The Norse King’s Daughter (12 page)

“An Arab,” Sclerus said scornfully. If there was anything the Greeks hated more than Arabs, Sidroc did not know what it was.

“An Arab? In the palace?” Mylonas’s ears perked up with interest.

And the patriarch spat out, “A pagan? Is she a Moslem?” The priest’s eyes were practically bug-eyed with outrage.

“Nay, nay, nay! Drifa is a
Norse
princess. Viking to the bone. Her father is the powerful King Thorvald of Stoneheim.” Sidroc could not believe he was defending the traitorous baggage . . . the woman who might very well prove to be the mother of his secret child. “Really, she has only a speck of Arab blood from her mother’s side.”

All three men gave Sidroc dubious assessments, as if to say,
We shall see
.

“In any case, ’tis time for me to hold audience,” the emperor said, and all three men left the room.

“Holy Valkyries!” Finn said.

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Dost think we should follow and see what Princess Drifa faces?”

Sidroc sighed deeply. ’
Twould seem a Viking’s work is never done.

Chapter Eleven

And then the other shoe dropped . . .

D
rifa had thought she’d seen every marvel in the world in her two days in Miklagard, but it was nothing compared to what she witnessed in the Hrysotriklinos, or Golden Hall, where visiting envoys and delegations were formally presented to the emperor and empress.

The long room that resembled a cathedral in its grandeur had marble and colorful mosaic floors. Like paintings, they were. Even the ceilings were adorned with frescoes, mostly biblical scenes. Off to the side were columns, between and behind which court visitors stood. In fact, everyone—at least two hundred people—stood. Only the emperor and empress sat during the lengthy court rituals. Now that the delegation from the Rus lands and some nuns from a mountainous convent in Crete had been heard, it was her turn.

The
logothete,
or chief minister, led Drifa and her contingent of four
hersirs
forward, each carrying gifts for the royal heads of state.

They proceeded down what felt like a gauntlet of visitors, as well as court officials and their assistants, many of whom were eunuchs. In a conversation her father had been engaged in one time with Rafn, he’d referred to eunuchs as the third sex of Byzantium. There were so many of them because they were considered trustworthy, without high ambitions.

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?”

“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.