The Norse King’s Daughter (5 page)

“Come, my lady, we have provided for you a special escort to take you to your rooms. There is a curfew in the city, and the palace gates close from late afternoon to dawn. Just a precaution to keep the peace,” the senator said. Then he beamed as he announced, “Your guards will be your own countrymen, by the by. Varangian guardsmen.”

If the emperor’s representative and the church leader were dressed with opulence, the Varangians’ attire could only be described as splendid, a far cry from the garments back home, even when they were made of fine materials. They wore tunics of soft red wool, long sleeved and so tight along the forearm that they must be sewn on. That tightness caused the excess fabric to billow out above the elbows. Rich embroidery decorated the neckline, hem, and wrists of the garments in panels showing intertwining leaves of gold and silver thread. The men, all exceedingly tall, mostly with blond hair, wore
braies
of brilliant yellow and blue and pearly white that resembled loose pantaloons down to the knees, where they met highly polished black leather boots.
Chalmys
, long purple cloaks denoting the imperial guard status, were fastened on the right shoulder with brooches bearing the military insignia of the emperor, leaving the right arm free for weapons.

“Good gods!” Thork murmured from her one side.

“Like peacocks, they are,” Jamie murmured from her other side. “I’d like a pair of those breeches in blue.”

“It must take them hours to get clothed in the morn,” Alrek added.

“They are too pretty, by half,” Wulf concluded.

Luckily, all their remarks were low enough not to be overheard, but she suspected that the smirks on her
hersirs’
faces told all.

The senator motioned for the Varangians to step forward. Anticipating her pleasure at meeting some of her countrymen in this foreign land, he smiled and stepped aside, giving her a first close-up view of the colorfully dressed men in the emperor’s elite attire.

But she did not smile.

Standing at attention, dead center of the seven Varangians, was a chestnut-haired man spearing her with luminous gray-green eyes, not unlike the much-loved girling, Runa, back at Stoneheim. It was none other than Sidroc Guntersson.

He, too, was not smiling.

Chapter Five

In the still of the night . . .

A
s they were led, Varangians to the front of them, Varangians to the back of them, through one street after another, then one palace corridor after another, Drifa’s head swung right and left, like a copper weather vane of a rooster she’d seen one time atop a cotter’s barn.

The senator and high priest had departed for the Imperial Palace, where some feast or other was being held, leaving her in the care of the emperor’s guard. Apparently she was not invited, not that Drifa would have wanted to attend in her travel-worn garments.

A huge Nubian chamberlain with rings of keys hanging from his belt—a eunuch by the looks of his smooth-faced, almost feminine features—was leading them to their assigned rooms in one of the smaller palaces. It appeared as if many of the lesser palaces were connected to the central palace by opened-sided passageways, like spokes on a wheel. Everywhere there were fragrant gardens and tinkling fountains. Drifa couldn’t wait to examine them.

“I feel as if I’ve entered Asgard, a paradise beyond description,” Alrek whispered at her side.

“The only thing missing is a few dozen—” Jamie started to say.

“Valkyries,” the rest of her group finished for him.

They all laughed, even some of the Varangians. Not Sidroc, though, she noticed, turning to peer at him over her shoulder. Mayhap he took his guardsman duties seriously, never daring to waver from watchfulness, and that was the reason for his sour demeanor. Probably not, though, because when she glanced to his side, his friend Finn winked at her.

Turning forward once again, her face flamed. She would need to talk to Sidroc soon, and how he would take news of Runa’s—nay, Signe’s—presence at Stoneheim boded ill for Drifa. Her greatest fear was not his fury over her striking him down, but that he would take Runa away from her. But she would not let that prospect dampen her spirits on this great adventure of hers.

Drifa’s mind and all her senses boggled at the passing scenery. As dusk rose over the city like a gossamer cloak, colors swirled and changed on the marble, glass, and mosaic tiles. All the splendor was highlighted by the gold dome of the magnificent Hagia Sophia cathedral in the distance.

