The Norse King's Daughter

by Sandra Hill

  “Bloody damn Greeks!”

  “Bloody damn camels!”

  “Bloody damn heat!”

  “Blood damn flies!”

  Sidroc was so bloody damn mad he could bloody damn spit. Which he did because, of course, there was sand in his mouth. In fact, there was sand in every opening and crevice in his body. He no doubt had sand in his piss; he would have to check next time he relieved himself.

  When he arrived in Miklagard a sennight ago, having arrived back in the city in record time, he discovered that Drifa had been kidnapped by some Arabs believed to be members of her mother’s family. Mylonas had alluded to it in her meeting with him, according to Ivar.

  “What are you complaining about now?” Ianthe asked with irksome cheerfulness from her camel, which walked with irksome slowness beside his own irksome camel.

  Her camel was a pleasant beast. His, on the other hand, had bitten him twice, attracted every flying bug in the desert, and broke wind repeatedly, usually when there was a back wind. He’d named his camel after the Christian religion’s Lucifer, equivalent to the Norse god Loki, whose name he hadn’t wanted to use for fear of further angering the Norse gods.

  “He is always complaining, Ianthe,” Finn said from his other side. To no one’s surprise, Finn had found the most beautiful camel, with long silky fur. A female, no doubt, who batted its long camel eyelashes at him every chance it got. “Truly, if he keeps frowning like that, his face may freeze into furrows so deep Drifa will be able to plant roses in them.”

  “We must be indulgent,” Ianthe told Finn. “Sidroc is grouchy because he is so worried about his ladylove.”

  He choked on a mouthful of sand.

  Ladylove? Finn mouthed silently to him.

  “Drifa is not my lady, nor is she my love,” he insisted hotly. “Get that idea out of your fool heads right now.”

  “Whatever you say,” Ianthe said, clearly thinking otherwise.

  In truth, Sidroc wouldn’t let himself question why he was so concerned over Drifa’s welfare that he’d appointed himself her savior, and that was the bone of his increasing self-induced irritation.

  So what if she had gotten herself into trouble? So what if she was injured or being assaulted? So what if he never saw her again? He could not care less.

  Which was a total lie.

  He cared.

  Too much.

  “Why don’t you two drop back and entertain the rest of the ‘troop’?” he suggested.

  That was another thing that made him bloody damn mad. Once he and Finn had reported to the emperor what they’d discovered at the border lord’s estates, and once Sidroc had spoken his mind to Mylonas over what he suspected was the eparch’s involvement in the plot against the Norse princess, and once he had made plans to rescue her—though why that was his responsibility he could not understand—he was faced with a mob of people wanting to come with him. The mob being Finn, Drifa’s four bodyguards, who were nigh prostrate with guilt at losing her, and Ianthe, who claimed to now be Drifa’s best friend. If Drifa hadn’t come to visit her, it never would have happened, in Ianthe’s remorse-ridden mind. It was all Ianthe’s fault. No, it was everyone’s fault, they each proclaimed. Except Finn, who came along to enjoy the debacle. Nay, that was unfair, Finn was a good friend, and a soldier always wanted a comrade with weapon-skill at his back.

  In any case, the bunch hadn’t ever asked if they could tag along. They’d insisted. And when he’d repeatedly refused, they’d said they would follow after him anyhow.

  He was particularly intrigued by Ianthe’s comment that Drifa would need female companionship when he uncovered her secret. And then the infuriating woman had sealed her lips, refusing to say more. ’Twas galling to think the princess witch had a secret, which apparently involved him, which she shared with a person who was almost a stranger, but not with him.

  “Will I be angry when this secret is revealed?” he’d asked. Surely Ianthe could tell him that at least.

  Ianthe had shrugged.

  Gods, I am coming to hate shrugs.

  “Happy and angry at the same time. I am hoping happiness will overwhelm anger.”

  What a load of feminine ill-logic!

  They camped that night around a fire at an oasis, which meant a puddle of water with one single palm tree and about a million hectares of sand. Oh joy! Hopefully they would arrive on the morrow at the desert tent city Mylonas had reluctantly mentioned to him, under pressure from the emperor.

