€œThere will be no violence, Olav. You will not hit me, nor will you ever again strike Lotti, or I will kill you. Believe me, for I mean it.”
    He shrugged, hoping to salvage his pride; when she nodded and put the knife down, he drew a deep breath. “A wife shouldn’t threaten her husband.”
    â€œBut a stepdaughter can.”
    He frowned at her, at the bitterness of her words. “You act the ill-treated orphan, Zarabeth. In truth, your life is easy and I leave you be to do as you wish. Any woman would wish to fill your place.”
    â€œWill you invite your son and his wife to this wedding feast?”
    At that Olav smiled. It was a malicious smile, but it didn’t touch her. She cared not what happened to Keith. Nothing had really touched her since Magnus had sailed from York. She cared not if Keith ranted and screamed at his father, if Toki shrieked and howled. “Oh, yes,” Olav said, rubbing his hands together, “I shall invite everyone.”
    And he did. He spared no expense. A week later, on a sunny afternoon in May, Olav and Zarabeth were married, first according to the Christian ceremony, the bishop himself officiating to show King Guthrum’s favor, then by the vows made before the Viking gods of Odin and Thor and Frey. Olav had garbed Zarabeth in a fine silk gown of soft pink with an overtunic of a darker pink, belted tightly at her waist with a wide band of white leather. She wore two brooches at her shoulders to hold the overtunic in place, both of them of the finest silver, worked by old Crinna himself.
    There were banquet tables set up in Coppergate square, covered with trenchers holding cold beef strips and bowls of apples and pears and stewed onions and split baked turnips. There were freshly baked bread and a full bowl of honey and a block of butter. So much food, and Zarabeth saw that the people admired Olav and blessed him for his generosity, and overlooked the fact that he’d wedded his own stepdaughter, who was less than half his age. He’d even given Lotti fine wool for a new gown. The little girl stayed close to Zarabeth even during the ceremony before the Christian bishop, her face pressed against Zarabeth’s thigh. Keith and Toki were there, and silent. Even Toki, never one to keep her feelings to herself, remained quiet, for she wasn’t stupid and she saw that all the neighbors and townspeople were greatly awed and pleased by Olav’s beneficence. King Guthrumhimself made an appearance late in the afternoon, and Olav preened and basked in his favor.
    Zarabeth accepted the envious glances from the unmarried women and the widows with outward serenity. If only they knew, she thought vaguely, if only they guessed that naught but vast emptiness filled her. She thought then of the coming night, thought of Olav naked, covering her, breaching her maidenhead, and even that didn’t overly concern her. It would be done to someone else. It wouldn’t really touch her. She felt Lotti press harder against her leg and took the little girl’s hand in hers.
    She saw her new husband raise a drinking horn of fine Rhenish blue glass and drink yet more sweet honey-mead. She saw him offer the king more of the potent brew. King Guthrum, old and fat and graybearded, sat piously beside his wife whilst two of his lemans fluttered in the background, young and charm-ripe and round of arm and breast. Men and women alike were drunk now, and there was much good-natured giving of advice to Olav on bedding his new bride.
    It didn’t touch Zarabeth. None of it. Even when Toki sidled up to her, a wary eye always trained on Olav, she didn’t do more than say calmly, “Yes, Toki? What wish you?”
    â€œYou think you’ve won, don’t you, Zarabeth? Well, you haven’t. Just look at Olav, so