The Norse King’s Daughter (21 page)

Gismun had reported back to them last night after one full day in the tent city, pretending to be a horse trader from one of the distant Arab tribes. He was offering a fine stallion for sale, one that Sidroc had actually been given by the emperor some time ago.

Gismun was able to tell them where the harem tents were located, and, to everyone’s distress, he said that he’d seen Drifa in passing. And she had fingermark bruises on both sides of her face.

When asked, Marizke told them that the prince was in a rage over Drifa’s lack of virginity, although no one was supposed to know about it except him and his mother, the evil queen. Apparently the queen mother had taken a dislike to Drifa, mocking her Norse background in front of one and all, and jabbing her with a cane every chance she got. Further evidence of the woman’s cruelty, she forced Drifa to sleep with her pet panther. Did not matter that the panther was harmless, Drifa had to be terrified.

Sidroc swore he would kill Bahir and his mother, once everyone was safely away from the tent city.

“You must be discreet. Never speak unless spoken to, and then only in one word, if possible,” Sidroc advised Ianthe.

“Get Drifa alone as soon as possible and inform her of our plans.

“Neither of you should do anything to draw attention to yourselves.”

“Sidroc! We have gone over these instructions already. You do not have to remind me.”

He wasn’t so sure about that. He was just so worried, leaving the fate of their plans in the hands of these two women. He should be more trusting, he supposed, but he knew how unpredictable Drifa could be. And Ianthe was growing more like her by the day. Finn, he trusted implicitly, but anything could go wrong in a situation like this.

“Pray,” Ianthe advised them all when dusk finally came. “Drifa and I will expect you after everyone has gone to sleep.”

He nodded, then pulled Ianthe aside. “Tell Drifa—” He stopped to clear his throat. “Tell her that I promise to return her to her little girling.” But then he realized when he saw the stunned expression on Ianthe’s face, how lackwitted that sounded, and added, “Tell her we have unfinished business.”

A woman is expected to do
what
? Eeew!  . . .

Drifa was sitting cross-legged on the carpet along with the other harem “prisoners,” which was how she chose to regard the concubines. They were getting yet another lecture from the Imad, the head eunuch, on “How to Please the Master.”

“Eeeew!” murmured Marizke, the Slavic thrall-concubine, who folded herself down beside Drifa after returning from the privy.

“He is still discussing ‘licking the tree,’ ” Drifa whispered to Marizke, who had her head bowed slightly as if listening intently to Imad. “I am a gardener, but I have ne’er licked any tree. Who wants to swallow . . . bark?”

Marizke put a hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. “Or sap?”

Drifa’s head shot to the right. “Ianthe?”

Ianthe put a fingertip to her lips.

“How? When? Thank the gods!”

“Princess Drifa, since you are in such a talkative mood, would you like to come forward and demonstrate for us,” Imad requested in a voice that was not a request, but an order.

Imad spoke in Arabic, but another young eunuch, Habib, translated everything he said into several other tongues represented in the harem: Greek, Italian, even Saxon English.

“Uh, my apologies. I just wanted to make sure Marizke’s stomach ailment is better.”

Habib translated for her.

Imad arched his brows with suspicion, but just then the stomach growled in the heavy concubine sitting in front of them, and everyone laughed, thinking it was Marizke.

“Isobel, then,” Imad said, smiling at the woman in front, a favorite of Bahir’s from the Saxon lands. They soon found out why. “Isobel will demonstrate the correct way to ‘Milk the Tree.’ ”

Isobel stepped forward and took from Imad’s hands a long marble phallus, similar to the ones Drifa had seen in the Miklagard marketplace.

Several of the women giggled.

Imad cast them frowns, and they immediately stopped, knowing the head eunuch had methods of punishment that did not show, like whipping the bottoms of their feet or making them wear a small metal rod inside the body for an entire day. One young woman even had a rod put up her backside, a particularly painful punishment for daring to defy the queen mother, who’d ordered her to disrobe and sit on the lap of a visiting horse breeder the prince wanted to impress.

Drifa had been here only a week, but she knew the best course was to make oneself as inconspicuous as possible. Even then, it was only her high status as a Norse princess, and possible sixth wife, that saved her from some agonizing or humiliating chastisement.

Everything the harem concubines did was intended for the master’s benefit. The way they dressed (scantily when in his private quarters) or ate (root vegetables presumably making them lustsome, though carrots never made Drifa think of sex) or cared for their bodies (shaved nether parts being a preference), even the thoughts in their heads (nothing of substance), were intended to please this one man only.

