The Norse King's Daughter

by Sandra Hill

  Finally they entered the Sun Palace, a structure of pink marble flecked with green malachite chips. It was three floors high and built in the shape of a cross, with a huge garden in its center, and a number of smaller gardens or grottos along each arm. She, her four guardsmen, and the four hersirs were assigned one whole arm of the cross on the ground level. If this was a lesser palace, as the apologetic senator had implied, Drifa could not imagine what would be grander.

  “Look at those tapestries.” Thork pointed to one of the walls. “My mother would swoon with envy.” The enormous tapestry in question depicted the Last Supper, the One-God religion’s Christ with his twelve disciples.

  Drifa had met Thork’s mother, Lady Alinor of Dragonstead. She was far-famed for her sheep and uniquely woven wool fabrics.

  “Mayhap you could purchase a tapestry—a much smaller one—to take back to her,” Wulf suggested.

  “Me too. And some painted tiles. And cuttings from those flowers over there.” Drifa smiled. “I fear my longship will be overflowing with goods when I return home.”

  “And this just your first day here,” Wulf observed, a rare smile of indulgence on his handsome face.

  “Perchance you will bring a new husband home with you, too,” Thork added with a twinkle in his mischievous eyes.

  She heard a snorting sound behind her, and knew with certainty that it was Sidroc.

  “Nay, I have had enough of devious, full-of-themselves men. I much prefer digging in my garden and a good pile of . . . manure.”

  There was another snort behind her. And much laughter from her guardsmen and hersirs, although they could not know that it was a directed remark.

  “I thought we had some fine castles in the Highlands, but they are huts compared to this,” Jamie remarked. “If I brought any of these fine objects home to gift my parents, they would look out of place in the untamed, bare-bones surroundings. Like gold plating a pigsty.”

  “There is charm in the wildness of the Highlands,” Drifa asserted.

  “Yea, there is,” Jamie agreed with a grin that implied there was wildness, and then there was wildness.

  Wulf added his opinion. “A rich cream sauce on a breast of pigeon is welcome on occasion, but betimes a thick slab of bloody, hearth-roasted boar better suits.”

  “Wine is fine, but beer is better?” Thork asked.

  “Precisely,” Wulf said. “And, believe you me, wine flows in Byzantium like mead in the Norselands.”

  Once they had all been shown to their chambers and Drifa was introduced by the chamberlain to her new maid, Anna, a Greek slave girl, Drifa thought she was finally alone, but nay, Sidroc was outside in the corridor talking to Ivar, one of her guardsmen, an older man who was a long-time comrade of her father’s.

  Well, this was her opportunity. “Sidroc, I need to speak with you.”

  He held up a halting hand. “And I have things to say to you, as well, but not now.”

  “When?”

  He smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. “At my convenience, m’lady.” On those words, he walked lazily after his comrades, his black polished boots clicking on the marble floor.

  Sidroc seemed so angry with her. Why? She had rejected his suit, but surely he had to admit that he’d given her cause. Well, she had struck him over the head and he had been in a death-sleep for six sennights, but she had not meant to do him such harm. Still, that must be the reason for his fury. Once she informed him that his daughter was at Stoneheim and thriving, he would probably be thankful, and all would be well again.

  Or not.

  She would not think on it now. Later.

  “What was he discussing with you, Ivar?” she asked.

  “Just warning me of the perils to watch for here in Miklagard, and in the palace itself.”

  “Oh? Is there something in particular I need to worry about?”

  Ivar shook his head. “Nay, as long as we guard you well, your safety is assured.”

  “Beware of snakes in the garden, however, princess,” Wulf said, coming up to them. “And I do not mean the crawling-on-the-ground kind. I have warned you afore, and will do so again, there are devious men, and women, in this court who would slit a person’s throat whilst offering words of welcome. The daughter of a Norse king would make a valuable captive for ransom.”