  “What is your plan?” asked Ivar, who was dipping a hunk of paximadi into his cup of ale. Paximadi was the hard bread the Greek military carried on all their missions. It lasted forever because it was hard as a rock.

  He was saving his to feed to Lucifer at the end of this mission in hopes the devil would choke to death. His luck, the beast would turn the bread into vomit and spew it at his face.

  “Are you listening, Guntersson? What is your plan?”

  What plan? “First, we must discover where Drifa is being held.” That sounds like a plan, doesn’t it? “It makes no sense for us to go storming into an enemy encampment, and that is how we must view this Arab tent city. Believe me, they will not welcome us.” You would think I had actually thought this out, instead of barreling ahead on the steam of my emotions. Emotions? Me?

  “I can go in, dressed in Arab garb,” said Gismun, one of Drifa’s guardsmen. “My dark hair and complexion look least like a Norseman of us all.”

  “It could be dangerous,” Sidroc warned.

  Gismun’s chin shot upward. “I am a Viking.”

  That said it all.

  Sidroc nodded. “Once we locate Drifa, we must attempt to remove her with stealth. Our numbers do not warrant an all-out attack.”

  “I know where Drifa is,” Ianthe said with certainty. “She is in a harem.”

  Everyone turned slowly to stare at Ianthe.

  “Mylonas inferred to us in our meeting with him that Drifa had an Arab cousin who might wish to marry her for purposes of an alliance,” Sidroc mused aloud.

  Ianthe waved a hand dismissively. “Does not matter. That is where she would stay. At least at first.”

  “How would you know that?” Sidroc asked.

  “One of my shop assistants had a cousin who had been kidnapped by a tribe of Arab nomads at one time and ransomed for coin. She told us many stories.”

  “And?” Sidroc prodded. Why had Ianthe waited until now to tell them this? Did she not realize that every bit of information was necessary for this mission to succeed?

  “Even if the ad-Dawlah cousin plans to marry Drifa, she would first go to the harem where she would be prepared for marriage,” Ianthe explained. “That could take days or even weeks.”

  Sidroc did not dare ask how she would be “prepared.” He had enough to worry about without that bound-to-be-alarming enlightenment. And in the back of his mind he had a picture of Drifa wearing the revealing harem garment he’d bought for her. For no logical reason, he did not want anyone else seeing her in that manner.

  Drifa’s fourth guardsman, a mostly quiet, mid-aged man named Ulf, said, “As long as the princess is a virgin, she has naught to worry about. They will treat her with respect and gentle care.”

  Ivar exchanged an accusing, horrified look with Sidroc.

  Through a tight throat, Sidroc asked, “What happens to those women who are not virgins?”

  “They do not marry them, that is for sure,” Ulf said. “They are either cast into a harem for life as a concubine, or they are sold on the slave market.”

  Finn tilted his head and gazed at him with questioning eyes that asked, loud and clear, You didn’t, did you?

  Oh, that was wonderful. Now Sidroc joined those who were weighted down with guilt.

  “Once Gismun steals into the tent city and discovers Drifa’s whereabouts, I think I should slip into the harem tent, assuming that is where Drifa is located. With veils and such, and the protection of the Blessed Virgin, to whom I have been praying, I will
not be recognized.” This from Ianthe, of course. “We must warn Drifa to be ready to escape on a moment’s notice.”

  “I have an idea,” Finn said. “This particular ad-Dawlah is a noted horse breeder. I could locate where his herd of horses is being held and release them. That should create a furor calling all the men to help round them up, distracting attention away from the harem tent.”

  “That sounds like a good plan, depending on what information Gismun brings back to us,” Sidroc said.

  Everyone began talking at once then as they discussed the various paths this rescue might follow. ’Twas impossible to hear oneself think until Finn clapped his hands for attention.

  “Just one question,” Finn said, a forefinger upraised. “Can I bring one of the harem girls back with me?”

  They all laughed, assuming he was making a jest.

  Sidroc hoped he was jesting.