But wait, Isobel was doing something amazing with the marble phallus. She was kneeling with her head bent back so that her neck was arched. Little by little, she eased the entire bloody manpart all the way in. Then out. Then in.

“It is all in the art of relaxing the throat muscles,” Imad told them. “Let the master touch your hearts.”

From the inside? Is he demented?
“Good gods!” Drifa murmured, despite her resolve not to speak.

Ianthe’s jaw had dropped with astonishment.

“Now, notice how she milks the tree on the end before easing it in again. And sometimes the good concubine will let the tree do all the work.” He smirked and stepped forward, taking the phallus in hand and thrusting it in and out of Isobel’s receptive mouth, mimicking the sex rhythm.

“She deserves every accolade Bahir gives her,” Ianthe whispered in amazement.

“Better her than me,” Drifa whispered back.

Imad patted Isobel on the head when he was done with her, almost as if she’d performed the act on him. “You may have the rest of the day to yourself, sweet one.”

Isobel smiled coyly, but as she was leaving the tent, Drifa noticed the look of desolation on her pretty face. She also noted the livid scar on her one cheek, the kind left by the tail of a lash. How many punishments had Isobel suffered to reach this state of compliance?

After their lesson, they went off for the midday meal of fruit and olives. Drifa and Ianthe had only a few moments of privacy, not wanting to draw any attention to themselves.

“Tonight,” Ianthe said.

Drifa nodded.

“We must wait for a signal. There will be a distraction.”

She nodded again. “Who is here?”

“Seven of us.”

“Huh?”

“Sidroc, Finn, Ivar, Farle, Gismun, and Ulf.”

“Sidroc wanted to be gone from Byzantium. He is angry, isn’t he?’

Ianthe grinned. “A mite piqued to be so inconvenienced.”

“I can imagine.”

“Not to worry, my dear. I think the man has strong feelings for you.”

“Like hate, mayhap.”

“He said to give you a message. He promises to deliver you back to your little girl.”

She groaned.

“Also,” Ianthe said with a note of mischief in her voice, “he said there is unfinished business betwixt you.”

Oh gods
, she thought.
Now I will owe him even more nights of passion.

Imad entered the dining tent then and clapped his hands for attention. “Come, ladies, time for more pleasure lessons.”

As they walked sedately through the chain of tents, their faces demurely covered lest they run into an unwary male—gods forbid!—one of the concubines asked the eunuch, “What do we learn next, Teacher Imad?”

“Today we henna our flower buds.”

“Flower buds?” Ianthe mouthed to Drifa.

“Nipples.”

Chapter Twenty

My hero! . . .

T
he horses were released, and the tent city went into a frenzy of yelling and running, giving Sidroc and Finn the opportunity to approach the harem section. The others stood guard at various points, including Ivar, who was determined to blood his battle-axe this night. Sidroc planned the same. Hopefully his weapon would have royal Arab blood on it.

Finn made an owl cry three times. Stopped. Then hooted again. This was the signal he’d practiced that was intended to show Ianthe and Drifa where the men were waiting for them. What they hadn’t taken into account was the noise and whether their signal could be heard over the panicked voices and screams inside and outside the tent.

Just when he heard a female voice say, “Sidroc?” an Arab guardsman approached them from behind.

Sidroc motioned with his head for Finn to release the women by cutting the tent fabric with a sharp blade, while he raised his broadsword high overhead in two hands. Within seconds, despite the dodging miscreant and two failed attempts, his third wide arc nigh severed the man’s neck. Blood spurted everywhere, including onto Sidroc’s body, but he had no time to worry about that because others soon followed.

He scarce noticed as Finn led the two women—nay three women, for gods’ sake!—by him, but he did hear a cry of distress from Drifa, followed by a warning of “Be careful, dearling.”

Dearling?

No matter! He now faced two other men with those ancient curved sickle swords called
khopeshs
in hand, shouting Arab obscenities at him. He dropped his broadsword and used his short sword in one hand and lance in the other to fight. It was a particular technique he had perfected where he distracted the enemy with a swing of the lance toward their knees and then lunged with the sword.

Finn was back and Ivar was with him. The three of them worked well together, raising the death throes from five more and raising the sword dew on three others who managed to run away when he paused to ask Finn, in that brief moment of respite, if the women were safe.

“Yea, except for Marizke, who ran back inside the tent. Apparently she prefers the devil she knows to the ones she does not.”

“Meaning us?”

“Precisely. In any case, we have to get out of here, too,” Finn said.

