Maidensong

by Mia Marlowe

Bjorn turned abruptly and strode out of the dining room. He vaulted down the stairs, taking them two at a time, to the kitchen below.

  Al-Amin met him with a scowl.

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” Bjorn said, his heart light enough to greet even the eunuch with good cheer. “I haven’t disgraced you yet. They’re ready for the fruit.”

  When Bjorn saw the melon halves an idea burst in his mind. “In my homeland, sometimes the cook carves designs in the rind to make the food more appealing. Let me show you.” He picked up the fruit and went to work making a series of slashes all around the outside of the half-circles. He was sure that they formed no discernable pattern that Al-Amin could distinguish.

  Al-Amin’s frown told him he didn’t think Bjorn’s carving was an improvement.

  But when Rika noticed the runes sliced into Farouk’s melon rind, she sputtered with helpless mirth and had to feign choking to cover her amusement. Bjorn had carved the symbols for pea-balled troll into the fruit’s thick skin.

  As she sipped her juice slowly, she eyed her own melon. The message was clear, but dangerous.

  Bathhouse moonrise.

  Chapter 38

  “You summoned me, my master?” Al-Amin had hurried back to Farouk-Azziz after escorting Rika to her rooms. This was the first time the master had called for him since he’d been given to the Northern bride.

  “Yes, Al-Amin,” Farouk said as he lounged by the low table. “You have been with me as long as I’ve been in this city and know my mind as well as anyone. Now, I would know yours. How do you find your new mistress?”

  “I would not presume to speak, my master.” Al-Amin inclined his head ever so slightly.

  “Then I command it.”

  The eunuch breathed a sigh. The master’s request was highly irregular. “My lady is kindness itself, a pleasure to serve.” He remembered with fondness the way she indulged his predilection for pistachios, but knew the master didn’t want to hear about that. “She is quick to grasp our ways and eager for instruction, being possessed of a fine mind. The imam says she is an apt student of the Q’ran for all that she seems not inclined to decision yet. Such deliberation surely indicates purity of spirit and determination. She is unlike any woman I have ever known.”

  Farouk nodded. “If you had but one word to describe her, what would it be?”

  An image of Rika with her hand protectively over the barbarian’s manhood flashed in Al-Amin’s brain. He met his master’s gaze squarely. “Merciful.”

  “Then she will balance me well, for I am not known for that quality. She has been a surprise from the beginning, a fountain of unexpected delight. Rika is possessed of many gifts if not great beauty,” Farouk said. “But beauty is not necessary to breed exceptional sons.” He pulled a scroll from his billowing sleeve. “I received an accounting today of my oldest son’s latest exploits in Cordoba. Kareem shames me with his gambling and laziness. He squanders my wealth and wastes the opportunities I’ve given him.”

  “Kareem is young yet, my master,” Al-Amin said.

  “He’s old enough to be a fool.” Farouk crumpled the scroll in his fist. “I want you to summon an imperial scribe first thing in the morning. I intend to draft a new will dispossessing Kareem in favor of the son Rika will bear me.”

  “This is highly unusual.” The position of the firstborn was nearly sacrosanct.

  “I am unusually upset with Kareem,” Farouk said. “When I listen to Rika speak, I can see the son she will give me. Intelligent, strong, not given to dissipation. Once your mistress sees my intent, she will convert, won’t she?”

  “Forgive me, but her conversion seems to be a matter of principle, not profit.” When AI-Amin saw his master’s scowl, he hastily amended, “Surely this expression of my master’s favor could not fail to impress my lady.”

  “Good. Then see to it. Make preparations for the marriage to proceed with all speed.”

  “A thousand pardons, my master,” Al-Amin said with a deferential nod. “But we cannot plan the ceremony until the Northman Ornolf returns to the city. My sources tell me he and his traveling companion set sail for Thessalonica last month. Surely, he would consider it an insult if he found the marriage was finalized without his presence.”

  Farouk-Azziz’s frown deepened, but he waved Al-Amin away. “Make inquiries. Discover when we can expect Ornolf’s return.”