  Drifa rolled her eyes. All these warnings were becoming tiresome, but it was interesting that Sidroc was concerned for her safety. A good sign, surely. She held to that positive thought until later that night when she was enlightened to his true sentiments.

  For hours she’d been restless, unable to sleep. A new bed in a new country. The unfamiliar sounds of water trickling in the fountain of the small garden separated from her bedchamber by only a latticed wall. A more secure wall could be pulled closed and locked at night, which she should have done, and, in fact, had promised her guards she would do.

  Her mind was also occupied with the numerous things she wanted to see and do during her short stay in Byzantium, and, yea, three months was not nearly enough time, but longer than she wanted to be parted from Runa. Worry over Sidroc’s obvious anger also kept her awake.

  Mayhap she should get up and close that wall now.

  But she did not.

  So it was her fault that just as she’d slipped into a light slumber she heard a rustling sound in her room. Before she could open her eyes, thinking it was probably Anna, who’d already checked on her three times, a heavy weight landed on her and a hand pressed over her mouth, stifling her scream. A man, she decided.

  Whoever it was said nothing as she squirmed, trying to dislodge him. He just lay on her like a dead weight, almost suffocating her. One hand held her wrists over her head. The other hand still pressed against her mouth. His legs were wrapped around hers. She was immobilized.

  “I am going to lift my hand. When I do, if you make even a squeak, I swear, I will strip you naked and blister your backside with the flat of my broadsword.”

  It was Sidroc.

  “Do you understand, princess?”

  Before she had a chance to respond, he released his hand over her mouth, and she began, “Are you demented? How did you get in here?”

  “Uh-uh! Bad girling! Bad! I told you to remain silent. Well then, you must prefer I do this.” He put a hand over her breast, and began to massage it roughly. She was wearing only a thin sleep rail, and it was as if he was touching her bare flesh. Even worse, she could feel his thickening against her thigh.

  She made a whimpering sound.

  “Does that mean you are ready to remain silent whilst I talk?”

  She nodded.

  “You will speak only when I ask a question. There is naught else you have to say of interest to me.”

  If you only knew!

  He took his hands off her mouth and wrists and rose to a kneeling position, his rump resting lightly on her legs.

  “You are in such trouble, Drifa. Why did you come to Byzantium?”

  “To study flowers.”

  “Did you know I was here?”

  “What?” That question surprised her. “Why would I come here if . . . oh, I see. You think I am chasing after you.” She made a tsking sound of disgust.

  “You were hot for me once,” the cad pointed out. She started to say something and he wagged a forefinger at her. “Speak only in answering my questions. Remember.”

  She pressed her lips tightly together, but her eyes shot daggers at him.

  He just laughed. “So, have you killed any more men since I saw you last?”

  “I did not kill you.”

  “You tried.”

  “I did not! I merely tapped you on the head with a pitcher. How was I to know your head was eggshell thin and would crack so easily? Do you behave in this lackbrained manner because some of your brains seeped out?”

  “Nay, but a part of me has grown larger. Foolish maid, did I not tell you to remain silent?” He leaned forward a bit so that the bulge beneath his braies touched her nether
parts.

  Noting with hysterical irrelevance that he wore typical Norse attire now, not the Varangian uniform, she gasped and tried to push against his chest. “You brute! You ignorant oaf. Leave off!”

  Which only caused him to take her hands in his again, lacing them on either side of her head. Then in one fluid move, he hooked her ankles with his and spread her legs wide. Arching back on extended arms, his position made his hard rod fit itself into her woman-channel. Only his braies and her sleep rail separated them.

  To her dismay, it seemed lodged against a part of her in such a way that even the slightest movement caused ripples of pleasure to sweep out to other parts of her body. “You have no right to treat me with such disrespect.”

  “Keep your voice down, lest one of your guards hear. See this knife in my belt sheath. It is sharp enough to split the hairs on a witch’s whisker. I would hate to kill one of my countrymen on his first night in the Golden City.”