They were all breathing heavily, but the berserk lust was still in Sidroc. Fighting was what he was trained to do, and he did it well. It was not easy for him to walk away from a fight.

“You and Ivar go first. I’ll meet you in a few hours at that oasis where we rested last night.”

“Nay! I’m not leaving without you,” Finn insisted.

“Do not be demented, Guntersson,” Ivar added. “There are too many of them and too few of us.”

“I want to kill Bahir first. I
need
to kill the bastard.”

“Save that for another day,” Finn advised.

“I cannot let the prince escape punishment for his misdeeds.”

“Shall I hit him over the head and carry him out over my shoulder?” Ivar asked Finn. He was talking about Sidroc, not ad-Dawlah.

“If you must,” Finn agreed.

“Idiots!” Sidroc said, realizing once he calmed down that it was foolhardy to stay. Bahir would send his men for him. The coward would not engage himself lest the odds were greater in his favor. Nay, Sidroc would be taken captive. So, with several foul words, he joined Finn and Ivar in rushing toward the area where their camels were waiting. Gods, he hoped the camels could gallop because if Bahir and his men came after them on horseback they would be in dire trouble.

But, thank Thor, god of war, the second part of their plan erupted just then. From three different areas of the tent city, he saw fires break out. The dried tent fabrics soon went up in flames and spread fast. Hopefully the Arabs would care more about saving their tents and goods and any people left inside before chasing after them.

By the time Sidroc and his two comrades-in-arms caught up with the others, they’d had to fight off more of the Arab soldiers on two different occasions. Once four men, the other time, three. For now, the battle lust had passed in Sidroc, replaced by the survival lust. No one spoke, just galloped as long as the animals would allow, and for once Lucifer was not balking or farting.

He no sooner dismounted from Lucifer than Drifa launched herself at him. He caught her just in time as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and wept into his neck. He had no recourse but to hold her about the waist, her legs dangling above the sand.

“Thank you, thank you for saving me, I got my monthly flux and if you hadn’t come I would have had to marry the slimy prince even though Ianthe said not to worry, but they were going to make me practice tomorrow with the marble phallus, and, oh, I think I would have killed myself first, but they already hennaed me and Ianthe, we couldn’t stop them, and the queen mother is more vicious that a maddened warrior, and she made me sleep with her bloody panther whose breath smelled like rancid meat, and I need a bath so bad, and did you know that fermented goat’s milk is considered a prized drink like mead, and what took you so long, not that I am complaining, but . . .”

On and on she blathered, never stopping to take a breath, with Sidroc only understanding half of what she said. In the end, he began to laugh. He couldn’t help himself.

Soon the rumbling of his chest must have alerted her to his mirth. Drawing her head back, she stared at him. Her face was dirty and tear-tracked, her hair snarled, and her nose red. In total, she looked nigh adorable, even with the ignoble bruise marks on both sides of her face.

“You are laughing at me?” she asked, hurt limning her voice.

“Well, you must admit, you were talking without taking a breath. I must ask, though, what exactly were you going to practice with a marble phallus?”

She blushed and tried to squirm out of his hands, but he wasn’t letting go. Not yet.

But then she noticed the dark stains on his tunic and face, and now on her night rail, as well. A very nice night rail, by the by, one that gave him shady glimpses of not-so-hidden delights.

“You are hurt. Oh my gods! Were you wounded? Where?”

He should release his hold on her, but he didn’t want to. Still, with a sigh of regret and a quick squeeze, he did in fact do so. This was not the time or place.

She slid to her feet and began undoing his belt in an attempt to raise the hem of his garment and check his injuries. Everywhere she moved her hands, he checked her, but she just tried another spot.

He started laughing again, especially when she slapped at him each time he kept her from revealing his skin. “Later, Drifa. Later you may have access to my body. I am not hurt. It is my foeman’s sword dew.”

“Oh,” she said, stepping back. Then, “Eeew!” as she noticed the front of her garment, now hugging her breasts wetly. He should be repulsed. He was not.

Ianthe came up with cloths for both of them to wipe off the mess, the best they could do until they got to a water hole. Then Ianthe leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I kept telling Drifa that you would come, but she was worried.”

“You doubted me, princess? Tsk, tsk, tsk!”

“ ’Tis not that I doubted you. I knew you would try, but—”

“How did you know that I would try?”

“That is the kind of man you are. A man of mettle.”

He felt oddly elated at that compliment.

“—but I worried that you wouldn’t succeed . . .”

Not so elated, after all.