  Chapter 39

  From the roof garden, Rika watched the moon rise over the great dome of the Hagia Sophia. Her skin tingled, prickling at the slightest breeze.

  The whole world felt different. She’d known it from the moment she changed the story of Ragnar and Swanhilde. Something in the very fiber of Midgard had also changed. Her fate was not immutable any more than the maidensong was immutable. She could decide. She could choose her own future, for good or ill. It wasn’t in the hands of the gods of Asgard or the life-weaving Norns. She wouldn’t be a victim of Gunnar’s schemes any longer. Her life was finally in her own hands, where it belonged.

  She slipped through Farouk’s apartment, skirting his private room, grateful for the rhythmic huffing and moaning of the newest and youngest concubine to be added to the harem. ‘The Wailer,’ she’d overheard Tariq name the girl. He wasn’t far wrong. Such loud, overblown passion had the ring of theatrics to Rika’s ears, too overly dramatic not to be feigned.

  As she glided silently down the curved staircase to the courtyard, she knew the risk she was about to take. The master of the house could lie with as many different women as he wished, but if she and Bjorn were caught alone together, nothing would stay the hand of Farouk-Azziz.

  It was worth her life to feel the blood dancing in her veins again.

  “My lady.” Al-Amin’s whisper startled her. “It is late for you to be about.”

  She put a hand to her chest and willed her breathing to sound normal. “The ride today has given me some pain in muscles I have not used of late. A long soak in a hot bath will do me good.”

  “As you wish, my lady.” The eunuch fell into step beside her, his bare feet making no sound on the stone walkway.

  When they reached the bathhouse, she stopped him. “I wish to be alone. Please see that I am not disturbed.” She raised a brow at him. “Not even by you.”

  He blinked at her, but refrained from arguing. Al-Amin nodded and turned his back to her, setting himself to guard the only entrance to the bathhouse.

  Rika tiptoed into the cool marble building, her heart pounding, both hopeful that Bjorn was waiting for her and terrified that he might be.

  A small oil lamp flickered at the edge of the bath. The deep pool was filled with scented water, rose petals floating like tiny coracles on the smooth surface. Ferns draped toward the shimmering liquid. Wisps of steam curled in the wavering light. The bath was a whole world, a fjord in miniature.

  Her gaze darted around the room. She didn’t see Bjorn anywhere. Was he crouched in the garden, stopped by Al-Amin’s formidable presence? Was this his idea of a joke, a punishment for enslaving him, to lure her here and sneer at her privately?

  She sighed. He’d prepared this beautiful bath for her. That was something, at least. She would enjoy what she was offered.

  She shrugged off her palla and stepped into the pool, letting the silky water caress her calves, her thighs, her belly. The water closed over her head completely and she delighted in the warmth. When she breached the surface, the breath she drew was heady with the scent of roses. She floated toward the edge where she could sit on the submerged ledge.

  Rika leaned against the side of the bath, arms spread wide, her head resting back on the cool marble floor. She closed her eyes, trying to still her body’s rebellious complaint. The bath was a sybaritic delight, but oh, how she wished Bjorn had been there waiting for her. Every bit of her skin screamed for his touch. She longed for his kiss. And in her secret place, she ached for him with a hollow throb that would not be stilled.

  The rustle of fabric made her open her eyes. Bjorn stepped out
from behind one of the columns ringing the bath. He’d been there all along.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she put a finger to her lips and motioned toward the door. Bjorn nodded in understanding. Then he unwound the sash at his waist and let the baggy trousers fall to the floor.

  The lamplight kissed his body, licking over it in wavering pulses. Though he had regained flesh, she was able to count his ribs. The place in his thigh where the tree branch had stabbed him was still indented slightly. The old scar writhed on his right side was joined by a new one that slashed across his chest in an angry red line just above his nipples. She yearned to press her lips to it, to take away the hurt. Her gaze traveled the length of his glorious, battered body.

  He was ready. She drew a ragged breath. A bead of moisture glistened at the tip of his erection.

