The Norse King's Daughter

by Sandra Hill

  Some members of the governing body known as a senate were there as well. And the empress had apparently brought with her numerous ladies-in-waiting, all dressed in finery to rival queens in other countries.

  Drifa noticed Sidroc and Finn off to one side as she walked a center path through the long reception hall. Both were in uniforms but apparently not on duty. Finn winked at her, but Sidroc stared at her, grim-faced. What has his braies in a twist now? she thought, tired of the ups and downs of the brute’s moods. First he railed at her, then he teased. No sooner did he smile her way than he was glaring. He made playful jests, then threatened her with vast bouts of sexplay. She would ponder those contradictions later.

  Drifa had dressed to the highest standards today, befitting her role as an emissary of a Norse king. She wore a saffron-yellow linen gunna, long-sleeved and ankle-length with a train, tucked in at the waist by a gold-linked chain. Over it was the open-sided Norse apron in a deep apricot silk, so fine a quality were both garments they billowed when she walked. In fact, she needed the tight twisted rings about her wrists to keep the fabric from covering her hands. Gold brooches in the pennanular style sat on each shoulder, fastening the shoulder straps. Her black hair, newly washed, hung straight down her back, held off her forehead with a silver fillet made up of writhing wolves, whose jaws met in the center, holding an amber star. The wolves represented her father’s standard, and the star represented the Star of the North. On her feet were soft white brocade slippers with silver and gold embossing. A heavy gold chain about her neck held a pendant matching the one on her fillet, a larger star set in gold. Rune rings adorned several fingers.

  She was flanked on both sides by the four hersirs who’d brought her to Byzantium. They’d taken as much care with their appearance today as she had. More than one woman gave them double looks as they passed by, especially Jamie, who wore Scottish attire that left bare his muscular legs. Her four guardsmen were in the crowd behind them.

  As they neared the dais where the emperor and empress sat, Drifa stumbled with shock over what happened before her very eyes. If not for Wulf and Thork, she might have fallen flat on her face.

  The throne rose up in the air a little and the golden lions sitting on either side began to shake their tails and roar. Gold and silver trees embellished with precious stones, like diamonds and rubies, held life-like birds that began to sing. It was the most astonishing marvel she had ever seen. It must be magic, or the most incredible feat of some mastermind.

  The emperor laughed at what must be stunned looks on their faces.

  The logothete, who had led them forward, stopped at a circle of purple marble, where he used his staff to rap on the floor for attention from the murmuring crowd. In a booming voice, he announced, “Your Serenity, I bring you Princess Drifa of the Norselands and her companions, Lord Wulfgar Cotley of Wessex, Lord Thork Tykirsson of Dragonstead, Lord James Campbell of the Scottish Highlands, and Lord Alrek Arnsson of Stoneheim.” Drifa stifled a grin at the wincing men beside her, none of whom claimed to be lords of anything.

  Her men went down on one knee and lowered their heads. Alrek almost tipped over, but Wulf grabbed his arm and caught him in time. Drifa merely bowed her head as befitted her high station. If they’d been in closer proximity, she might have been permitted to kiss the emperor’s right hand. As it was, they were at the bottom of three porphyry steps that led to the pedestal on which the thrones rested.

  “Rise and welcome to Byzantium. Your presence at this blessed time is an honor to both me and the empress,” the emperor said, looking toward the stone-faced woman at his side, who would be his wife in a few days. In truth, Drifa felt a shaft of pity spear her for the Empress Theodora, who appeared out of place and miserable.

  The emperor and empress sat on the double seat of an ornate, double-cushioned throne under a canopy of purple silk hangings. Purple was the color reserved for royalty because its dye was made from the scarce murex shell.

  The emperor wore a long-sleeved tunic of purest white with jeweled embroidery around the neckline and a straight line down from chest to feet. Around his neck was a purple chalmys cape adorned with golden squares, the edges of which held jeweled pendants hanging from gold chains. If that wasn’t enough glitter, on his head the emperor wore a gem-studded crown that had a fringe of gem pendants hanging from chains down the nape. Her father and his men would have a good laugh over the crimson shoes.

