by Sandra Hill
She giggled at the picture, despite herself. Big bad soldier felled by blister. Too bad it hadn’t been on his arse.
“Drifa!” he chastised her.
She realized that she’d inadvertently spoken aloud. Oh well.
“What will you do today?” he asked, smoothing her hair off her face. It probably looked like a bird’s nest with all the rolling around she’d done.
“Sleep.”
He pinched her shoulder lightly in reprimand.
“After I sleep, I will go see Rat Face.”
“You must be careful.”
“I will. My four hersirs as well as the guardsmen will accompany me. Plus, methinks it would be a good idea to make arrangements for my meeting with the empress so that I may remind the eparch that I can stay for only so long because the empress is expecting me.”
“Smart woman!”
“I am not King Thorvald’s daughter for naught.”
He chuckled. “After that, what will you do?”
“Well, I am not certain about today. But I want to meet with the head gardener of the Imperial Palace, for a tour and just to talk. To learn new things.”
“Have I not introduced you to enough new things?”
She slapped him playfully. “Mayhap the gardener will direct me to those gardens best suited for my study. I like to sketch and paint what I see. So these will not be short visits. And of course I will go to the Hippodrome to see the races. And Ianthe has promised me roots.”
“Roots?” he exclaimed.
“Iris roots,” she explained. “To take back to the Norselands for planting. I already have Judas tree seedlings.”
She could feel him shaking his head at her seeming hopelessness.
“Mayhap I could give you some roots and seeds to plant at your new home, wherever that might be. To remember me by,” she said. And, yea, she was fishing for information.
“Drifa, I need no reminders. This night is firmly planted in my memory.” She could hear amusement and something else in his voice. Something like wonder. “You like Ianthe, do you?” He seemed pleased.
“Actually, I do. Very much. What I don’t understand is why you do not marry her and take her with you when you leave.”
“First off, Ianthe would not want me for husband. Ianthe is one of those romantical souls who waits for love . . . a love like she had with her husband. And, truth to tell, I want no wife. I come from a line of evil men. My father, my grandfather, my brothers . . . they all abuse their women and children. The fist or the whip suits them better than words, not that their words cannot flail, too.”
Drifa tried to picture a young Sidroc growing up in such a household, and her heart wept for him. Even worse, Runa, who thrived at Stoneheim, would have withered away with such harsh treatment. “You are not the same, Sidroc. Were you not the man willing to suffer marriage to me for the sake of a child?”
Sidroc turned her over on her side to look at him. “I do not think marriage to you would have been such a hardship, Drifa. You took my foolish words to Finn too personally. While I have long maintained marriage is not for me, I had an obligation to my daughter. Finn told you that. And I failed her. In the end, however, ’twas probably for the best that she died. I might have been as harsh with her as my father.”
Now would be the time for Drifa to tell him that Runa was alive. But fear . . . not of physical harm . . . but that he would take the child from her, held her back. He deserves to know. I will tell him when he returns, she vowed silently. I will convince him that I make a good mother. I will tell him how Runa thrives in a loving household. But I need time to do that. In the meantime, she said, “Sidroc, you are a beast in bed, and you make me do bad things and like them, and insult me way too often, and your teasing tongue is not amusing by half, but you are a good man.”
“That is the most half-arsed compliment I have ever heard.” He squeezed her tight against him in mock punishment.
She smiled up at him. “You would no more strike a woman or child than you would cut off a limb, of that I am convinced a hundredfold.”
He did not appear convinced. Still, he said, “I thank you for that.”
There was silence after that as she lay nestled against him, her face on his chest. His one arm held her loosely about the shoulders, the other was thrown over his head. Soon she felt his breathing slow, and he fell asleep.
For a long time she just lay against him, unmoving, contemplating this brutish man she should hate, but could not. Heartache lay ahead, of a certainty. But she could no more avoid that fate than stop time from passing. She thought of a dozen things she should do. Like slide out of the bed and escape. Like hit him over the head with another pottery jug. Like enumerate in her mind all the bad things about him. But she did none of these.
She fell asleep.
And then they heard bells . . .
The sky was already turning gray and the timekeeping candle almost burned out when Sidroc awakened Drifa with a soft kiss. “Wake up, sleeping violet. ’Tis time to leave.”
“Grmpfh,” she said against the crook of his neck.
The vixen was attached to his body like a vine. Her face against his collarbone, one arm holding on to his waist, and a leg twined around one of his thighs like an erotic rope.
There was still another hour before dawn, but she should go back to her apartments before others were about. Though why he should care about her reputation was beyond him.
She had been a total surprise to him. A pleasant surprise. He had asked things of her that were shocking, especially to a virgin, but she’d met him at every step, and challenged him, too. She would make a formidable mate, if he ever wanted one. Which he did not. This was the type of woman that could bring a man to his knees.
“Pssst! Morning glory, wake up lest your guardsman come in and see that delicious, naked arse of yours.”
Her eyes shot open. “Wh-what?”
“ ’Tis time for you to go,” he said.
She glanced around. “ ’Tis still nighttime.”
“But not for long.” He kissed the top of her head and rose, dragging on a pair of braies.