  Bjorn lowered himself into the bath and pushed across to her. When he drew near, she reached for him, but he caught up her hands and held them fast. He leaned toward her and her wet breasts strained against his chest, skin pressing skin. She yearned to join with him as one drop of water is engulfed by another in a merging so complete there could be no separation without total annihilation.

  His mouth was by her ear, his breath sending a warm shiver of delight down her neck.

  “One of two things will happen now,” he whispered. “Either you will scream and whoever is outside the door will come in to kill me and I will let him.”

  She inhaled sharply.

  “Or you will let me love you.” He nuzzled her ear-lobe. “And we will somehow leave this house together when Ornolf returns. For by the gods, Rika, I will not take you by halves. I won’t stand by and watch you wed another man. You will be mine or I will be dead.” He pulled back to look into her eyes. “Choose.”

  “I won’t scream.” Her voice was just a breath.

  He covered her mouth with his, all the hurt, all the longing of the months apart distilled into one purifying kiss. Rika slid off the ledge and pressed herself against him. They slipped beneath the water, rolling together, like a pair of sea otters coupling in the surf, only surfacing for lack of air. Bjorn shook his head like a hound coming up out of the water and Rika bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud.

  Then suddenly, all amusement faded from his eyes, replaced by smoldering desire. He cupped her face and covered her with kisses, her eyes, her lips, her neck. His hands slid down her back and his mouth found her breasts, suckling the stiff peaks until they ached.

  Rika ground herself against him, feeling his swollen shaft slide over her belly and between her legs. She gasped when part of him entered her, but he pulled back.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I’m burning up.”

  He grasped her bottom and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his torso as he teased her with his stiff phallus.

  “I’d see you melt first, my love,” he mouthed into her ear.

  Bjorn set her on the edge of the pool and eased her to lie back on the cool marble. Rika arched her spine as his hands, those blessed skillful hands, slid from her shoulders, across the mounds of her breasts, past her navel and down to spread her legs. She surrendered to him completely.

  When she felt his mouth on her mound, she thought she’d die of bliss. Then the waves of pleasure focused and coiled in ever-tightening strands. The tension built to unbearable heights. When her release came, her whole being shuddered and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

  She couldn’t imagine feeling more ecstasy. And then he entered her and she knew she was wrong.

  There was more.

  * * *

  His mistress was overlong at her ablutions, Al-Amin thought, even if she was soaking tired muscles. Despite her orders not to disturb her, he’d be remiss in his duties not to check on her well-being. He was adept at slipping unobserved in and out of places, a quality that made him doubly useful as an extra pair of eyes for Farouk-Azziz. His mistress would never know he sneaked a peek to satisfy himself of her safety.

  What he saw shocked him to the soles of his bare feet. It was not the first time he’d witnessed the act of love. The master often felt that an audience enhanced his performance, so Al-Amin had stood a silent watchful vigil, stomach queasy, while Farouk-Azziz brutally deflowered a virgin purchased for his amusement or savagely rode a randy concubine.

  But Al-Amin had never seen two bodies joined in tenderness, sinuous limbs moving as one in a slow dance of torment and promise. He’d never seen the look of trust and wonder between a man and a woman. His mistress and the barbarian were lost, their eyes locked on each other as the moment of exquisite joy wracked them both at once and they strained against each other in one last spasm of rending and binding.

  Al-Amin slipped away, ashamed. He’d had no idea. Something so intimate, so sacred was not meant for another to see. When he thought of his mistress submitting to the master’s rough appetites, he shuddered.

  My lady loves the barbarian, Allah help her. As Al-Amin resumed his guard, he puzzled over whether he should help her as well.

  Chapter 40

  “So with the armband and the man’s sword, you think you have enough evidence to sway a Lawspeaker?” Rika asked, threading her way on horseback through the throng of foot traffic. Bjorn had told her about Fenris’s dying confession. It was yet another reason for them to leave this cursed city and head north as soon as possible.

  “Ja, with Jorand’s testimony added to mine along with the sword and armband, it should be enough to convict Gunnar of murdering our father,” Bjorn said, nudging his horse closer to hers. “The nine-year sacrifice will be held at this summer’s solstice. If we can reach Uppsala by then, a court will be present.”

