by Sandra Hill
Drifa reached over and put a hand on her father’s big one. “Bahir ad-Dawlah is a vile man, and he should face the raven, no question about that, but I am alive and was not physically harmed. What I hate most is that my trip to Byzantium was cut so short.”
“There will be other trips,” her father assured her, but Drifa knew it to be untrue. She would be nigh a prisoner here at Stoneheim from now on.
“Besides that, ad-Dawlah and his men are not the only guilty ones,” Ivar pointed out.
The king let loose a long string of expletives, then snarled out, “And you can be sure that I will let the emperor and all his Greek underlings know that I am unhappy with how his court failed to protect my daughter. The Byzantines rely on an ongoing supply of Norsemen for their Varangian Guard. If I let it be known that a princess of the Norselands was so abused, believe you me, he will have to look elsewhere for replacements.”
She started to say, “Now, Father—”
But he cut her off. “Another thing, daughter, do not think I am so feeble that I am ready for a straw death yet. Bahir the Bastard will die, and soon. It does not take an entire hird to accomplish that goal. And the blood eagle he will suffer, too.”
Which meant that he was sending soldiers to do the job for him, probably in the disguise of traders. She couldn’t argue with that.
But enough for now! Her father’s color was getting high. She and Vana exchanged glances, both agreeing it was time to change the subject.
“It has been two months, sister. Dost think Sidroc will still come?” Vana asked.
That wasn’t quite the change of subject she wanted, but Drifa nodded. “Unless something has happened to him, he will come for Runa.” She had already told Runa of her father, and the girling was anxious to meet him, although Drifa wasn’t sure she really understood what having a father would mean to her. Just another person to do her bidding, Drifa supposed. “Will he bring presents?” was Runa’s biggest concern.
“Does Sidroc not come for you, too?” Vana interrupted Drifa’s musing.
Vana had trouble believing any man would disdain Drifa’s favor. A biased sister’s view.
“He said naught of that when last I saw him.”
“How could he say aught when you were screaming at him?” Ivar offered.
“Where do your loyalties lay, Ivar?” she snapped.
“You wound me with your words,” Ivar said. “Have I ever been disloyal to you?”
She ducked her head. “Mayhap not.”
“Besides, you misread Sidroc. Methinks he cares for you.”
“Care, care, care!” She threw her hands in the air. “Who wants ‘care’?”
Everyone stared at her as if she’d gone barmy.
“Do you want the man, Drifa? I will get him for you, if he is your choice for husband.” Her father patted her arm with comfort.
“Don’t you dare! I will not have a man forced to marry me.”
“You would let your pride stand in the way of keeping your daughter?” Vana posed the question softly, but it stung nonetheless.
“You above all others know what it’s like to be wed without love,” Drifa pointed out. Vana’s first husband had been a cruel man. No love there, but a far cry from Sidroc, and their situation. Drifa immediately wished she hadn’t made the comparison.
“You could always go with Sidroc as his mistress to stay close to the child,” Ivar suggested.
“What?” she exclaimed with affront.
“What?” Ivar repeated back at her. “His bed furs were not objectionable to you in the past.”
A silence pervaded the group as Ivar’s words sank in.
Belatedly realizing what his loose tongue had revealed, Ivar groaned.
She cringed.
And her father did the least expected thing. He smiled. “That settles it. If the man has taken your maidenhead, he will wed you, or face the flavor of my wrath.”
“Father! I am twenty and nine years old, soon to be thirty. What matters if my maidenhead is lost from carnal use, or lost by withering away from lack of use.”
Vana giggled behind her hand.
“Be that as it may, I will have words with the rogue, you can be sure of that. What say you to Evergreen as a dower for you, dearling? ’Tis a small estate I own south of here. Still in the Norselands, but somewhat warmer in climate. Your flowers would grow better there.”
“And you could get some of that camel shit out of the stable,” Vana, the traitor, added. “It smells worse than horse manure.”
