by Sandra Hill
And care is all he ever offered me. She wanted to argue that everybody was capable of loving, but now was not the time. Arguments erupted between them with the least spark. The only fire she wanted to ignite at the moment was the bedplay kind. Love fires.
“As for Runa, I have an obligation. She is my daughter. I am honor bound to care for her. Mayhap in time I will grow to love her, but if not, I can at least ensure she will be safe and well cared for.”
Cringing at the prospect of Runa in a loveless household, Drifa blinked back tears. Despite her wish to avoid a battle, she had to state her opinion on that prospect he laid out. “The future you plan would be as cold as your own upbringing, without the physical pain. Do you not see that coldness can be a cruelty, too?”
He gasped at her words and began to shrug out of her embrace. To stand and walk away, she suspected.
She would not release him, clinging tightly to his shoulders. “Nay, do not go, Sidroc. I meant no offense. Truly I did not.”
“You rail at me for shortcomings I cannot help, Drifa. Because I do not gush soft words and proclaim undying love does not mean I have no heart. I am not in the same mold as my beastly father.”
“I never insinuated such. Never!”
“Then let us drop the subject. We have only a few hours left, alone. Let us make the best of this precious privacy.”
They made love then, and it was tender and poignant, probably because it would be their last time together. At least until Miklagard. Mayhap forever.
So Drifa showed him with kisses and caresses and sighs of pleasure how much she cared. She never said the words I love you. Not out loud. But every whispered caress held that hidden message.
If he understood, he never said. But he made sweet love to her, which she chose to interpret as a sign of his unconscious feelings for her. If that made her a fool, so be it.
Once they were together in Miklagard, she would tell him of her love and suggest they stay together, if not for their sake, then for Runa’s.
They had plenty of time.
Chapter Twenty-four
Could he perchance be colorblind? . . .
Sidroc felt like one of those timekeeping candles. His time was wearing out.
They were an hour outside the land gate into Miklagard when Ivar connected with them. He sat atop a horse in a stand of olive trees off to the left side of the road. At a jerk of his head, Sidroc and Drifa followed him farther into the grove, where they dismounted.
Drifa launched herself at Ivar with a hug about his middle, which Sidroc could tell disconcerted the older man, whether from being unused to such contact or from the princess/servant separation, he could not tell. In any case, Ivar hugged her back after his initial shock, then set her away from himself and nodded to Sidroc.
They soon learned that neither of the other two groups had returned to the city yet, and that was a concern. Of more concern, though, was Ivar’s news about the happenings within the city.
“There are guards and spies all about Ianthe’s shop and living quarters,” Ivar informed them. “Whether they are from Mylonas, the Arabs, or someone else, I do not know. But they are there, and in the palace, too, of course.”
“I do not understand. I am no one of importance. Why would these people go to so much trouble?” Drifa’s brow furrowed with puzzlement.
“Actually, you are of much importance, dearling,” Sidroc said, and noted Ivar’s raised brows at the endearment. “Not you yourself, but what you represent as a tool of war.”
She still frowned with confusion.
“They would use you for leverage, Princess Drifa,” Ivar explained. “You would be of value to the Greeks in their war against the Moslems. You would be of value to the Arabs in uniting the tribes. And others have their own greedy uses for a woman of your stature.”
“What a mess!” she said. “What should I do?”
“I have removed all your belongings from the palace, and I managed to get into Ianthe’s home by the secret door Sidroc told me about to gather any items you left behind,” Ivar told her.
Secret door? Drifa mouthed at him. Then she turned back to Ivar. “Where are my things?”
“I stored them on Wind Maiden. I figured that is the safest place until we decide what to do next.”
She nodded hesitantly.
Sidroc and Ivar exchanged meaningful glances, and Sidroc understood that the longship was ready to sail on a moment’s notice. The only thing remaining was to convince Drifa to fall in with their plans.
“Let us go to your longship where we can discuss the situation in more detail,” Sidroc suggested.
“I would feel better if Ianthe and Isobel and the others were here, too,” she said.
They all would, but for the moment Drifa’s safety was paramount. And there was more.
He’d avoided for days now talk of the future. Their future. And that of his daughter.
In truth, he did not have any answers. Mayhap he would not know what to do until he’d met his daughter face-to-face. Mayhap even then he would be confused.
He had reached a turning point in his life once again, just as he had on his daughter’s birth. Which path he took was so important he could not act hastily.
Would he make a good father? Without love?
Would he make a good husband? Without love?
Drifa seemed to think not.
He was a soldier, a commander, who made decisions daily. There was black and there was white. No wavering.
Why then did his life feel so gray?
But how do I live without you? . . .
Drifa was in the hold of her longship, checking over her belongings, making sure Ivar had gathered everything, when she heard a clunking noise. The vessel appeared to be pulling anchor. An accident?
She moved toward the ladder, and it was not there.
“What in bloody hell is going on?” she yelled up.
Sidroc peered over the edge. “You are going home, princess.”
“What? Nay! I am not ready yet.”
“Sorry I am to inform you, but the decision is out of your hands, sweetling.”