  Like peacocks, the females were not so colorful. Empress Theodora wore her mostly gray hair pulled tautly off her face into coils above each ear. She wore no jewelry, except for her diadem, which was a smaller version of the emperor’s crown. Her chiton was pale blue silk with no embroidery or adornment of any kind. And she wore no face paint, like many women of the court did . . . kohl, rouge, powder, and such.

  With ritualistic fanfare, the logothete took the parchment roll of credentials from Drifa and handed them to an aide standing near the throne.

  “Your Majesty, I bring you gifts from my father, King Thorvald.” Drifa motioned with her hand for each of the hersirs to step forward one at a time. “Here,” she said, opening a carved wooden case with a satin lining, “are samples of some of the most precious amber harvested by Vikings in the Baltics. As you see, they are all colors and sizes, suitable for display or decoration or to be made into fine jewelry.” The emperor leaned forward with avid interest.

  “For you, Empress Theodora, I have a special gift.” Thork handed her a small, silk-lined leather pouch. Having learned that the empress had been in a convent at one time, Drifa had commissioned Ianthe this morning to quickly make up a set of prayer beads, which the Greeks called komvoskoini. Hers were made of tiny amber balls on a silver chain with a silver amulet containing a relic of St. Sophia that Ianthe had provided. A simple job for Ianthe’s assistants, just a matter of stringing the beads, really.

  You would have thought Drifa had handed Theodora a sack of gold, so pleased was she. In fact, tears welled in her eyes as she said, “I thank you for your gift, Princess Drifa.” Then the empress added, “I understand you are interested in flowers. Would you care to see my private garden?”

  Drifa nodded, and the empress said that one of her ladies would contact her for a time and place.

  The empress was no less homely than she had appeared the night before, but she was a kind woman, Drifa realized, and that was more important. To her, leastways.

  She also gifted the emperor with rare white furs from the North Bear, a tun of mead, and a finely crafted sword perfected in the pattern-welded style, its hilt of solid silver embossed with gold.

  After the presentation of gifts, the emperor gave her a formal invitation to the wedding and bid her stay in the palace as long as she was in the city. He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross in the air, a signal of dismissal. The logothete backed them away from the throne, calling out, “So be it! So be it!”

  As they turned a short distance away, she noticed General Sclerus, chief commander of all Byzantine armies, who had been pointed out to her the night before. He was talking, head to head, with a rat-faced man who stared at her suspiciously.

  She soon found out why.

  “I am Prefect Mylonas,” he said, putting a hand on her forearm to halt her progress.

  She tried to shrug off his insolent hand, but the rodent just squeezed.

  “I noticed the products you gave the emperor. I wonder what other goods you have brought into our country. I know for a fact that you have declared none. No one trades in Constantinople without my permission, not even royal personages.”

  “Trade? What trade?” she sputtered.

  “That is what we will discuss. Come to the Praetorion tomorrow before noon. Do not force me to send my men for you.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  He shrugged. “And here’s another bit to ponder, m’lady. I noticed you have Arab blood in your pretty body. Do you perchance act as spy here in Constantinople for our Arab enemies?”

&n
bsp; “That is an outrageous suggestion. I have only ever known one Arab in passing in my whole life, and he was a medical comrade of my Saxon brother-by-marriage.”

  “Be there. Tomorrow. That is all I will say for now.”

  The exchange took only a moment, and her guardsmen had not yet caught up with her. Her hersirs had not even noticed the man, so much were they gaping at their surroundings.

  But Sidroc had noticed.

  When they were outside in a corridor, he stomped up to her and demanded, “What did Mylonas want with you?”

  “Mylonas? The rat-face?”

  “Precisely.”

  “He wants me to prove that I am not here to trade goods. Or spy.”

  “That is not all he wants.”

  “What?”