  “You would not!” It was hard to speak when she was trying to keep her body stiff and unmoving down below.

  “I would. And it would be your fault for having a running tongue.”

  Whff, whff, whff, she huffed inwardly, fighting the rising arousal that just his body pressure was causing. If it were lighter in the room—there was only the moonlight seeping through the latticework—he would see that the skin on her face and other places was flushed. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Just one.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I can.”

  She frowned with confusion. “One more question. Are you trying to seduce me into marriage again?”

  “Are you being seduced?” He studied her closer and ran the knuckles of one hand over her breast, causing the nipple to peak.

  The ripples turned into waves. Erotic waves.

  “Marriage is no longer an option after your crimes,” Sidroc continued.

  His insult stopped her pleasure waves like a dam rising abruptly in a fjord. Fortunately. Then another thought came to her unbidden. “Are you already married?”

  “Nay.”

  Yet another thought occurred to her as she puzzled his odd demeanor. Crimes? More than one? Oh nay! Surely he does not know about Runa? “Do you intend to wed, ever? Do you not want children?”

  “Why are you speaking?” He ground himself against her. Once. Twice. Thrice.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and almost wept at the joyful torture.

  “If I do wed and, gods willing, if I fill my longhouse with babes, ’twill not be with the likes of a bloodthirsty wench such as you. I would sooner have a wolf than you to mother my sons and daughters.”

  That was cruel and unwarranted, and what did it say about Runa and what he would do if he discovered his daughter was alive and that she wanted—nay, intended—to keep the child in her care? Would he consider her an unfit mother, rather, caretaker?

  She had to tell him.

  Just not yet.

  “But that does not mean I will not rut with you. By now you have surely lost your maidenhead.”

  “And if I have?”

  “It matters not a whit to me. Your experience in the bed arts will be more appreciated than a fumbling virgin’s lack of skill.”

  Just then there was a tap on the door, and Ivar said, “Princess Drifa, are you all right? I heard voices.”

  Quickly, before she could say him nay, Sidroc rolled over to his back and tucked her in at his side, her head on his shoulder. A sharp knife was pressed at her breast on the other side. “Enter,” he said.

  Ivar opened the door hesitantly. “Princess?” Then noticing Sidroc, he drew his sword. “Guntersson! How did you get in here?”

  “Princess Drifa let me in, did you not, sweetling?”

  She nodded, feeling the sharp point of his knife cut through the cloth of her sleep rail. Turning her face away from him, she tried to gather her thoughts.

  “My heartling is just shy,” he told Ivar, then pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Are you not, my little sweet cake?”

  Sweet cake? Her head swiveled so that she could glare directly at him.

  “Didst know that the princess and I were betrothed at one time, Ivar? We are . . . um, reconciling.” He made the word reconciling sound lewd.

  Ivar’s eyes shot to her. With her scant clothing and her bruised lips that he would no doubt attribute to kissing, his indignation faltered. “This is the first I have heard of this. Tell me true, princess, do you want the knave gone, or not?”

  She hesitated for only a second. “He will be leaving in a moment. Will you not, my big cow cake?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

  Sidroc chuckled and told Ivar, “Leave us for a few moments, and I will be gone . . . for tonight. We have a few matters to discuss.” The implication was that they would get a quick swiving in yet.

  The obnoxious dolt!

  Now that the need for silence was gone, she turned on him. “Get up out of my bed. At once.”

  He rose, but just sat on the side of the bed, staring down at her.

  She raised the bed linen up to her shoulders.

  He laughed derisively before turning more serious. “You said earlier that you had something to say to me.”

  Hah! The time for that particular talk had passed. Still, there were some things that must be said. “I apologize for causing your injury. Not for the hitting, mind you. That you deserved. But I ne’er intended to do you such injury.” She waited, expecting—nay, hoping—that he would accept her apology.

  He did not.

  “I did try to make reparations,” she said.

  He just arched his brows at her.

