The Norse King's Daughter

by Sandra Hill

  “The answer, my dear, is that I can definitely support myself, and well, but that was not always the case. Sidroc set me up with this shop. He discovered me working as a jeweler’s assistant three years ago. To say that the master jeweler was cruel would be an understatement. Sidroc beat the man bloody and took me away, on the spot.”

  “And you have repaid him by becoming his mistress? Oh, please forgive me. I cannot believe I asked you that impertinent question. How rude of me!”

  Ianthe patted her hand. “Friends can talk of intimate things, and I am hoping that you and I are becoming friends. The answer is that I went to Sidroc’s bed willingly a year after we first met. He is a man of many passions. In truth, we share the same . . . um, tastes in lovemaking.”

  Drifa had no idea what she meant and wasn’t about to ask. She did ask another question, though. “Do you love him?”

  Ianthe thought a moment. “I do love him, but only as a good friend and an equally good lover.”

  “How about Sidroc? Is he in love with you?” Drifa really was being intrusive, but her tongue seemed to have a mind of its own.

  “Pfff! I doubt he thinks of me once he leaves my bed. Forget I said that. Of course he cares about me, but I do not think he is capable of the softer sentiments.”

  His crass marriage proposal to Drifa had been proof of that.

  “I make the distinction between loving someone and being in love,” Ianthe went on, “because I know what being in love is like. I was in love with my husband, who died four years ago. I doubt I will ever love another in the same way. Do not look with pity on me, though. I live a satisfactory life.” She laughed then. “Well, satisfactory up ’til now. Since Sidroc has ended our relationship, I will have to find my satisfaction in other ways.”

  Again, Drifa wasn’t about to ask her what she meant by “other ways,” but that was interesting . . . that Sidroc had ended his relationship with her. “Is this something new?”

  “As of last night. Well, truth to tell, this morning.” Ianthe blushed.

  Drifa did, too, suspecting what she meant by “this morning.” The randy goat had stayed all night, and not to eat grass, either. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Why end your relationship now?”

  “He is leaving Byzantium.”

  “He is? When?” So much for the forty-two nights of bedsport threats he’d made to her!

  “As soon as he is able to gain a release from his Varangian duties. It could be within days, or months, I would imagine.”

  Oh. So forty-two nights might not be out of the question. Good gods! What am I thinking? Of course it is out of the question.

  As if reading her mind, Ianthe said, “Sidroc is a good man. He told me last night that you were betrothed at one time.”

  Drifa made a decidedly unfeminine snort of derision. “A betrothal of about three hours! Did he happen to mention that?”

  Ianthe shook her head, clearly puzzled by the vehemence of Drifa’s response. “Perchance you could resume your betrothal? Mayhap God brought you here to Constantinople at the same time Sidroc was here because he wants you to be together.”

  Drifa was fairly certain God had no plans involving forty-two nights of sex, which was all Sidroc had planned for her. “We are at cross wills every time we meet. I daresay we would kill each other if forced to be in each other’s company for more than a day.” Or forty-two days!

  Ianthe glanced at her skeptically, then turned when she noticed a young woman, the assistant who had been helping in her shop, standing in the doorway. “There is a Saxon seaman who wants to buy a spiderweb necklace, but he wants to know if you can make one up with pearls for a bride-gift when he returns to Britain.”

  Ianthe turned to Drifa. “Would you mind waiting until I return? I will have Irene bring you another cup of wine.”

  Drifa sat, relaxing in the shade of the roofed balcony, enjoying the chirping of birds and the sound of running water from the fountain. It was so tranquil, just what she hoped to accomplish when she got home to Stoneheim . . . or in her own home, wherever that might be, eventually.

  She thought of all she had accomplished so far, and it was not yet noon. She’d seen the perfume stalls and would buy some scents on her way back to the palace. She’d bought jewelry for her sisters. She’d made a new friend. She’d found hardy plants that she could easily transport back to the Norselands.