As if no one else had spoken, the king went on, “I have promised Stoneheim to Rafn and Vana, as you know, Drifa, and a steading cannot have two jarls without enmity.”
Who said anything about two jarls, or that there would be a wedding? My father’s head is thicker than a berserker’s shield, despite his having been drilled.
And still her father went on, “That way, you and Sidroc would have your own home at Evergreen.”
Drifa put her face in her hands.
“You could give Sidroc more children, preferably sons. You are not breeding now, are you? Do not scowl at me so. I am just asking. In any case, you could pop out babies, and Sidroc could go on being a warrior, or a farmer, or a trader, or whatever he decides for his future. But a husband he will be. What think you, Ivar? Last time you were at Evergreen, what was its condition?”
As her father rambled on, she grew more and more furious. Why wouldn’t he listen to her? “Aaarrgh!” was the best she could get out.
Just then, Rafn walked in. “I have news,” he said.
A maid handed him a cup of mead, and he sat down beside his wife. “A ship heads this way. ’Tis Jarl Gunter Ormsson from Vikstead.”
“Drop the drawbridge,” her father whooped joyfully.
Never mind that they had no drawbridge. Or moat, either.
“ ’Twould seem I am going to get my battle, after all.” To a passing housecarl, he yelled, “Where’s my favorite sword? Nay, bring me Skull Crusher, instead. And my helmet and shield. Call up the troops.”
Drifa would have been concerned, except that it was more important that she go hide Runa. And any evidence of her trip to Vikstead five years before, like Eydis, the former Vikstead wet nurse, now chambermaid at Stoneheim.
Why couldn’t her life be nice and calm and boring, like other princesses?
He made Simon Legree look like Santa Claus . . .
It was a lost cause, hiding Runa, because Gunter Ormsson knew full well that his granddaughter was alive and living at Stoneheim. Apparently some passing traveler had noticed Eydis one time when visiting Stoneheim and mentioned her being here. The jarl figured out the rest.
If only Sidroc were here to protect his daughter, and Drifa and her sisters, from this evil man, who was demanding not just Runa, but restitution for the stealing of his grandchild.
Gunter and two of Sidroc’s older brothers, Svein and Bjorn, had been here since yesterday morning, and a sorrier lot there never had been. Maids complained about gropings and outright demands for bedmates. Various Stoneheim soldiers had been insulted and were threatening violence.
They needed to get the vile miscreants out of Stoneheim. Without Runa.
“Your daughters committed a crime, and should be forced to pay wergild for their crimes, just like anyone else,” Gunter said, sitting across from them, with his sons, at a table in the great hall.
Her father, Rafn, Vana, and Ivar bracketed her on the other side. Runa had been brought forth to meet her grandfather earlier today, but like a dog that sensed a bad person, the little girl screamed and cried to get down from his lap. Ormsson had muttered something about “Females need to be put their place. All the child needs is a good switching to teach her what is what.”
Drifa shuddered to think of what Runa’s life would be like in this man’s household. “Our crimes are no worse than yours. In fact, some might say we prevented your far greater crime.”
“What crime?” Ormsson and his sons sputtered.
“You were going to kill the baby,” she said.
“Says who?”
“Your son Sidroc.”
Ormsson made a dramatic show of glancing all around the hall. “I do not see Sidroc here. In fact, he has not been seen for some time. Some say he died, mayhap even at the hands of your healer, King Thorvald.”
“You go too far, Ormsson,” her father said, his voice steely with outrage.
“Besides, the law says a man has a right to do what he wills with his own family,” Ormsson continued. “Let us call out a Thing-bidding over the land. Let the Thing court decide what is just.”
“What is legal and what is right are two different things,” Drifa argued.
“You exceed yourself, bi— girl.”
“No more than I should. And, for your information, I have seen Sidroc.” And he is more than alive.
“Me too,” Ivar said.
“In fact, he is on his way here now, from Byzantium where he has been a Varangian,” Drifa added.
