Maidensong

by Mia Marlowe

  “No, mistress,” he said. “My very breath is yours. But I have been with this house for more than half my life. Old habits and old loyalties die hard.”

  Rika felt her expression soften. “I understand, Al-Amin, and your loyalty does you credit. You asked me to trust you, and now you must trust me.”

  “But this man—”

  “I owe loyalty to this man as well,” Rika said. “I know him, you see. It will be hard for you to understand, but I was once his slave.”

  “Mistress!” The whites showed all the way around his black eyes. “Since he was once your master, he will not be able to serve you. He will surely try to violate you if he is not gelded.”

  “He never violated me when I was his slave,” she said without a blink. “He will not do so now. Al-Amin, I have tried to understand your ways. I wear what Farouk-Azziz asks of me. I study with the imam, though in truth, he seems more concerned that he will be polluted by being in my presence during my monthly courses than he is about teaching me. I am trying to accept your customs, but this is not my way. It can never be my way.”

  A mist passed over AI-Amin’s eyes and Rika wondered for a moment whether he sometimes wished there had been someone to stop his emasculation years ago. Someone to lay a hand over his genitals and say, “No, not him. Not this boy.” Al-Amin was fiercely loyal to the house of Farouk-Azziz, but despite his protestations of indifference, did he sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have his own house? His own woman? Children?

  The moment passed and Al-Amin’s eyes cleared. His expression all business, he tossed a glance at the little priest, who was still kneeling in the corner. “I assume since you didn’t really intend to buy the other one, you will allow him to serve you in the stables.”

  “Very well,” Rika agreed. She handed the knife back to Al-Amin.

  “Good. Then that one will remain untouched. But if this one is to serve in your apartments, then it must seem as though he has been altered, my lady.”

  “I understand,” she said. “What are you proposing?”

  “Only that he be seen coming to me to doctor a wound in the groin area,” Al-Amin said. “A burn should do it. If I burn him, just here,” the eunuch ran a fingertip along Bjorn’s inner thigh, “that should be sufficient.” He turned away to heat the flat of his knife.

  Rika’s gut twisted at the thought of burning Bjorn. She could just release him, set him free to return north with Ornolf in a few weeks. But her heart was greedy for him. She’d lost him once. She couldn’t bear it a second time. He could serve in the stables alongside the cell mate he seemed to care about so much. But then she’d barely be allowed to even speak with him. That would be intolerable.

  Al-Amin turned back, the blade glowing red. He bent over Bjorn, gripping his leg to hold him still as he lowered the knife. It would be quick. Bjorn was drugged. He would feel very little pain now, but afterward . . . she knew that of all wounds, burns were the most excruciating. Rika grabbed Al-Amin’s wrist.

  “No,” she ordered. “Let him serve with the horses. I’ll not see him hurt.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” Al-Amin said, with his habitual graceful half-bow.

  * * *

  Sultana was taking her ease in the vine-covered pergola when Al-Amin and the other new slave carried the unconscious big man to a room adjoining the stable. The horses nickered restively as they approached. Rika followed after, to be certain her new slaves were properly housed, Sultana assumed.

  “Apparently, she only had the big one cut. Pity about the poppy juice. He made some interesting noises before it took effect,” Sultana said as she clicked her long nails on the arm of her chair.

  Tariq nodded. “The Norse cow is bloodthirsty, isn’t she? She wanted to watch.”

  Sultana narrowed her eyes as her gaze followed Rika’s retreating back. “I begin to understand her.”

  Chapter 36

  Nearly a month later, Rika watched from her window as Bjorn led a mare into the courtyard. The horse’s coat gleamed, and she sidestepped skittishly, eager for a romp. Bjorn held her head steady for Torvald to mount.

  “When do you expect Ornolf and Jorand back in the city?” Rika overheard Bjorn ask.

  “Maybe not for another week or so.” Torvald leaned down to stroke the mare’s neck. “But I’ll ride to the docks every day to see if there’s word. If he’d known you were here, Ornolf would never have run down to Thessalonica.”