  Her visit to Byzantium could only get better.

  Chapter Nine

  He’d like to pluck her petals . . .

  Sidroc stood in the doorway watching Drifa relax in the world she clearly loved best. A garden.

  For the moment, she wasn’t aware of him, her head tilted up toward the sun, the only sounds those of birds, the fountain, and, if you listened closely, the Sea of Marmosa, which was not so far away.

  She truly was a lovely woman, even lovelier than she had been five years past. With her eyes closed, she did not have that exotic Eastern cast to her features, except for her skin, which had a slight olive tone. Her black hair when unbound would be like silk waves down to her waist. Her figure was delicate but voluptuous due to her full breasts contrasted with her slim waist and rounded hips.

  Walking up to the table where she sat, he ran a fingertip along the portion of her neck exposed by her single braid and said, “How is my little flower today?”

  Startled, she jumped, and the full cup of wine sitting before her almost tipped over. Thanks to his quick reflexes, he managed to catch it and move it to the center of the table.

  “You boor! I am not your little anything.”

  “We shall see.”

  “Did you have to scare me like that?”

  You do not know scared yet, sweetling. He sat down in the chair opposite her. “You should be more alert. After all, you are in a foreign country.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “How did you get in here? Ivar will not be pleased.”

  “Actually, Ivar told me where you were. It seems we have a common friend back in the Norselands. His cousin Snorri Straggle Beard and I fought side by side at the Battle of Blue Fjord. Ivar considers me a friend now.”

  “I shall have to tell him otherwise.”

  “If you do, I will have to add another night to your tally of bedsport.”

  “Verily, your threats are becoming tiresome. Do you seriously think I will agree to let you sate your lust on me?”

  He laughed. “First of all, I will not be sating my lust. It will be a mutual sating. Second, they are not threats. When you come to my bed, it will be willingly. Well, somewhat willingly.”

  She glared at him.

  I am beginning to find her glares charming. How pitiful is that? “I expect that it may take a little whetting to sharpen the blade of your passion. My blade, on the other hand, is already whetted.” Where do I come up with this stuff? Finn must be wearing off on me.

  “You must have a rock betwixt your ears. In what circumstance could you imagine my giving free consent to mate with you outside of marriage? Not,” she quickly added, “that I would want you for husband now.”

  He smiled, getting an inordinate amount of pleasure from baiting her. “Not that I would want you for a wife, either, but I am a soldier at heart, Drifa. I know how to fight battles on the field and off. As I told you before, everybody has a weakness. I will find yours.”

  Once again, she got that odd look of fear on her face, and he sensed that there was some secret she was hiding from him. Ah well, he would find out in due time.

  “I have no weaknesses where you are concerned,” she asserted, and was about to stand up.

  He put a hand on her shoulder and shoved her gently back down. “Do not get your innards in a twist, dearling.”

  Her chin shot up at the use of the endearment.

  So he used it again, of course. “I suspect, dearling, that the weakness I seek is already in you. I suspect that you have a passion for me that you are struggling to bridle. I suspect that even now your breasts are aching and there is
a wetness pooling betwixt your legs.” Bloody hell! I am arousing myself here.

  She gasped and sputtered for something to say, something tart and biting, no doubt. Women fought their own passions betimes.

  “And I suspect,” he quickly added, “that you would like to pick up one of those urns and clobber me over the head. Again. But I have to warn you, I will not allow another head drilling. My manpart is already too big.” And getting bigger by the moment.

  “You . . . you . . . you lusty, ignorant, full-of-yourself, deluded troll!”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk! Methinks you need some more expletives to add to your stock. Perchance I could take you through the marketplace and teach you some new ones. In different languages even. Yea, the marketplace is teeming with foul words.” And foul other things, too.

  “Oh, thank goodness!” Ianthe came through the doorway and blew some stray hairs off her forehead. “I wanted to lead you through the bazaar today, Drifa, to show you some special places, but now that Sidroc has offered I can get back to my very difficult customer.”