She stared up at his naked form for a long moment, forgetting that she was naked, too. When she did, she jumped up with a little squeal and began to pull on her gunna, which he’d earlier laid across the chest at the foot of his bed. While she donned her apparel, her face flamed. She kept glancing his way, no doubt recalling all they had done throughout the night. He helped her braid her wild hair, and it was oddly satisfying to him.
“Come,” he said, taking her by the hand. “Do you want something to eat or drink afore you leave?”
She shook her head.
Just before they got to the outer door, he picked up a piece of rolled fabric. “Wouldst do me a favor, sweetling?”
“What?” She was immediately suspicious, as she should be.
“When I come back, we will resume our nightly visits, but I want you to do something for me.”
“What?” she said again. This time she had her arms folded over her chest.
“Wear this on my first night back.” He handed her the fabric, though she tried to shove it away, no doubt suspecting what it was.
“Nay, I do not want it.”
“But I want you to have it.”
“Nay.”
“Yea.”
The back and forth passing of the garment caused it to unroll and make a sound. Tinkling bells.
Beware of men with rat faces . . .
A shame-faced and silent Drifa, the hood of her mantle pulled forward, walked beside Ivar back to her quarters. To her surprise, she was not the only one scurrying home through the silent corridors under cover of darkness.
She told her maid Anna that she needed no help undressing when she was back in her own bedchamber. Sidroc had marked her good and true inside, that was for sure. Gods only knew what marks he had had left on the outside of her body.
She would never be the same.
And she
could not blame him. Not entirely. She’d entered this arrangement of her own accord to protect her secret, a secret she had no right to keep. And she could not deny she had enjoyed the lovemaking, both the dark and the light side. Sidroc had revealed passions in her she was not sure she liked.
For now, though, she fell into a deep, untroubled sleep and did not waken until noon when Anna reminded her that she had an appointment with the eparch today, and that both her hersirs and guardsmen awaited her.
Despite having purchased Greek garments, she wore her traditional long-sleeved Norse garb to hide the whisker and finger and even teeth marks on various parts of her body. A tight-fitting silver torque about her neck covered a red spot the oaf had inflicted on her with a sucking kiss. The worst part was that he probably carried as many of her marks, as well.
When she opened her door, Wulf grumbled, “What in bloody hell took you so long?” Then he looked at her and his jaw dropped.
Can I crawl back into bed and cover my head for a sennight?
Ivar, in his protective mode, frowned at the Saxon and said, “M’lady was out in the sun too long yesterday and . . . and a bee stung her lips.”
The gods must be punishing me.
Jamie let out a hoot of laughter, then slammed a hand over his mouth.
Thork was not so shy about expressing himself. “Looks like someone got lucky at the tupping barrel.” Wulf clouted Thork at the side of the head with a palm but that did not stop the rascal, who continued, “Really, Princess Drifa, you should not be embarrassed. Many a Viking has done the morning-after walk of shame, not that you have anything to be ashamed of.”
Do you want to place a wager on that?
“Hah! We Scottish lads ha’ perfected the walk of shame, except ours is through the moors on the long way home,” Jamie added. “Have ye ever smelled heather on a heaving stomach?”
Huh? What do flowers have to do with . . . oh.
“I crawled through me front door one time,” Farle, one of the guardsmen, said. “Me wife made me sleep in the cow byre for a sennight.” He beamed as if he’d done something to be proud of.
Men! “I have not been drinking to excess,” she protested.
“I know.” Jamie winked at her.
“There’s more than one kind of shame,” Thork informed her. He winked, too.
I need one of those mantles that Eastern women wear, ones where only the eyes are visible. Of course my eyes probably speak of my shame, too. Drifa’s only saving grace in this whole situation was that Sidroc was absent. He would have surely added to her humiliation by showing off to one and all her love marks on him.
“Her father is going to kill me,” Wulf said to no one in particular.
“You and me both,” Ivar muttered.
“Where’s Alrek?” she asked, wanting to change the subject.
“He did not return last night,” Thork announced gleefully. “Methinks he got lucky at the tupping barrel, too.”
Jamie elbowed Thork and hissed. “Psssh, you dumb dolt. Have ye no wits in yer fool head?”
Drifa had a fair idea where Alrek had spent the night. Apparently Ianthe wasn’t as attached to Sidroc as Drifa might have thought. Sidroc had assured her of that fact. Still . . .
It was under ominously gray skies—a storm was brewing from the east—that they arrived at the Praetorian, where much of the city business was conducted under the watchful rat eye of the eparch Alexander Mylonas. Hundreds of people worked in beehive-like chambers of the huge building, many of them with scrolls, quills, and ink. The hallways buzzed with folks in a hurry to get somewhere. Occasionally there were shouts or once a scream coming from the bowels of the structure where Drifa knew a prison was located.
Once they arrived at Mylonas’s headquarters, they were made to wait in an antechamber for what seemed like a long time while aides came and went, none of them looking particularly happy. When it was finally their turn, a man in uniform of the tagmatic army informed them, “Only two of you may go in with the princess. Eparch’s orders.”