  “Do you know if Jorand gave him the sword and armband?”

  Rika leaned forward, straining to hear, all the while keeping herself out of sight. She didn’t understand the urgency in Bjorn’s voice over a sword and armband. He’d never been that consumed with trade goods before.

  “He did, months ago,” Torvald said. “But with only Jorand for a witness, it wouldn’t hold up before the Lawspeaker. Now that we have your word too, we can take Fenris the Walker’s confession to court.”

  “We’re a long way from a Lawspeaker and I have a feeling my mistress”—Rika winced at the bitterness in his tone—“won’t free me to go north when Ornolf leaves. Talk to her, Torvald.”

  “I’d like nothing better, Bjorn,” the old man said. “But she still wants naught to do with me. I lost all right to tell Rika what to do a long time ago. So much time wasted, so much pain.” Torvald’s voice drifted off, and then he shook himself. “The ramblings of an old man,” he said with disgust. “Always wanting to redo the past and knowing it can’t be done.”

  “It’s not only the old who want that, my friend.” Bjorn swatted the mare on the rump. He stood, hands fisted on his hips, as Torvald’s mount trotted through the big double doors. Rika thought Bjorn glanced toward her window before he turned and strode back to the stables, but the movement was so quick she couldn’t be sure.

  Helge padded softly up beside her in time to see Bjorn disappear from the courtyard below. “I know you’re set to marry the Arab, Little Elf, but I wish it were different for you, so I do.” The old woman’s eyes watered, rheumy with age. “The jarl’s brother, he’s a fine lad.”

  “So he is,” Rika agreed, wiping away the tear that trembled on her lashes. “But wishing changes nothing.” She heard a swish behind her and knew Al-Amin had entered with the breakfast tray she and Helge shared.

  “Al-Amin?” she called. “I’d like to go riding.”

  “Riding, my lady?” Al-Amin set down the breakfast tray.

  Helge lifted the silver lid. “Och! You forgot the oranges,” she scolded. The old woman had become accustomed to the eunuch’s presence and was even emboldened to boss him around herself when Rika was there to back her up. Al-Amin tolerated Helge much like a sturdy Akbash guard dog accepts a yapping Maltese, a vague annoyance but something to be endured for his mistress’s sake.

  “In the North I often rode horseback, and I’d be able to get around the city better than on foot,” she said.

  “I shall order a chaise for you, my lady,” he offered. “Surely that is more in keeping with your station.”

  “But it is not in keeping with my will,” Rika said. “You will ride with me, Al-Amin. See that the Northman rides as well. Two servants in attendance should surely be enough to remind everyone of my ‘station.’ ” Since the household still believed Bjorn had been gelded that first day, his accompanying her on a ride would occasion no comment.

  Al-Amin’s eyebrows shot up, but Rika’s rigid posture warned him that further argument would be fruitless. “As you wish, my lady.”

  Before the morning sun rose high enough to turn the air sultry, Rika and her escorts rode out the double doors. The men both trailed her and when she glanced back at Bjorn, he failed to disguise his scowl. She motioned him forward and he sullenly nudged his mount into a trot to come even with hers.

  “Al-Amin has no Norse beyond a word or two, so we may speak freely. Have you nothing to say to me, Bjorn?”

  “And what would my lady have me say?” His eyes were brittle dark holes. “She has only to make h
er wish known and whatever words she wants will pour out my mouth.”

  “I would have thought a thank-you might be appropriate.” Rika looked away from him, his stare making her uncomfortable.

  “Ah! Ja, thank you for making me your slave, Rika.”

  "You made me yours quickly enough," she fired back at him.

  Bjorn nodded grudgingly. "And all you lost was a little hair. Do you expect me to be grateful that you force me to watch you start married life with another man?"

  This conversation was not going as she’d hoped. Her heart was so full of what she meant to say to Bjorn, but all they seemed able to do was jab at each other.

  “I meant you owe me thanks for freeing you from that Hel of a prison, and . . . for other things.” She wasn’t sure he was aware how close he’d come to being gelded. Even days later, she sometimes woke in a panic, dreaming of Al-Amin standing over his bound body with a knife.

