by Mia Marlowe
“Jorand,” he bellowed across the room. “You’ll never guess who they’ve got guarding this fair city. A pair of pigs’ arses!”
The older soldier dropped his wine and buried his fist in Bjorn’s gut, doubling him over. The younger one leaped on his back, a beefy arm hooked around Bjorn’s neck, trying to wrestle him to the ground.
The insult was still potent, then.
Despite the wine swirling in his brain, Bjorn was ready for the onslaught. He slammed backward into a wall, knocking the wind from his assailant’s lungs in a whoosh. The other tavern patrons scrambled out of the way. In the far corner of the room, Bjorn heard the enterprising proprietor laying odds and taking wagers on the outcome.
The two soldiers were upon him, raining blows on his chest and shoulders. Fists flying, Bjorn lashed out, blocking a few of their punches and landing more than few of his own with satisfying thuds. His blood was afire. The lust to maim and destroy roared through his veins. Pressure built inside him and exploded through his lips in a berserkr cry, fierce as a bear, feral as a wolf pack.
The soldiers reeled back, stunned by the unnatural sound. Evidently they weren’t trained to attack madmen.
“Come, you pathetic little girls,” Bjorn taunted.
They gang-tackled Bjorn and the three of them went flying, rolling over a tabletop and crashing to the floor. Bjorn caught a hobnailed boot to the kidneys as he struggled back to his feet. He grabbed both soldiers by the neck and knocked their heads together. They wobbled, but stayed upright.
The veteran barked an order to his friend, and they launched another assault. The fight boiled out the side door and into a narrow alley in a tangle of arms and legs. Jorand shouted encouragement to Bjorn and followed with the other onlookers.
Bjorn couldn’t see out of his right eye. He swiped at it and his hand came back sticky with blood. One of their blows had split the flesh of his forehead.
“You want blood?” Bjorn roared. He drew out his broadsword in a fluid motion and sliced the air with the long murderous blade. “Let’s play like we mean it.”
Baring their teeth, the soldiers pulled out their swords with metallic rasps. They began circling.
Bjorn flexed his knees, waiting for the first lunge. But suddenly something cracked him on the back of the head. Pain exploded in his brain in a flash of bright light. He heard his own sword clatter to the cobblestones. Then he crumpled in a heap and knew only blackness.
Chapter 31
When Bjorn struggled to the surface, pain was there to meet him. He let himself drift downward again, wallowing in oblivion, like a boar in a mud puddle. Sometimes, he heard voices above him, some gruff, some laced with concern, but no meaning registered in his mind. It was the light that finally forced him to consciousness.
“Close the shutters, for Thor’s sake,” he mumbled and burrowed beneath the scratchy blanket covering him.
“Sorry.” Jorand ripped off the blanket. “You’ve slept all night and most of the day. You’re not getting any prettier, so I thought I’d see if you’d gotten less mean with the extra rest.”
Bjorn groaned. His mouth tasted like a Byzantine legion had tramped through on his tongue. Barefoot. When he tried to sit upright, his head threatened to detach itself and roll off his shoulders. He thought it might be an improvement.
“Mead and ale from now on.” Bjorn raised a steadying hand to his temple. “Promise me you’ll kill me yourself if I ever touch wine again.”
Jorand chuckled. “The wine’s not completely to blame for your head. Some of that’s my doing.”
Bjorn frowned at him. “I’m not up to riddling. What are you talking about?”
“Before you get angry, I think you should know I was under orders.” Jorand shoved a plate of fresh bread and olives into Bjorn’s hands. “Ornolf told me before we arrived at the Arab’s house that I was to follow you last night if you tried to leave us. He’s not stupid, your uncle. Nor blind.”
Bjorn gnawed on the bread, hoping it would settle his stomach. “So does the whole world know me for a fool?”
“Not a fool,” Jorand assured him. “Just a man in love. By the way, Ornolf is really impressed with the way you and the skald carried yourselves. He half expected the two of you to bolt.”
“If I’d had my way, we would have.”