  Neither of them had said it aloud, but Rika wondered whether Gunnar had slated Ketil as one of the sacrifices in the sacred grove despite their agreement. A man who would murder his father couldn’t be trusted to keep a secret promise to a woman. Still, going north was dangerous for Bjorn.

  “And what of your oath to Gunnar?” she asked.

  “We both know it’s already in tatters.” He met her gaze with a quick tender smile before carefully guarding his expression. He tossed a glance back at Al-Amin, who trudged on a bay gelding behind them. “The eunuch might not understand Norse, but he is always watching. Last night was a foolish risk.”

  “And yet I would not take it back for the world,” she said, her voice husky.

  “Nor I,” he admitted. “But we must not be alone together again until we have quit this place. It is too dangerous for you, my love.”

  “As oath-breaking is dangerous for you.”

  “It’s hard to feel bound to the man who murdered my father,” Bjorn said.

  Rika looked at him sharply. Hadn’t she once blamed Bjorn for Magnus’s death? And here she was, more tightly cinched to this man than any oath could bind her. He was seared on her heart and she would never be free of him. Nor did she wish to be. The old skald’s death would forever pain her, but Bjorn bore no guilt in it. She realized that now. Even when she’d told him she forgave him at Birka, a part of her heart still held a bit of smoldering resentment. Now even that tiny flame was forever extinguished. Magnus had brought her and Ketil to Hordaland. Bjorn had led the raid. Another hand held the ax. Who was to say which choice caused the tragedy? It just happened. And now they must move on.

  “I’ll risk the consequences of oath-breaking to see justice done,” Bjorn said, his voice stony as flint. “Besides, Gunnar has plundered Sogna long enough. There’s no limit to his ambitions—and he’ll stop at nothing to realize them.”

  “I don’t think it will be a problem for me to leave,” Rika said. “I’ll simply tell Farouk-Azziz that I can’t convert to Islam.”

  “It will not be so easy as that.” He shook his head. “The Arab will take it as a personal affront. And besides, you haven’t been marking him closely if you think he will release you. Trust me, I know better than you what a man is thinking. His interest in you is not just for ce
menting trade ties anymore. That jackal wants you.”

  Rika shifted in the saddle uneasily. “If that’s true, it’s only for novelty’s sake, I’m sure. He’s amused by my tales, nothing more. He made his preferences very clear.”

  “Unless I’m much mistaken, he’s changed his mind.” Bjorn’s mouth hardened into a grim line. He dropped behind her as they neared the big double doors of the house.

  Bjorn took charge of their mounts while Rika and Al-Amin climbed the winding staircase to the third floor.

  “I’m back, Helge,” Rika called out when she reentered her suite. There was no answer. She pulled the bourka over her head. “Helge?”

  A muffled moan came from the old woman’s small chamber. Rika dashed toward the sound with Al-Amin at her heels. Helge lay abed, her face ashen, her lips a rictus of pain around blue-tinged gums.

  “What’s wrong?” Rika dropped to her knees by her friend’s bed.

  “Little Elf,” she breathed. “I feel myself going, so I do. It’s sorry I am to leave you, lamb.”

  “But you were fine this morning—”

  “Ja, I was. I felt that well myself, so I nipped down to the bathhouse for a quick soak.” Helge’s tongue flicked out to wet her dry lips. “When I came back to the apartment, someone had left us a tray of sweetmeats, and you know I don’t hold with most of this foreign food, but I do dearly love those sweetmeats.” She rolled her eyes toward Al-Amin. “Best you throw the rest of them out.”

  “Helge, what are you saying?”

  The old woman’s thin frame was wracked by a convulsion and she couldn’t speak.

  “She’s saying my lady has an enemy within the house,” Al-Amin said woodenly. “The food was poisoned. I will see to it immediately.”

  Before he could turn to go, Helge reached out a clawed hand and grabbed his wrist. “Watch her for me,” she rasped.

  The eunuch nodded solemnly. “Depend upon it.”