  “Well, there is that. Dominic told me that you intervened before Al-Amin made a soprano of me. I suppose that does merit a hearty thanks, even if the whole household still believes me a eunuch.” Bjorn’s crooked smile did not suggest he was especially grateful. “But I just figured you plan to have use of my cock in the future when you weary of waiting in line for your husband’s.”

  She struck him hard across the mouth. The force of the blow made her shoulder ache. “You are the most hateful man I’ve ever known,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Thank you, my lady.” He bobbed his head at her in mock deference.

  Rika wheeled her mount around and drummed her heels into its flanks. She bolted down the street, forcing pedestrians to scatter before her. Al-Amin and Bjorn spurred their horses to follow.

  “If you upset my lady again,” Al-Amin said to him as they pounded down the street, “I won’t take your manhood next time. I’ll have your life.”

  Chapter 37

  Rika dressed for dinner carefully. She’d become accustomed to the ethereal, flowing style of the palla worn by high-born Byzantine women. The loose robe was comfortable, even sensually pleasing to wear, while draping her figure with flattering folds. Farouk-Azziz was lavish in his gifts and had chosen rich fabrics in colors that suited her.

  Each evening when Farouk-Azziz was at home in the city, he invited Rika to dine with him. He seemed enchanted by her Norse stories and had been astounded when she bested him at chess. She knew that after she retired to her suite, he always summoned one of his wives or concubines to his bed. There was much gossip and tittering about his sexual preferences swirling through the harem and tallies kept of who had been called on how many nights. But Rika was the only woman who shared his meals.

  At first, Rika was sure it was because he wished not to offend his trading partner, but lately, she’d read something else in his hooded eyes. Something dangerously close to desire. She still hadn’t committed to Islam, and therefore to Farouk, but he pressed her to do so with more fervor.

  “Did you enjoy your ride today, Little Elf?” Helge ran a silver comb through Rika’s hair. It was still shorter than usual for one of her station, but the old woman had a knack for arranging it, tucking the curling ends in an elaborate upswept style that disguised the lack of length. “You weren’t gone long.”

  Rika bit her lip. Bjorn was insufferable. He was crude and hateful. How could she ever have thought he loved her if he was capable of treating her like that? She decided to ignore Helge’s question by posing one of her own. “Helge, why would someone repay a kindness with anger and harshness?”

  “Oh, it’d be a wise person who knows why anyone does anything, so it would,” the old woman said, smoothing down a belligerent red lock. “But I’ve found that lots of times, anger is just a way to release pain. Especially with men folk.”

  “Really?”

  “Ja. It makes them say and do things they wouldn’t if they were in their right mind,” Helge said. “Take your father, for instance. He was pure wild with pain when your mother died. It made him do something he’s regretted all his life.”

  Helge was never very subtle about working a conversation around to her favorite topic. She’d made no bones about the fact that she wanted peace between her old master and her new mistress and lost no opportunity to try to persuade Rika to forgive Torvald.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Rika said stubbornly.

  “Of course not, lamb,” Helge crooned. “But you might bear in mind that pain makes men stupid. All men.”

  So Bjorn was in pain, was he? Did he think she wasn’t? Hadn’t she suffered more pangs than a damned soul in Niflheim not knowing whether he lived or died?

  She walked to her window. Bjorn was in the courtyard below, forking off a load of fodder from the stack of hay and disappearing into the stalls with it. In his month of servitude, he’d regained some of the flesh his time in prison had stripped from him. The muscles in his bare back rippled as he worked. His powerful stride made her knees give just a bit.

  Perhaps pain was making her stupid as well.

  “Al-Amin?” she said softly. She hadn’t seen him in her suite, but she knew he was always there, hovering behind a doorway in the shadows, waiting for her to need him.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “I wish the Northman to serve at supper tonight.”