“Anyway, you’re past the worst now,” Jorand said. “Ornolf told me to let you do something foolish if you wanted, but not something deadly. That fight last night was just what you needed, but when you drew your blade, I had to end it.”
“You?”
Jorand grinned and snatched an olive from Bjorn’s plate. “I had to repay the tavern keeper for the amphora I broke over your thick skull, but at least you’re still in one piece.”
Bjorn slanted his gaze at Jorand. He knew his friend expected thanks, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel grateful. He was suffering from far more than the miseries of too much drink and a solid clout on the head. Truly, his body was whole, but his heart was a stone in his chest. Jorand was naive if he thought Bjorn had seen the worst of it already. Bjorn’s pain was just beginning. The long stretch of years without Rika yawned before him. He chewed the bread slowly and swallowed it on reflex, not tasting a thing.
“Where am I?” Bjorn looked down the long hall lined with pallets like the one he lay on.
“The barracks,” Jorand said, pouring some slightly lumpy whitish liquid into a bowl for Bjorn to drink. “Argus and Zander were pretty decent once I explained things to them. Of course, the silver I crossed their palms with helped as well.”
Bjorn raised a brow at Jorand, then winced. Even that little movement hurt. “Argus and Zander?”
“They’re the soldiers you fought with last night.” Jorand held out the noxious-smelling bowl toward his captain, urging him to drink. “You’re the not the first man to lose a woman, you know. They understood.”
Bjorn snorted and curled his lip at the bowl his friend offered. “What’s that?”
“Goat’s milk, two eggs and some other things you don’t want to know about,” Jorand said without the slightest sympathy. “Drink up. Argus says it’ll clear your head.”
Bjorn drained the bowl. “Ugh! Damn Paphlagonians are still trying to kill me.” He swiped his mouth with the back of his arm. “Why are we here? Am I under arrest?”
“No, nothing like that,” Jorand said. “Seeing as you were so keen to pick a fight, Argus thought you could be tempted to join his regiment as a tagmata. That’s what they call their mercenaries. He figured you might as well get paid for something you enjoy doing. He says there are already quite a few Northmen in service here.”
Bjorn’s ears pricked to some new sounds, the tramp of many hobnailed boots and the clatter of wooden blades meeting. He dragged himself to his feet and trudged down to the open doorway. Out on the expansive flat yard, men were drilling, sparring and honing their fighting skills against each other and against clever devices that simulated the random thrusts of combat. At the far end of the field, a cavalry unit practiced tight turns and goaded their mounts into rearing and slashing with their hooves.
The evil concoction of goat’s milk seemed to be working. Bjorn’s head felt surprisingly clear. Rika was as good as dead to him. The dream of his own land faded into the mists of his memory along with the rest of Sognefjord. Any softness or ease he might have enjoyed with Rika at his side melted away with it. Blood and grit and a violent death were all he could see ahead of him.
As he watched the men in the yard, he felt a growing kinship with them. Battle. That was something he understood. This was where he belonged.
“They say the pay is only passing fair,” Jorand said.
Grim-faced, Bjorn nodded. “It’ll be enough.”
With any luck, the years without Rika wouldn’t be so long after all. Or so many.
Chapter 32
The scent of night-blooming jasmine was still heavy in the air when Rika opened the shutters. She leaned on the sill and inh
aled. Nothing. The fragrance was sweet, but she could find no joy in it. It was as though a shroud had been draped over her heart and she knew neither pleasure nor pain. She wondered whether she’d ever feel anything again.
Rika scanned the courtyard below and found Ornolf and Jorand sitting under the pergola, heads together, speaking in low voices. Whether by a fluke of architecture or by design, every word floated up to her third-floor room. She wondered whether the other chambers in the women’s quarters enjoyed the same covert advantage.
“So he has enlisted, then?” she heard Ornolf ask.
“Ja, he made his mark on the tablet yesterday afternoon.”
“Probably just as well. He needs a change,” Ornolf said. “And besides, the spoils of war can make a man rich. He’ll make a fortune with his blade, no doubt. But we will have to find another man to make the trip back north next spring. I don’t want to portage around Aeifor short-handed again. When will the regiment leave the city?”