  “Oh, nay, that is not necessary, Ianthe,” Drifa said. “I have Ivar and my other guards to go with me. We can just browse today. Perchance there will be another day when you and I can shop together.”

  “Of course,” Ianthe said, “but still—”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Sidroc told Drifa. And it would be. There were places and things he would show her that no one else would. “I insist.”

  While Ianthe called for more wine, Drifa hissed at him, “Begone!”

  He responded with honeyed cordiality, “Uh-uh, my thorny flower. I am going to be your very own bee, pricking you at every turn. Bzzzz!”

  “My brother-by-marriage John raises bees at Hawks’ Lair. You do know what happens to male bees, do you not, Sidroc?”

  “If that smirk on your face is any indication, I do not want to know.” In truth, it was a rather adorable smirk as far as smirks go.

  “One prick, and the lusty bee is dead.”

  So much for my bzzzzing plans!

  You could say it was the Byzantine Mall . . .

  Drifa was not happy. Ivar was not happy. Her other three guardsmen were not happy.

  Her bodyguards did not like her being in such a crowded, dangerous place.

  She did not like the unwelcome burr on her backside that had come along, uninvited.

  But Sidroc, the burr, was enjoying himself immensely as they walked through the busy bazaar a short time later. She considered pushing him into that pile of horse droppings over there, but he would probably pull her down with him.

  She was not going to let him ruin this marvelous excursion. Once one grew accustomed to the foul odors of the city, there were other smells that were more pleasant. All kinds of meat and poultry and fish were being grilled on charcoal braziers. Drifa mused at one point, “I swear every animal from the Christian Noah’s Ark must be represented here in one form or another.” And as for the fruits and vegetables sliced and split for inspection of the customers, “Could the Garden of Eden boast any better?”

  “The only thing missing is the serpent,” Sidroc agreed, then made a ludicrous hissing sound.

  Wealthy patricians, men and women alike, were carried through the city on litters borne by well-attired slaves. A sharp contrast to other almost-naked, miserable slaves being prodded, along with goats, cattle, and other livestock, toward the auction square. Uniquely dressed dessert nomads with their turbaned heads led camels laden with Mongolian silks and Russian furs.

  And the sounds! Cart wheels rumbling over stone and wood walkways, church bells pealing, a dozen or more different languages, shouts of merchants calling out their wares, and many colorful and unique expletives. Yea, Sidroc had been right about the latter. “Move that cart, you camel turd!” “Not a coin more, you thieving son of a goat herder’s whore!” And fuck in various permutations. “Fuck your sorry arse!” “Fuck me if I’ll pay that price!” And the ever-popular “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  Drifa could feel her cheeks heat with embarrassment, and she turned to the side so that Sidroc would not see and say that he had told her so.

  But he chuckled, and she knew he saw and was amused.

  “Come, Drifa, over to this stall.” He almost shoved her toward a cloth merchant who had some ladies’ garments already sewn together. “You said that you wanted to buy some Greek apparel.”

  She rooted through the various piles and picked out several gowns and three ells each of silk fabrics in blue, red, and green, along with lengths of braiding and bands of embroidered, stiff brocade. Byzantine silk was among the most precious of commodities, valued as highly as gold in some cases, and she could see why.

  “Back here, lily of my heart,” Sidroc said, calling her to the rear portion of the tent. He had taken to calling her silly flower names, just to annoy her.

  “Don’t you have Varangian things to do?”

  “I just returned from six months of Varangian things.”

  “Viking things then.”

  He winked at her. “I am doing Viking things.”

  She had no idea what he meant by that, but she felt the wink all the way down to her curling toes. “Un-luck shines on me today!” she murmured.

  “Did you say fuck?” Sidroc asked with mock horror.

  “I did not.” She started to stomp away from him, but he grabbed her hand.

  “Come here now. I have found the perfect attire for you.”