They were not happy about that order, but Ivar and Wulf went in with her while the rest of the men stood guard outside after ascertaining that it was the only entry or exit out of the eparch’s office. Still, they glowered their disapproval at everyone who passed by.
A rather chilling atmosphere of austerity filled the eparch’s chamber. Despite his being a wealthy man, there was no sign of riches or high station here. Just a table, behind which Mylonas sat with two men on either side of him scratching notes on crisp parchment. One of them, a defeated-looking man of Slavic origins, wore a slave collar.
“Princess Drifa,” the eparch greeted her. He did not rise as a sign of respect, which was telling. Then he addressed the others, “Lord Cotley. Ivar of Stoneheim.” Was it ominous that he recalled their names? “Sit,” he said, motioning to the hard chairs in front of the table.
“I welcome you once again to Constantinople, Princess Drifa. You have only been in the city a few days, but I wonder . . . have you given thought to declaring goods to be sold here?” There was intelligence and craftiness in his expression. His two front teeth protruded slightly, enhancing his rodent appearance. This man was not and never would be a friend.
“I have no goods to sell,” she said. “I have come to study the gardens of your fair city. I am here purely for my own pleasure.”
At the word pleasure, his head shot up and he gave her a studied, insulting scrutiny, mostly centering on her bruised mouth, as if he knew what she had been about the previous night. Surely he could not know. Could he?
“Those were fine gifts you gave the emperor and empress. Are you sure you do not bring into my country items for sale or barter? The penalty for smuggling undeclared goods into Byzantium is high.”
“I have already said that I do not. Is it against your Greek law to give gifts?”
Mylonas narrowed his eyes at her sharp retort. “Of course not. But already you have established contact with one of our craftsmen, rather craftswoman. The jewelry maker. I hope you do not intend to supply her with stones?”
“I have no intention of doing such. If I ever did, I would declare myself, as your law prescribes.”
“Tell me, Princess Drifa, do you intend to contact your Arab family while here?”
That question came out of nowhere and took Drifa totally by surprise. “What? Why would I do that? How would I do that? I know of no Arab family.”
“Your mother . . . ?” he prodded.
“My mother was a slave afore she wed my father. She died when I was born. As far as I’m concerned, I am Norse and always will be.”
Mylonas shrugged.
“What is this about?” Wulf demanded. “Is Princess Drifa accused of some crime?”
“Did I say that?” Mylonas made a ridiculous-looking moue of innocence, which caused his teeth to stick out even more over his pursed lips. “If you must know, Princess Drifa came to the attention of some Arab dignitaries at the feast two nights ago.”
“Arabs were invited to a Greek feast?” Ivar asked incredulously. Everyone knew of the ongoing battles between the Christian and Moslem nations.
“While we are at war with most of the infidels, who have declared a jihad against all Byzantines, there are some who are friendly,” the eparch revealed. “Those who are not number far greater, of course, and they include your possible blood relatives.”
Drifa and her companions reeled with shock.
“What are you inferring?” Wulf wanted to know.
“I infer nothing. There are three great caliphates of the Moslem world at the present time, one of which is the Abbasid, whose capital is in Baghdad. I merely ask if Princess Drifa could possibly be the granddaughter of the most celebrated of the Hamdanid emirs, Saif ad-Dawlah, best known as Sword of the State, before his death. His daughter was abducted many years ago in Egypt. ’Twould seem there is a resemblance.”
“Even if there was this connection, what does it matter?” Wulf was clearly annoye
d by the eparch’s veiled threats.
“Saif ad-Dawlah’s family still has many supporters. They, along with his enemies, could use her for their own ill purposes.”
Drifa assumed that Mylonas was among those who might use her. Her already low opinion of the man sank lower.
“My mother’s name was Tahirah. I have no idea if that was her birth name or not. My father purchased her at the slave marts in Hedeby. He brought her home as a concubine, then married her. That is all I know.”
“And you have no intention of traveling to the Arab lands whilst here, mayhap to establish relations between the Norselands and our desert enemies?”
“Good gods, nay!” Drifa wanted nothing to do with politics or centuries-old feuds.
“You make many accusations. Dost have any proof of this?” Ivar demanded to know.
Mylonas put up a halting hand. “I make no accusations. Sorry I am if I have offended you with my questions.” The rat wasn’t sorry at all. He was fooling no one.
“Does the emperor know you are interrogating one of his honored guests in this manner?” Wulf added.
“Forgive me if I have shown disrespect, Princess Drifa. It is my job to ensure the safety and financial well-being of the city. Ofttimes threats come from the high, as well as the low born.”
Did he place her in the high or low born class? It mattered not. “I am no threat,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Let us hope so. Have a pleasant visit here in Constantinople.” He waved a hand in the air. They were obviously dismissed.
“Well, that was interesting,” she said after they’d left. “What do you suppose was the purpose?”
“Intimidation,” Wulf declared, and updated the others on what had happened behind the closed door.
“Would you want to meet your Arab family?” Thork wanted to know.
“It never occurred to me that might be possible, but, now that it’s been suggested, I don’t think so. I have thought of myself as Norse for too many years.”