“Do not ‘sweetling’ me, you louse. Drop the ladder so I can climb up.”
“Only when you are well away from Byzantium.”
A heartening thought occurred to her. “You are coming to Stoneheim with me?”
He shook his head. “I will be jumping to shore any moment now, before the holding ropes are released.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I must ensure your safety. Only then can I take care of the villains in this case. The emperor needs to be informed of snakes in his midst. And Ianthe has to be protected afore I can leave.”
“I am not your responsibility.”
“I beg to differ.”
“I do not want to be your responsibility then.”
He shrugged.
“Where is Ivar, the traitor? He obeys me, not you.”
“Not this time.”
“But I am not done with my plant studies. And the imperial gardener is supposed to give me saplings from various trees to try in the Norselands. And unique rosebushes. And trellises for training ivy.”
At his stubborn demeanor, she went on, “And we have to wait for the other guardsmen. And Isobel . . . I promised Isobel to help her get home.”
“They will come with me later. And I will bring the bloody damn bushes.”
“You will come to Stoneheim?”
“Of course I will. Eventually.”
She wanted to ask if he was coming for her or to take Runa, but she was too cowardly. It was a question she had put off for too long, and now her time had run out.
“I will ne’er forgive you for this.”
“Just add it to my other sins, then.”
“Have these last few days meant naught to you?”
“They have meant everything, Drifa. You must know that.”
“I know nothing,” she wailed.
There were shouts
up above, and Sidroc told her, “I must go now.”
“Not yet, not yet,” she begged.
“Be safe, princess, and . . . and tell my daughter I am coming.”
“And if you don’t come, if something happens to you to prevent your return . . .” Oh gods! What if he should die afore I can tell him how I truly feel? Not that I am certain how I feel. Oh gods! “You face danger all the time, what if you should die, what then should I tell Runa?”
Pausing to clear his throat, he choked out, “Tell her I cared.”
He walked away then, leaving her stunned. Words for his daughter, but none for me?
But then his face popped back into the space. “One more thing, heartling,” he said in an oddly raw voice, “I am not as cold as you think I am.”
Dithering: the bane of a busy Viking’s life! . . .
With one bothersome thing and another, it took Sidroc more than a month to be ready to leave Miklagard. Most of it due to the boring, dithering, nonsensical requirements of an imperial court and imposing women.
The other two groups arrived safely back in the Golden City soon after Drifa’s departure, and all of them were being housed at Ianthe’s, despite the cramped quarters. It seemed easier to protect everyone in that confined space. He and Finn stayed in their Varangian rooms at the palace, though ever watchful for sabotage.
Then he ended up in Mylonas’s prison after confronting the bastard over his treatment of Drifa. To his immense satisfaction, he’d broken the rat’s nose afore two of his guards dragged him off. He would have been doing the world a favor if he’d managed to kill the miscreant, and he’d later told the emperor just that.
Of course, he would be limping for the next century or so over the thigh wound he suffered, at his own hands, for the love of Frigg! He’d swung his battle-axe high in the air in Mylonas’s office, hoping to lop off his loathsome head, but instead the evil toad ducked, and the sword struck deep into the wood of the eparch’s worktable. When he’d yanked back, the blade flew off the handle and into his leg. Everyone thought he was wounded by Mylonas. He let them think so. Of course, if his axe had cleaved the rat’s head between his beady eyes, Sidroc would probably be decorating a pike somewhere by now, food for the carrions.
The emperor eventually ordered his release from the dank cell, and the royal physician tended his injury, but only after letting him stew for two days. The emperor was furious with both him and Mylonas . . . with his eparch for his dastardly deeds and with Sidroc for failing to come to him for aid, right off. The emperor was particularly offended that Sidroc thought he might have been involved in the plot.
Even so, the emperor walked a fine line between appeasing his valued eparch and the safety of the empire on one side, and offending all the Norsemen in his Varangian Guard on the other side. It would be disastrous for the empire if the Norsemen pulled out of his elite forces, and they just might if they felt one of their own had been targeted.
Most surprising of all, it turned out that the new empress was not the quiet mouse they had all thought her to be. She had berated one and all for their treatment of a royal guest, meaning Princess Drifa, not him, and as a result, she was the one who made sure Sidroc’s longship carried all the plants Drifa had requested. And then some!
And that was another thing. Drifa had never even hinted that there would be so much! Saplings, she had said, not full-blown trees, in some cases. And who knew there were so many different, thorny, bloodletting rosebushes in all the world? He scarce had room for supplies in his hold with all her dirty plants.
And who was going to water them and make sure they did not die at sea on the long journey back to the Norselands? Me, no doubt. Everyone else was just laughing too hard.
He arrived at Ianthe’s now for his final farewells to find yet another reason for delay.
“I have decided to go with you,” Ianthe declared.
What? He could see that her entire living quarter had been nigh gutted. Carpets rolled up. Furniture stacked as if for carrying out. Trunks—many trunks—piled high with furnishings, and clothing, and jewelry-making tools and supplies.