  Sidroc motioned for Ivar, her other three guardsmen, and the four hersirs to follow him into a side chamber. It opened onto a long garden that ran in terraced ledges all the way down to the sea wall.

  “Finn and I must leave the city in the morning—”

  “I did not think you were leaving so quickly,” she interrupted. For some reason, her body hummed with alarm. She did not want him to go.

  “Not home, princess. A mission. A short military mission that will take us out of the city for a sennight or so. Ivar,” he said then, turning away from her, “you must take special care to stay with the princess at all times, and to alert others where she goes. People disappear in Miklagard, ofttimes under the directive of Mylonas.” Addressing Drifa again, he said, “I would not want to be forced to rescue your sweet arse from a desert harem where you have been sold as a slave.”

  “Do not be ridiculous. That would never happen.”

  He arched his brows.

  “It has happened more times than I can count. And, clearly, you have come to the attention of the eparch. Not to mention General Sclerus, who has a hatred of anything Arab.”

  “I am not Arab,” she said with consternation.

  “Part Arab,” he corrected dryly.

  Ivar put a hand on Sidroc’s shoulder in a manly way. “Thank you for the warning. We will take special care.”

  Sidroc turned to her hersirs, who stood listening to the information intently. “Wulf, how much longer will you be in the city?”

  Wulf shrugged. “No more than a sennight, but if there is that great a danger, we will take Princess Drifa with us.”

  And cause them further delay. I would ne’er hear the end of it.

  “I would accompany Princess Drifa to the meeting with the eparch but I must leave the city afore dawn,” Sidroc continued, ignoring her totally. “Would you accompany her, Wulf? In fact, all of you?” He indicated her hersirs as well as the guardsmen.

  That seemed a bit of an overreaction to her, but she had more to be annoyed over. “I am standing right here, Sidroc. You do not need to speak as if I am invisible. And let it be known, Wulf, I make my own decisions, and I am not leaving Miklagard until I am ready.”

  The men rolled their eyes in the manner men did when they thought their women were acting illogically. In other words, when they did not agree with them.

  “I have a bad feeling,” Sidroc insisted in the end.

  “I am not your problem,” she asserted, concluding the meeting. Or so she thought.

  “Unfortunately, that appears not to be true.” Before she could question that odd statement, Sidroc turned to the others. “I would speak to the princess in private for a moment. Ivar, you can stand in the doorway and watch if you are concerned about the impropriety.”

  “I have no interest in—” she started to speak, but Sidroc took her upper arm in a vise-like clasp and nigh dragged her into the garden and past the ever-present fountain. With no doubt panic-stricken irrelevance, she noted that this must be a bird garden. Dozens of different kinds seemed to be chirping and singing. When they were far enough from curious ears, he inhaled and exhaled several times.

  “Well, spit it out. ’Tis obvious you have something stuck in your craw. Again.”

  He glared at her. “I’m trying to find the words.”

  She arched her brows and tapped her foot impatiently.

  “Is Runa mine?”

  The things women do to hide their secrets . . .

  Sidroc watched with increasing fury as Drifa’s face went bloodless and she put a hand to her heart, swaying on her feet. What had seemed like an impossible idea a short time ago was becoming possible.

  “What do you mean by such a question?” she demanded in her haughty princess voice, raising her chin and pretending ignorance.

  Hah! She was as innocent as a cobra in a privy. Well, her lies were about to come back and bite her in the arse.

  “What do you think I mean? Every time I mention the child or its father, you get scared. You ne’er answer any questions about the girl. And you just about fainted now when I asked if Runa was mine. You are hiding a secret, M’lady Liar, and I would know what it is. The logical conclusion would be—”

  “—that I birthed a child of your seed? For the love of Frey! When you asked if Runa was yours, you meant ours?” she asked with wide eyes and dropped jaw. And then relief, of all things. “What was it? An immaculate conception? A long-distance tupping? I swear you are the dunderhead of all dunderheads.” She dared to laugh at him.