  In any case, a bit of humor was like sauce on a bad piece of meat. They needed to laugh, or else they would weep at the bad situation they were in.

  What was it about men and virgins?

  The first day, Queen Latifah stuck her grubby fingers up into Drifa’s female parts and announced with glee, “Not a virgin!”

  Drifa didn’t know what outraged her more, that two males witnessed her humiliation, albeit eunuchs ordered to hold her down on the bed, or that the prince who proposed to marry her would allow his mother to go at her with such rough handling. The only thing that could be worse was if Bahir had stood there himself as witness.

  Even so, Bahir was furious when he entered the harem tent, which was actually a series of interconnecting tents, containing everything from soft pallets for sleeping, to bathing chambers, to salons. A number of the concubines, some as young as thirteen, scurried out of the way of their storming master, no doubt having suffered from his fury in the past.

  Stalking right up to her where she sat on the edge of the bed, her gown thankfully tugged back down, he yanked her to her feet by a pincer hold on her upper arms, then backhanded her so hard she fell back down. His ring had cut into her face and she felt the blood gather and leak down to her chin.

  “You lying bitch!” he yelled in Greek.

  “I never said I was a virgin. Mayhap you should have thought of that afore having me taken.” Sometimes Drifa did not know enough to keep her thoughts to herself.

  “You dare to talk back to me?” he spat out and pulled her back up by her hair so that she stood so close to him she felt his spittle on her face. She had to turn her face to accommodate him or lose a hunk of hair. Even then, he slapped her other cheek. She would be black and blue afore morn. “You will pay, whore. You will pay.” He shoved her back down.

  “You can always send me back,” she suggested. You better, because I swear I will put a dagger through your slimy heart eventually. A pitcher over the head would not be good enough for the likes of you.

  “Never! You were brought here for a purpose and that purpose still exists.”

  “And that is?”

  “The Moslem tribes must unite to fight the Greeks. We have been splintered apart of late, since the defeat of our beloved Saif ad-Dawlah a decade ago. Our marriage will accomplish that. An added bonus will be your Norsemen joining our battles.”

  “Do you think my father would align himself with you, even if I bore your child, if all I am is a prisoner in your harem?”

  “Prisoner? My concubines are not prisoners. They are here willingly.”

  She arched her brows in doubt.

  Which further infuriated him.

  At this point, she did not care. She was furious, too.

  “Who says there will be no marriage?” he asked with an evil expression on his face. “We will wait until you get your bloody flux, or not. If you are not with child, I will wed you, and may Allah protect you from my rage, for I will not. If you are breeding, nothing will protect you from my wrath.”

  Drifa should have been scared, but in fact she was jubilant. She was not pregnant, having evidence of that soon after Sidroc left the city. It would be at least two sennights until her next monthly flow. Time, that was what Bahir’s decision gave her. Time for Sidroc to come rescue her.

  Please, gods, let Sidroc care enough to come after me.

  But does she have to belly dance? . . .

  Two days later, Sidroc was preparing to send Ianthe into the tent city to become a harem houri.

  She was dressed in a black robe with a hood and veil that covered everything except her hands and eyes that were heavily kohled. She was taking the place of a young Slavic woman they’d intercepted on the way to the privy tent. The woman, named Marizke, praised God for her rescue after five long years in the harem.

  Gismun had reported back to them last night after one full day in the tent city, pretending to be a horse trader from one of the distant Arab tribes. He was offering a fine stallion for sale, one that Sidroc had actually been given by the emperor some time ago.

  Gismun was able to tell them where the harem tents were located, and, to everyone’s distress, he said that he’d seen Drifa in passing. And she had fingermark bruises on both sides of her face.

  When asked, Marizke told them that the prince was in a rage over Drifa’s lack of virginity, although no one was supposed to know about it except him and his mother, the evil queen. Apparently the queen mother had taken a dislike to Drifa, mocking her Norse background in front of one and all, and jabbing her with a cane every chance she got. Further evidence of the woman’s cruelty, she forced Drifa to sleep with her pet panther. Did not matter that the panther was harmless, Drifa had to be terrified.