“So you say.” Ormsson emptied his horn of ale, belched, and motioned to a maid for a refill.
Drifa and Vana exchanged glances of disgust.
“What exactly do you want?” her father asked.
“The child, of course.”
“The child stays here, awaiting her father’s return.”
“Which might never happen,” Ormsson remarked. “And I want a hundred gold coins for wergild. Return of the wet nurse Eydis. And thirty lashes to the backs of each of the princesses.”
That last was so ludicrous that Drifa let out a burst of laughter.
Ormsson gave her a look that said if he got her alone she would not be laughing.
“You touch one of my daughters and you will leave Stoneheim in pieces,” her father threatened.
“There is an alternative,” Bjorn said, eyeing Drifa in a rather crafty manner. “I would take your youngest daughter to wife.”
Drifa and everyone on her side of the table gasped.
The king held up his hand to stop Drifa from speaking.
“I thought you were already wed.”
“So?” Bjorn said. “The more danico is an accepted practice in the Norselands, as you well know.”
“I was ne’er married to more than one woman at a time,” her father said. “Nor will any of my daughters be second wives to any other. Besides, my daughters choose their own husbands.”
“That is ridiculous,” Ormsson scoffed. “No wonder your females behave so badly when you give them free rein.”
“I see no husband here to Princess Drifa. She has been on the shelf long enough.” Bjorn licked his lips, staring at her like she was a choice boar steak.
“That is not for you to say.” Her father eyed the three men as if they were manure under his boot.
“Leastways, Drifa is betrothed.”
Oh nay, not that again!
“That is the first we have heard of this.” Ormsson appeared set back by this knot in his plans. “Methinks there is no betrothal. Name the man, if there is one.”
Her father beamed as he announced, “Sidroc Guntersson.”
Now it was those on the other side of the table who gasped.
“You risk war with us,” Ormsson said, “over a split-tail.”
Drifa didn’t know if he referred to Runa or her. Either way, it was an insult.
“If that is what it takes.” Her father stood to his full height, which was intimidating even to other tall Norsemen. He was a majestic figure with his clean, flowing white hair and still sturdy body.
Ormsson, on the other hand, was of the same age, but his dissolute lifestyle showed on his lined face and unkempt body. There was naught of Sidroc in him that she could see, thank the gods.
Just then a hersir walked up to Rafn and whispered something in his ear. With a smile, Rafn stood next to his king and father-by-marriage. “ ’Twould seem there are more visitors coming to Stoneheim.” With a dramatic pause for effect, he said. “A longship was spotted at the curve of the fjord that leads into the North Sea. ’Tis Sidroc Guntersson.”
“Well, I guess this disagreement will be settled, after all,” her father said, gloating at his adversaries.
Drifa was filled with joy that Sidroc had finally come, but then Rafn, his expression dire, leaned closer to her and said, for her ears only, “He has two women with him.”
Chapter Twenty-six
There’s nothing like a good fight to raise a man’s sap . . .
Finally, finally, finally Sidroc arrived at Stoneheim. Much longer and he would have pulled out every hair in his head, and his nose and ear hairs, too.
“Never, never, never travel with women,” he advised Finn, who stood beside him, gloomy as usual.
“I have given up women,” Finn said dolefully.
Under any other circumstances Sidroc would have fallen over with laughter, but he had been listening to Finn’s moaning and mooning over Isobel for too long. “You need a tun of good Stoneheim ale and a woman or two to restore your spirits,” he said. “Look. Over there. Is that Drifa and, oh my gods! That little girl. Her braids are reddish brown, just like my hair, and did she—yea, she did—she stuck out her tongue at the little boyling scooting behind her.” For some reason, that impish act struck him as admirable.
The closer they got, the better he could see. The little one even had his gray-green eyes. Not much of Astrid’s blonde fairness or frail frame that he could see in her.
He raised his eyes to Drifa, and noted immediately that tears were overflowing and running down her cheeks. Was she that happy to see him? He admitted to being happy himself, and certain parts of his deprived body were happier than others.