“ . . . not with so many guards. There are some women who have been captive there for ten years and more. Like poor Isobel.” She looked over to the woman talking with Finn. She was attractive, but thirty if she was a day, and thinner than his friend usually preferred. Plus there appeared to be a livid scar on one side of her face. He had to peer closer to see if his eyes were playing him false, but, nay, Finn was indeed gazing at the woman as if he’d discovered gold.

He and Drifa exchanged an amused glance.

It was decided to split the nine of them into three groups heading in different directions, but with the ultimate destination being Miklagard, where both Sidroc and Drifa had longships that could take them away, if it became necessary. They hoped to confuse any enemy followers and weaken their ranks. No one was surprised when Finn chose Isobel and Ulf to ride with him. Farle and Gismun would travel with Ianthe. And he would be with Drifa and Ivar.

They all sat about the oasis, having a last cold meal together before separating. The skies were still dark, which would be an advantage if their escape was to succeed. It would be hours before dawn.

“I want to go home,” Drifa told him.

“To Byzantium?”

“Nay, to the Norselands.”

“Mayhap you should. Leastways everyone has been advising such from the beginning.”

“Are you going to gloat?”

“Just a little.” He smiled. “If Ivar rides ahead later and gets there before us, he can make ready your longship. If we get there first, I can put you in the hands of your seaman.”

“Where are you going? Aren’t you leaving, too?”

“Eventually, but I refuse to leave without getting my Varangian pay for the past year. The emperor owes me.”

“Well, that is all right because I am not leaving without my sketchbooks and paints, and the roots that Ianthe saved for me, plus seedlings and grafts that the imperial gardener promised. The jewelry I left in my palace chamber is worth a fortune. And I still need to buy a gift for my father. When I said I want to go home, I didn’t mean immediately.”

Sidroc rolled his eyes, as did Ivar, who had heard it all from her other side.

“Do what you will,” Sidroc said on a long sigh. “You will anyway.”

“Nay, you misspeak me, Sidroc. What I meant is that I can wait for you.”

“Did I ask you to?”

“Aaarrgh!” She seemed to brace herself. “I want you to come to Stoneheim with me.”

Her pronouncement was met with his silence.

The Big Reveal was really big! . . .

Lackwit!
Lackwit!
Lackwit!
Drifa berated herself for her clumsy words and was about to try again in a more subtle fashion, but Gismun yelled, “Men coming! Men on horseback coming!”

While properly shod horses could travel across the desert just fine, they could not go long distances without water or rest. Camels, on the other hand, could last for long stretches without stopping.

While Drifa hid behind the camels with the two women, their six men fought valiantly for an hour or more, leaving on the desert floor ten enemy dead, and only minor wounds on Finn, which Isobel was already tending. All the men in her group, but especially Sidroc, were skilled swordsmen. She had to admire their talents. In truth, the six of them were comparable to twice or thrice their number of other fighting men. She could see why Sidroc and Finn had been recruited for the Varangians. She could see why her father had chosen these four particular guardsmen for her safety.

“No more dawdling,” Sidroc said to her a short time later. “Time to get up on Lucifer and get out of here.”

Dawdling?
She had been waiting for him. The lout! “Lucifer?”

“My camel. The camel from hell. You know, the One-God religion’s evil one.” He pointed over to where one particular camel stood apart from the other five.

“For shame! You can’t call that lovely camel Lucifer.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, ’tis a nasty name for such a beautiful animal.” They walked toward the animal and Drifa stroked its snarled pelt. In truth, it was a smelly beast, and not at all comely, despite what she’d said to Sidroc. But she had always held that animals had feelings, too, and ’twas not nice to speak ill of them in their presence.

“Are you referring to the selfsame beast that likes to spit on me and fart to the beat of its plodding hoof steps?”

Drifa stifled a giggle as the camel gave Sidroc the evil eye but seemed to purr at Drifa.

Sidroc gaped with incredulity.

“For another thing, it is a girl, not a boy.”

“What? It is not! Is it? How do you know?”

She put both hands on her hips and gave him a look one might lay on an ignorant boyling. She glanced down at the camel’s nether end, then over at another camel’s nether end. A vast difference!

“Oh. How could I have missed
that
?”

Ivar was laughing so hard he almost fell off his camel, which he’d already mounted . . . his very male camel.

“So, no Lucifer. You could name her Lucy, though. For St. Lucy, or St. Lucia, the Christian patron saint of blindness. Even Norsemen pray to her betimes to be able to withstand the darkness of the long winters.”

“Are you going to talk the whole way to Miklagard?” He was doing something with a switch to get the camel to kneel so that they could mount.

“Does someone have a thorn in his paw?”