  “We tried to find you. I mean, my father and Rafn sent longships hither and yon in an attempt to discover your whereabouts, but you disappeared.” Again she waited for his acceptance of her words.

  He said nothing. At first. Then he pointed out, “I lay abed, dying as far as you knew, and you went on a ‘pleasure journey.’ Do you wonder why I am so angry?”

  “I can explain.”

  “Familiar words. Dost recall how many times I asked you to let me explain my rush to wed?”

  She could feel her face heat. He was right. She had refused to listen to his excuses. “I know now why you acted thus . . . your daughter.”

  He bristled. “How do you know about her?”

  “Finn told us. Do not blame—”

  He put up a halting hand. “I do not want my daughter’s name to come from your tempting lips. Ever! She is dead and gone, and whilst you may not have wielded the weapon of her demise, you are partially responsible by keeping me from rescuing her in time.”

  “Wh-what?” she sputtered. Holy Thor! The man thought Runa was dead. Now I really do need to tell him of her whereabouts. “Sidroc, I have something important to tell you.”

  “There is naught of importance you could impart to me in my present mood. Now, continue with this lackbrained apology of yours.”

  She was the one who bristled now, even as her mind reeled with the news that he thought his daughter dead. “There was no excuse for the cold-blooded way in which you went after me.”

  He shrugged.

  “Can I say one more thing about your dau— you know who?”

  “Nay.”

  Despite his refusal, she blundered on, “What if others took matters into their hands whilst you were in a death-sleep?”

  He stood abruptly and glared down at her. Nigh shaking with fury, he spat out, “You dare . . . you dare to blame me for Signe’s death? You dare to imply that others did what I could not? I could kill you for that alone.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I was merely—”

  He waved a hand back and forth in front of his face.

  “No more. I must needs leave afore you force me to kill your guardsman.”

  “What is it you want from me, Sidroc?” she asked tiredly.

  “My father will pay one day for his perfidy, but you . . . It is not what I want
, but what you will do. I lost six sennights of my life because of you, six extremely important sennights, and so much more. I intend to make you my bed thrall afore either you or I leave Byzantium. Six sennights. Forty-two nights you will pleasure me in the bed furs.”

  “Rape?”

  “Nay. As I recall, your passions rode high when I touched you afore. They will again. Your embers will burn, believe you me.”

  He was deluded if he thought she would willingly accept him under that kind of threat. Even so, she asked, “In what halfwitted circumstances do you imagine that I would agree to be your anything?”

  “Everybody has a weakness. I will discover yours, and then you will yield.”

  Drifa thought immediately of Runa and shivered.

  “See, already I can see guilt on your devious face. What is it you hide, princess?”

  “Not a thing,” she lied, knowing she must change the subject, and quickly. “Assuming you could succeed, and I am unwilling to concede that you could, what if you breed a child on me?”

  “I would take it from you. Like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

  Her blood turned to ice, but she could not let him see the effect his words had on her. Think of something else, Drifa. Change the subject. “You know, I have a gripe, too. Rafn told me what you said about me. ‘Bugger the bitch.’ ”

  “Appropriate, don’t you think?”

  “Nay, I do not. I could just as easily say ‘Bugger the bastard.’ ”

  “Go right ahead. Mayhap we can accommodate each other.”

  “You are such a vulgar man.”

  “A little bit of vulgarity adds spice to the sex act.”

  “I can’t do this. I won’t do this.”

  “You have no choice; princess or not, I will have you, and I will have you good and well, and often.”

  May the gods spare me from the arrogance of a Viking man! Not that it was ever going to happen, still she had to ask, “That will satisfy you?”

  At first, he stared at her with contempt, but then he grinned down at her with blatant wickedness.

  “I certainly hope so.”

  The more he learned, the more he fumed . . .

  Sidroc was on a military exercise field within the Imperial Palace grounds the next morning when he was approached by one of the four hersirs who had accompanied Princess Drifa.