“Next month, Bjorn says. They go east to fight the Saracens.” Jorand raked a hand over his golden head. “He’s not seeking a fortune, though. It’s a battle-death Bjorn is after.”
Rika’s heart plummeted to her toes. She was wrong. She could feel something after all.
Ornolf made a low growl of annoyance in his throat. “Where have they placed him?”
“He’s in the infantry now, but Argus told me the commander would like to see him in the cavalry. Bjorn has some skill with horses, as you know. Yesterday, they were having trouble with a four-hoofed imp from Loki who wouldn’t submit to a saddle for anything. Bjorn snatched the lead rope, hauled the horse’s head down and grabbed him by the ear. Then he whispered something to the beast and it settled immediately. Bjorn vaulted up on his back and paraded around the ring once or twice, then he hopped off and tossed the lead to the commander. The horse had the manners of a prince after that,” Jorand said. “Bjorn’s made a reputation for himself as a horse master already, but members of the cavalry have to provide their own mount and kit. Bjorn doesn’t have the silver.”
Rika heard the rattle of coins.
“See to it,” Ornolf said. “The infantry is no better than a meat-grinder for someone seeking death. At least on horseback, he’s got a chance of surviving if he comes to his senses soon enough.”
“Won’t the jarl be upset at the expense?” Jorand tucked the money away in the pouch at his belt.
“With the profit I’m making for him on this trip, I think Gunnar can spare his brother a horse.” Ornolf snorted. “Compared to what he’s taken from Bjorn, it’s little enough.”
“Good morning, my lady.” Al-Amin’s smooth alto made Rika jump away from the window. She turned to see the portly eunuch set down a silver tray laden with fruit and bread. Then he smoothed down Rika’s bedding, with Helge following him like an angry bee.
“I tried to keep him out, but he’s a pushy one, so he is,” Helge said. “In and out of a lady’s bedroom without so much as a by your leave. It’s not fitting, not fitting at all.”
“Evidently, it is here, Helge,” Rika said. “We are living in a new land. We must adjust to new customs.”
When she reached an accord with Farouk-Azziz, he insisted on giving her Al-Amin as a body servant. Each of his wives had a eunuch of her own, in addition to maidservants to attend to their daily wants. Eunuchs offered the protection of a man’s strength along with the asexual indifference that made them perfect for service in a harem. The fact that Farouk had gifted Rika with his own servant was seen as a mark of special favor, Al-Amin assured her.
Either that, or a clever way of keeping a very close eye on her.
“After you have broken your fast, you will have your bath, my lady,” he said.
Rika blinked. “I bathed just last night.” Under normal circumstances in the Northlands, bathing once a week was considered sufficient for decent hygiene, especially in winter.
“You will find that here, it is customary to bathe twice a day,” the eunuch said. “As you say, my lady. A new land. New customs.”
After she ate some bread and a few tart slices of a fruit called an orange, Rika trailed Al-Amin out of her chamber toward her bath.
The third floor of Farouk’s grand house was the exclusive haunt of women and their servants. In accordance with security needs, the long hallway around the square was on the outside wall, totally enclosed but for a few slits through which a defender could loose arrows without exposing himself. These slits also allowed air to circulate through the rooms with surprising efficiency. There was only one staircase leading out of the women’s quarters, going down through Farouk-Azziz’s personal suite of rooms on the second floor or up to the pleasant roof garden.
Farouk had taken her there on that first night to watch the moon rise over the city. She supposed he thought it would dazzle her to see the splendor of Miklagard at her feet. Maybe he even saw it as a conciliatory gesture, another sop to her bruised esteem after his unfortunate ‘cow’ reference. Not that it mattered to Rika in the slightest.
She was sure she’d piqued his interest anyway. Not sexually, of course. He’d been forthright about his feminine preferences, but he seemed to see Rika as a mental challenge. She expected to see more of her fiancé in the future than she would have liked.
Helge bustled along behind Rika. “I still don’t hold with bathing so often, mistress,” she said, as they slipped into the sumptuous bathhouse. “Especially not with a man standing by gawking the whole time.”