  Sidroc swore he would kill Bahir and his mother, once everyone was safely away from the tent city.

  “You must be discreet. Never speak unless spoken to, and then only in one word, if possible,” Sidroc advised Ianthe.

  “Get Drifa alone as soon as possible and inform her of our plans.

  “Neither of you should do anything to draw attention to yourselves.”

  “Sidroc! We have gone over these instructions already. You do not have to remind me.”

  He wasn’t so sure about that. He was just so worried, leaving the fate of their plans in the hands of these two women. He should be more trusting, he supposed, but he knew how unpredictable Drifa could be. And Ianthe was growing more like her by the day. Finn, he trusted implicitly, but anything could go wrong in a situation like this.

  “Pray,” Ianthe advised them all when dusk finally came. “Drifa and I will expect you after everyone has gone to sleep.”

  He nodded, then pulled Ianthe aside. “Tell Drifa—” He stopped to clear his throat. “Tell her that I promise to return her to her little girling.” But then he realized when he saw the stunned expression on Ianthe’s face, how lackwitted that sounded, and added, “Tell her we have unfinished business.”

  A woman is expected to do what? Eeew! . . .

  Drifa was sitting cross-legged on the carpet along with the other harem “prisoners,” which was how she chose to regard the concubines. They were getting yet another lecture from the Imad, the head eunuch, on “How to Please the Master.”

  “Eeeew!” murmured Marizke, the Slavic thrall-concubine, who folded herself down beside Drifa after returning from the privy.

  “He is still discussing ‘licking the tree,’ ” Drifa whispered to Marizke, who had her head bowed slightly as if listening intently to Imad. “I am a gardener, but I have ne’er licked any tree. Who wants to swallow . . . bark?”

  Marizke put a hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. “Or sap?”

  Drifa’s head shot to the right. “Ianthe?”

  Ianthe put a fingertip to her lips.

  “How? When? Thank the gods!”

  “Princess Drifa, since you are in such a talkative mood, would you like to come forward and demonstrate for us,” Imad requested in a voice that was not a request, but an order.

  Imad spoke in Arabic, but another young eunuch, Habib, translated everything
he said into several other tongues represented in the harem: Greek, Italian, even Saxon English.

  “Uh, my apologies. I just wanted to make sure Marizke’s stomach ailment is better.”

  Habib translated for her.

  Imad arched his brows with suspicion, but just then the stomach growled in the heavy concubine sitting in front of them, and everyone laughed, thinking it was Marizke.

  “Isobel, then,” Imad said, smiling at the woman in front, a favorite of Bahir’s from the Saxon lands. They soon found out why. “Isobel will demonstrate the correct way to ‘Milk the Tree.’ ”

  Isobel stepped forward and took from Imad’s hands a long marble phallus, similar to the ones Drifa had seen in the Miklagard marketplace.

  Several of the women giggled.

  Imad cast them frowns, and they immediately stopped, knowing the head eunuch had methods of punishment that did not show, like whipping the bottoms of their feet or making them wear a small metal rod inside the body for an entire day. One young woman even had a rod put up her backside, a particularly painful punishment for daring to defy the queen mother, who’d ordered her to disrobe and sit on the lap of a visiting horse breeder the prince wanted to impress.

  Drifa had been here only a week, but she knew the best course was to make oneself as inconspicuous as possible. Even then, it was only her high status as a Norse princess, and possible sixth wife, that saved her from some agonizing or humiliating chastisement.

  Everything the harem concubines did was intended for the master’s benefit. The way they dressed (scantily when in his private quarters) or ate (root vegetables presumably making them lustsome, though carrots never made Drifa think of sex) or cared for their bodies (shaved nether parts being a preference), even the thoughts in their heads (nothing of substance), were intended to please this one man only.

  But wait, Isobel was doing something amazing with the marble phallus. She was kneeling with her head bent back so that her neck was arched. Little by little, she eased the entire bloody manpart all the way in. Then out. Then in.

  “It is all in the art of relaxing the throat muscles,” Imad told them. “Let the master touch your hearts.”