  “But my lady, he has not been trained for gentle indoor service.” Al-Amin’s tone suggested he thought Bjorn barely housebroken and, like a stray mongrel, might very well soil the expensive carpets.

  “Then please see to his education—and quickly,” Rika said. “He told me today that the other servants in the household still believe you gelded him, so there’s no impediment to him serving on the upper floors. He’s reasonably intelligent. I’m sure you’re up to the task of instructing him in serving at table.”

  Al-Amin frowned and lowered his voice. “My lady, do you think it wise?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted. “But it is my wish.”

  * * *

  “Remember,” Al-Amin whispered to Bjorn furiously, “to serve with grace, one must strive to be invisible. Offer the plates from the left, and then stand to the side to wait for direction. And keep the master’s cup iced and full without being told.”

  “Hmph!” was the sullen retort. Bjorn hefted the tray of braised lamb and vegetables and stepped from behind the stone lattice. He slid the fine plates in front of Rika and the Arab, and then stepped to the side. He seemed to have done it correctly because he felt invisible, even in the ridiculous baggy trousers the eunuch insisted that he wear. Neither of the diners so much as glanced his way.

  Rika’s silvery laugh grated on his ears, as he refilled Farouk’s cup with iced juice. For one unworthy moment, he wished for a bubbling kettle of poison to offer the man. But then he reminded himself that his misery wasn’t the Arab’s fault.

  It was Rika’s.

  “And what Northern delight have you prepared for me tonight, my pale flower?” Farouk asked.

  Bjorn balled his fists at his sides.

  “A maidensong,” Rika answered, a slight shake sending the glittering shards of gold across her forehead twinkling in the lamplight. “A love story.”

  “Ah! That sounds like what I’d most enjoy.” Farouk sipped at his juice, his gaze riveted on Rika’s animated face. She was performing for an audience of one, Bjorn noted, with all the skill of the skaldic art, every nuance, every expression and gesture perfectly controlled.

  “Then listen and you shall hear the tale of Ragnar and Swanhilde . . .”

  A pair of doomed lovers, Bjorn finished for her in his mind. He longed to cover his ears. How could she tell the Arab the same story she’d first used to beguile him all those months ago? That sweet night when he’d first stolen a kiss from her rushed back to him unbidden. He’d been marked by it from that moment forward. How could she make him stand by and watch her tell that same maidensong to another man?

  For the first time, Bjorn came close to hating her.

  He shut his ey
es, but the sound of her voice went on, low and seductive, spinning the web of her tale with the callousness of a she-spider who intends to eat her mate once their coupling is finished.

  “... a berserkr cry escaped his lips and Ragnar raised his knife. But Swanhilde leaped up to grab the blade from him before he could plunge it into his own heart.”

  Bjorn’s eyes snapped open. Rika was changing the story. A skald never changed the story. The lore of the Norse people was a sacred trust to be handed inviolate to the next skald till the end of time. He listened, wide-eyed, as she went on.

  “ ‘Forgive me, my love,’ Swanhilde cried. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain, but you have been a long time gone and I had to know if your love for me was still true.’”

  Had he imagined it, or had Rika glanced at him, just for a flicker of an eyelash?

  “Ragnar gathered her into his arms. ‘Forgive me as well,’ said he. ‘I will leave you alone no longer. Let us away to our Northern fastness and forsake this sorrow.’ ” Rika’s voice had a little catch in it.

  Bjorn swallowed hard.

  “And so they did.” Rika made a sweeping gesture to cover the direct gaze she shot Bjorn’s way, one brow arched in question. “And ever afterward, Ragnar and Swanhilde drank deep from the horn of love to the end of their days.” She slid her gaze back to Farouk-Azziz before he could mark the exchange.

  The Arab clapped his hands together. “Well told,” he said. “And how delightful that it ended in joy. In truth, you had me on edge, believing that the lovers would be forever parted. It is so often the case in tales of love, is it not?”

  “Frequently, in the old stories that is so,” she conceded. “But once in a while, true love must win out.”

  “Surely it must,” Farouk said, and then he frowned down at his plate. “Where is our fruit?”