“Lady Helge, do not concern yourself,” Al-Amin said. “I was fitted for this service long ago. I do not have a man's natural tendencies. My presence here is for my lady’s protection and convenience, nothing more.”
Helge raised a skeptical silver eyebrow at him.
“Most of the household staff is like me, but there are a few intact men who work in the stables. We would not wish for one of them to stumble into my lady’s bath unannounced now, would we? Hence, my presence.”
Rika undid her brooches and slid out of her tunic and kyrtle. Helge continued to scowl at the eunuch, clearly unconvinced.
“Still seems unnatural to me,” Helge muttered.
“Oh, it is,” Al-Amin said with amazing frankness as he extended a long arm to help Rika into the bath. “Most eunuchs are made, not born. The lucky ones, like me, were altered young. It is impossible to miss what one has never had.”
“And the others?” Rika took a scented cake of soap from his hand.
Al-Amin shrugged eloquently. “I have heard that eunuchs emasculated after their tenth year, suffer the loss of their manhood greatly.”
“Ah! I told you she was here.” The new voice made Rika turn in the water toward the sound. An olive-skinned woman glided into the bathhouse dressed in a fluttering palla, so thin and ethereal it was as though she wore butterfly wings. She moved with the grace of a falcon in flight, her expression fierce as well. She stopped at the edge of the pool. “Stand up so we can get a look at you,” she ordered.
Rika stared at her and the two other women flanking her. They were each attended by a bare-chested man dressed in baggy trousers, the same as Al-Amin. This entourage could only be the wives of Farouk-Azziz and their eunuchs.
“Are you addle-brained as well as big as a red Norse cow?” The woman’s eyes were large, expertly enhanced with kohl, and glinted with a hard light.
The insult stunned Rika, but not as much as the exact wording. Obviously, someone had overheard Farouk’s initial reaction to her and spread the word. Life in a harem was much like the Danish court. Rika made a mental note never to whisper anything she didn’t want to hear shouted.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” the woman demanded.
“Only that in the North, introductions are a better way to begin a conversation than insults.” Rika deliberately turned her back on the assembly and began lathering her outstretched arm. “If you wish to speak with me, please see Al-Amin to arrange a time that will be more convenient. You are distu
rbing my bath.”
She heard the woman make a squeaking noise of frustration and stomp out, trailed by her coterie of followers.
“Well done, my mistress.” Al-Amin expelled all the air from his capacious lungs. “Not many women would stand up to the head wife that way. In your country, you must be a queen among women.”
“Hardly,” Rika said as she climbed out of the bath and allowed Al-Amin to drape a thick towel over her shoulders.
“It is well that Sultana knows you will not bend to her will, but beware of making an enemy of her,” Al-Amin cautioned. “Her son, Kareem, is the master’s heir. She will hold much power when he comes into his own.”
Rika sighed. She really didn’t care. Intrigue and plotting and lusting for power all seemed so empty. All she wanted was Bjorn, and since she couldn’t have him, there was really nothing else in the world she cared much about. Perhaps love was actually a curse after all. Like the unfortunate late-made eunuchs, she’d suffer all the more for what she had known.
But she’d never wish to undo her knowledge. She would never see Bjorn again, yet his face was there each time she closed her eyes. At night, in the first flush of waking from a dream, she almost thought she could feel him beside her. No matter what her future held, Bjorn would always be with her. She would grow old and feeble, but he would remain forever young and virile, frozen in her memory.
He’d become a soldier, Jorand had said. She made up her mind not to try to learn where he was, lest she hear that he had fallen in some battle. As long as she lived, he would, too. Magnus had always told her that the Lady of Asgard, Freya, looked with compassion on unhappy lovers and made a place for them in her great hall. Perhaps Bjorn would come to her there and they would love each other in the next world as they longed to in this one.
Yet here and now, she had Helge and Al-Amin to consider. Rika detested domestic politics, but she knew how to play the game. She would have to stir herself enough to make a comfortable place in this household for the sake of her servants. Perhaps she should begin by finding out who had repeated the ‘red Norse cow’ comment to Sultana.