He recalled having asked Ianthe—what seemed ages ago, but must have only been a few months—if she would like to leave Miklagard with him, to settle in a new land. But things were different now. Bloody hell, did she think his offer to take her with him as his ongoing mistress still held?
What would Drifa think about that? He, Ianthe, and his daughter? Hah! Drifa would stab him with a kitchen knife in his other leg, or another body part.
“Uh,” he said.
Ianthe gazed at him, waiting for his answer. Then she swatted him on the chest with the palm of her hand. “You idiot! I did not mean that.”
“Oh?” He was developing a talent for one-word lackwit responses.
“I no longer feel safe in this country, despite everything the emperor has promised. For all we know, he could be murdered in his sleep, like some before him.”
“Shhh!” One did not even whisper such thoughts for fear of being overheard.
“Drifa once mentioned to me a lovely section of Jorvik, in Northumbria.”
“I know where Jorvik is,” he grumbled.
“She said craftsmen and traders have their own homes and shops and stalls right in the Coppergate section. Methinks I could be happy there.”
His fuzzy and, yea, relieved brain registered only one fact. “You want to go to the Saxon land. But I am headed for Stoneheim, not Northumbria.”
“Are there not ships there that go to the market towns?”
He nodded hesitantly.
“Besides, Isobel wants to go back to her homeland. We can travel together.”
He groaned. Another passenger. “Ianthe, with all of Drifa’s trees and plants, and her three guardsmen, where would I fit all this?” He waved to the mountain of items piled about the room.
“That is the best part. I have bought another longship for you with the funds I raised selling this building.”
“You. Bought. Me. A. Longship?”
“Yes, isn’t that wonderful?” She beamed at him, as if another longship was the best gift in the world.
But all he could think was More delays!
“You are not to worry about a thing. Finn is helping me. A crew has already been hired.”
Not for the first time in these past two sennights had he considered killing his good friend. Finn was moping about like a lovesick bull. Apparently Isobel wanted naught to do with him, and this was a new happenstance for the man far-famed for his woman-luck. Sidroc wasn’t sure if Finn was more upset by his unrequited love or his damaged reputation. Ianthe told him that the Saxon woman had suffered much abuse at the hands of men in the ten years she’d been in captivity, and she probably had no interest in any male, not just Finn.
So it was that four and a half sennights after Drifa left Byzantium, Sidroc left the Golden City shores, for good. Hopefully he would be at Stoneheim within another two sennights.
But he hadn’t anticipated an underwater volcano erupting just outside Byzantium, causing them to have to reroute their journey, causing further delays.
Nor had he anticipated pirates.
Or a mutiny on one of the ships over rosebushes.
Or a fight among two of Drifa’s guardsmen over a missing harem girl garment.
Or Ianthe and Isobel’s need for constant stops to piss and bathe.
Or his heart-hammering fear of what he would do when he arrived at Stoneheim, because gods only knew what that would be. He didn’t.
Was there anything worse than a confused, impatient Viking?
Chapter Twenty-five
Absence just makes the heart grow asunder . . .
Drifa had been up out of her day-long entrapment in the hold of the longship for two sennights now, but still she was hurt, and more than that, she was blood-churning angry. The troll! The toad! The slimy, dirt-crawling, lying, traitorous, loathsome snake.
Despite all that, she loved Sidroc.
>
And he’d sent her off like so much bothersome baggage.
Oh, she knew that he nursed a modicum of concern for her well-being, but he would no doubt feel the same for any woman. Like Ianthe. Or his dead wife. Or any passing fancy.
So he “cared” for her. She did not want his caring. She wanted his loving.
So much for that!
When would she learn? He’d nigh broken her heart five years ago. And he’d done it again now. And, gods help her, he would do it again when he came for Runa.
She would not think of that now. Wind Maiden was skimming down the fjord toward Stoneheim, and she could see a small crowd awaiting their unexpected return. The tall man with the flowing white hair would be her father, and the little mite jumping up and down was sweet Runa.
After many hugs and kisses, Drifa was walking up to the keep with her father on one side, filling him in on all that happened, with Runa on her other side, singing a little song she’d made up which was composed of one word, “Present, pre-sent, preeee-seeent,” and all its variations. Drifa had made the mistake of telling Runa that she brought presents for her.
Many sennights later Drifa sat with her father; Ivar, whom she was still angry with; and her sister Vana on benches in the great hall before a cold hearth, it being a warm autumn day. Runa was outside playing her marble game with some of the other children on the hard dirt of the back courtyard.
“I still say that the Arab bastard should not go unpunished. I should put together a hird of two hundred or so of my best warriors and go after that ad-Dawlah nithing,” her father said, not for the first time since she’d come home and told them of her captivity.
The possibility of her father going off to war at his age, and engaging the enemy in a remote territory, was foolish and unacceptable to Drifa. She shivered at the image of him atop a camel leading his troops.
“Nay, Father!” she and Vana said at the same time.
Even Ivar, who had served King Thorvald well for many years, shook his head. “ ’Tis too far away, and there are too many of them.”