  I can scarce imagine. Actually, it turned out that her imagination didn’t stretch that far.

  He held up a garment that was made of sheer red cloth, which would leave the neck, arms, and abdomen bare, with triple layers of cloth over what would be the tips of the breasts and the nether folds. The bottom started at the hips, below the navel, and was actually a pair of braies of sorts, gathered at the ankle. It was the type of thing she imagined a harem girl might wear.

  “Here is the best part, my shy violet.” He shook the garment, and tiny bells that edged the ankles and wrists tinkled. In a voice low enough for only her to hear, he said, “Whene’er you walk about my bedchamber, I will hear you coming.”

  “Like a cow,” she said with dry humor.

  Which did not deter him at all. “More like my personal love slave.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Also, when you dance for me, you will not need music. Your bells will make a special music.”

  “Dance? This is the first I’ve heard of dancing.”

  “All love slaves dance. Not that I know much about love slaves, but if I ever had a love slave, I’m sure she would dance. In any case, isn’t this wonderful?”

  “Yea, wonderful,” she agreed, again with dry humor, which again he ignored. “I am not buying that thing.”

  “Of course not, my blushing rosebud. I will purchase it for you.”

  Meanwhile, her guardsmen stood at the outer perimeter of the tent, staring at them with bemusement, instead of the anger they should have exhibited. But then she realized why as two of the guardsmen went in and examined harem outfits, for their lady loves back home, she presumed. Men!

  Her suspicions were proved true when Sidroc laughed. “Your wife will love you for that gift, Farle. And Gismun, your betrothed will want to marry you with haste if you dare to buy her one.”

  Good gods! Has the man befriended all my guards?

  After the purchases were paid for, and, yea, Sidroc did buy the scandalous garment, she insisted, “For some other woman. Not for me. Definitely not for me.”

  He just waved her protests aside.

  They were back in the marketplace, which now swarmed with musicians, jugglers, magicians, fortune tellers, and astrologers.

  “Would you like to have your fortune told, peach blossom?”

  That’s all she would need. Some fortune teller guessing her secret and spilling it to Sidroc. “Nay, not today, and stop calling me those flower insults.”

  “M’lady”—Sidroc put a hand over his heart—“they are endearments.”
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  “Well, stop endearing me then.”

  He just smiled.

  In truth, she liked this playful side of Sidroc. Too bad he tossed his threats of bedchamber activities in betwixt every other nice thing he said or did. She felt like a fish on a Northman’s line, being pulled in, bit by bit. If nothing else, Northmen excelled at fishing.

  And always at the back of her mind were thoughts of Runa, and how Sidroc must be informed about his daughter. But how? And when?

  As they walked, and somehow he’d managed to link his hand with hers, fingers entwined, she noticed statues interspersed throughout the city, mostly of the first Constantine, for whom Constantinople was named.

  One of the most unusual sights involved men sitting atop tall pillars high above the crowds. Sidroc explained that these were ascetic monks known as stylites who chose to live up on the pedestals praying. Food and water were passed up to them by other monks. Drifa did not want to know how other bodily functions were handled.

  At a shop featuring everything marble from statues to a game with tiny balls called marbles, Drifa bought a cylinder that was used for rolling out dough for various sweets. Ingrith would love it. In fact, she bought two. The other for the Stoneheim cook.

  Whilst there, Sidroc of course had to do something outrageous. Somehow he discovered these long marble things, like cucumbers, of various sizes, bulbous on the ends. At first she did not know what they were until she realized they were replicas of men’s phalluses. “This one is about my size . . . since my head drilling,” he said, weighing it in one hand.

  “You dolt!” She rushed from the shop, hearing his laughter in her wake. Her guardsmen stood at the front of the shop, unaware of his latest outrageousness.

  Once he caught up with her, Sidroc said, “Do you not want to know what they are used for?”

  “I do not!”

  “Oh well, you do not need one whilst I am around.”