Ianthe and Isobel came up to stand beside him at the railing. Finn immediately shuffled away, like a whipped puppy. He’d been rebuffed too many times.
“Oh, this is lovely,” Isobel said.
Huh? There was nothing of beauty that he could see in the hodgepodge castle up on the hill. Thanks to Drifa’s builder sister, Breanne, additions had been put on to the building over the years in a manner to make the whole appear lopsided. Of course there were Drifa’s flowers to add their charm, if flowers on a Viking fortress could be called charming.
“I did not think I would like it here in the North, but this is nice,” Ianthe continued.
“You will enjoy my home near Winchester even more,” Isobel assured her. “I cannot wait to show it to you, and Jorvik as well, of course.”
They had learned that Isobel was the daughter of an English earl, stolen when she was scarce thirteen. Sold in the slave marts of Hedeby, she’d lived in the Arab lands for more than ten years. How she would be accepted among her class was unclear, but ’twas not promising, in Sidroc’s opinion. A woman was judged harshly in such circumstances. Women forced into sex slavery were deemed harlots. The best that they could hope for was a nunnery.
In any case, once they’d disembarked here at Stoneheim, after a rest of a day or two, Finn would be taking the women to Britain on the other longship.
What Sidroc would be doing remained to be seen.
He glanced landward again and recoiled at what he saw. Walking, nay, swaggering down the hill from the keep, were his father and two brothers.
A blood-boiling, nigh-berserk rage overtook him, and the longboat had scarce butted against the plank wharf when he jumped off and stalked toward his family, if they could be called that. Luckily Drifa had gone off with Runa. He did not want his daughter to witness what was to come.
“What in bloody hell are you doing here?” he demanded of his father.
“Greetings to you, too, my son. Taking care of family business, which you have neglected to do,” his father replied, casting him a scornful scrutiny.
“You stay away from my daughter, old man. You failed in killing her once. Do not think I will allow you near her again.”
His father waved a hand dismissively. “You misunderstood me when the girl was born. You always did overreact to
the least little thing.” He looked to Svein and Bjorn on either side of him for affirmation. Both of the halfbrains nodded.
“I am here to demand payment from King Thorvald for my suffering,” his father said. “After all, the girl is my granddaughter, and they stole her from me.”
Sidroc let out a hoot of humorless laughter. “Go home, Ormsson,” he said finally, refusing to show the respect of the name Father.
“You don’t give me orders, whelp. I brought you into the world. I can send you out of it.”
A melee broke out then, with his father, two brothers, and more than a dozen Vikstead men on one side, and an equal number on the other side with Sidroc, including Finn, King Thorvald, Rafn, Ivar, and a dozen others.
For an hour and more they fought, with others joining in. It was a silent battle, except for the grunts and growls of soldiers at giving and receiving sword wounds, the clang of steel upon steel, the whistle of arrows, the slap of leather, and the occasional death scream.
In the end, before they scurried off like rats in a sinking ship, his father lost an ear to him, Svein appeared to have sustained a possibly mortal gash in his belly, and two Vikstead warriors were dead. Panting heavily, but smiling at the pleasure of a good fight, Thorvald was assessing their casualties. None dead, but quite a few injuries, some serious.
“Shall we make pursuit?” Rafn asked the king.
He paused to consider, then said, “Nay, let the scoundrels go. They are not worth the effort. Me, I could use a horn or five of ale. What say you?” The latter was spoken not just to Rafn but all the men still standing, some dripping sword dew, and not just from their swords.
“To the hall!” a chorus rang out. “A feast! A feast!”
Sidroc limped over to Finn, the limp being from his prior self-inflicted accident in Mylonas’s Praetorion chamber, not a new one today, though it hurt like hell from all this activity. He felt something wet on his face and realized he had a cut on his forehead, but it did not appear to be deep.
Finn was sitting on the ground against a boulder, holding a blood-soaked rag to his face.