  His jaw hardened with anger and he fisted his hands to keep from throttling her. “Did you or did you not have your way with me when I was in a six-sennight sleep? Did you birth my child? Was Runa born, oh, let us say, almost exactly four years ago?”

  She stared at him with seeming incredulity.

  “Answer my bloody damn questions?” he roared.

  He could tell she wanted to hit him, but instead she asked in an irksome voice of calmness, “Exactly how would a woman go about having her way with a sleeping man?”

  “As if you do not know! She would wait until he was in a death-sleep, and when he had a nighttime erection, or mayhap she would have brought him to enthusiasm with her hands or mouth, she would climb atop him and hump until his seed shot into her womb.”

  Her eyes got wider and wider with his words. “Mouth . . . enthusiasm . . . hump?” she sputtered. “You think I did those things?”

  He nodded. “Mayhap more than once.”

  “Runa is not a child of my womb.”

  She was lying, or at the least there was some secret she was withholding. “Do you swear the girling Runa is not of my blood?”

  “She is not our child, Sidroc. But just for the sake of curiosity, what would you do if she was? You are a soldier. You have no home. You have no wife.”

  “I will soon have a home, and I would have my child under my shield, regardless. If you bore my child and kept it from me, I would take the babe in a trice and not look back.”

  Her lips quivered and her hands shook as she sank down onto a marble bench. He followed and turned toward her, knee to knee.

  “Sidroc, I have never lain with a man, and Runa is not our child.”

  He was still suspicious. “So, if I asked your men about the girl . . . the color of her hair or eyes, her facial features, they would not say reddish-brown hair, gray-green eyes? If I went to Stoneheim and saw the child, there would be no resemblance?”

  “Nay, do not be questioning my men. And I definitely do not want you going to Stoneheim to disturb my family.”

  “Your wishes are no longer my concern, if ever they were.”

  “I swear to you on my mother’s grave and my father’s heart, Runa is not our child.”

  “Then what secret do you hide?”

  “Mayhap I will tell you one day, but for now it is my secret to keep.”

  “So be it!” He stood and was about to leave. First thing he was going to do was question some guardsmen.

  “Wait,” she said, and stood to face him, a hand on his arm. “For all purposes, Runa is my child, though I did not give her birth. I must needs protect her at all costs. If you promise not to ask any more questions about Runa, I will te
ll you my secret after you return to the city, afore you leave Miklagard for good.”

  He frowned. “Why would I make such a promise? What benefit is there for me?”

  “If you will wait”—her face flushed—“I will . . . I will give you . . .”

  He knew instinctively what she was going to offer in return for asking no more questions. “Forty-two nights in my bed furs?”

  “Or until you leave the city for good.”

  “At which time you will tell me your secret?”

  She nodded.

  “This must be some secret you hold close, princess. You would give me your maidenhead to protect a child. A child you seem to think I might endanger.” He wondered now just who the father might be. Obviously someone of importance. He would find out, eventually. But he was not about to let her off the hook so easily. “You are twenty and nine years old, Drifa. How do I know your female parts are not withered up, like a raisin?”

  Her face flamed, but she shot back, “You are thirty and one. How do I know your dangly part is not shriveled to a winter-soft carrot?”

  He laughed. “My dangly part is just fine, I assure you, especially with that head drilling that was forced on me.”

  “Would you prefer they left you for dead?”

  “As you did?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Do we have to discuss all that again? Will you accept my offer?”

  “Agreed,” he said finally and turned to walk away. But then he stopped. “Come here.” He motioned her toward him with a forefinger.

  He saw her warring with herself, wanting to tell him what to do with his finger. But then she gave in and walked up to where he stood waiting.

  “Put your arms around my neck and seal our bargain with a kiss.”

  She did so with an awkwardness that touched him, despite himself. At first he let her press her lips against his in a kiss that was more suited to a child.

  “Have you forgotten everything I taught you?” He hauled her up against him, chest to chest, groin to groin, causing her to be on her tiptoes.