Finally they entered the Sun Palace, a structure of pink marble flecked with green malachite chips. It was three floors high and built in the shape of a cross, with a huge garden in its center, and a number of smaller gardens or grottos along each arm. She, her four guardsmen, and the four
hersirs
were assigned one whole arm of the cross on the ground level. If this was a lesser palace, as the apologetic senator had implied, Drifa could not imagine what would be grander.

“Look at those tapestries.” Thork pointed to one of the walls. “My mother would swoon with envy.” The enormous tapestry in question depicted the Last Supper, the One-God religion’s Christ with his twelve disciples.

Drifa had met Thork’s mother, Lady Alinor of Dragonstead. She was far-famed for her sheep and uniquely woven wool fabrics.

“Mayhap you could purchase a tapestry—a much smaller one—to take back to her,” Wulf suggested.

“Me too. And some painted tiles. And cuttings from those flowers over there.” Drifa smiled. “I fear my longship will be overflowing with goods when I return home.”

“And this just your first day here,” Wulf observed, a rare smile of indulgence on his handsome face.

“Perchance you will bring a new husband home with you, too,” Thork added with a twinkle in his mischievous eyes.

She heard a snorting sound behind her, and knew with certainty that it was Sidroc.

“Nay, I have had enough of devious, full-of-themselves men. I much prefer digging in my garden and a good pile of . . . manure.”

There was another snort behind her. And much laughter from her guardsmen and
hersirs
, although they could not know that it was a directed remark.

“I thought we had some fine castles in the Highlands, but they are huts compared to this,” Jamie remarked. “If I brought any of these fine objects home to gift my parents, they would look out of place in the untamed, bare-bones surroundings. Like gold plating a pigsty.”

“There is charm in the wildness of the Highlands,” Drifa asserted.

“Yea, there is,” Jamie agreed with a grin that implied there was wildness, and then there was
wildness
.

Wulf added his opinion. “A rich cream sauce on a breast of pigeon is welcome on occasion, but betimes a thick slab of bloody, hearth-roasted boar better suits.”

“Wine is fine, but beer is better?” Thork asked.

“Precisely,” Wulf said. “And, believe you me, wine flows in Byzantium like mead in the Norselands.”

Once they had all been shown to their chambers and Drifa was introduced by the chamberlain to her new maid, Anna, a Greek slave girl, Drifa thought she was finally alone, but nay, Sidroc was outside in the corridor talking to Ivar, one of her guardsmen, an older man who was a long-time comrade of her father’s.

Well, this was her opportunity. “Sidroc, I need to speak with you.”

He held up a halting hand. “And I have things to say to you, as well, but not now.”

“When?”

He smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. “At my convenience, m’lady.” On those words, he walked lazily after his comrades, his black polished boots clicking on the marble floor.

Sidroc seemed so angry with her. Why? She had rejected his suit, but surely he had to admit that he’d given her cause. Well, she had struck him over the head and he had been in a death-sleep for six sennights, but she had not meant to do him such harm. Still, that must be the reason for his fury. Once she informed him that his daughter was at Stoneheim and thriving, he would probably be thankful, and all would be well again.

Or not.

She would not think on it now. Later.

“What was he discussing with you, Ivar?” she asked.

“Just warning me of the perils to watch for here in Miklagard, and in the palace itself.”

“Oh? Is there something in particular I need to worry about?”

Ivar shook his head. “Nay, as long as we guard you well, your safety is assured.”

“Beware of snakes in the garden, however, princess,” Wulf said, coming up to them. “And I do not mean the crawling-on-the-ground kind. I have warned you afore, and will do so again, there are devious men, and women, in this court who would slit a person’s throat whilst offering words of welcome. The daughter of a Norse king would make a valuable captive for ransom.”

Drifa rolled her eyes. All these warnings were becoming tiresome, but it was interesting that Sidroc was concerned for her safety. A good sign, surely. She held to that positive thought until later that night when she was enlightened to his true sentiments.

For hours she’d been restless, unable to sleep. A new bed in a new country. The unfamiliar sounds of water trickling in the fountain of the small garden separated from her bedchamber by only a latticed wall. A more secure wall could be pulled closed and locked at night, which she should have done, and, in fact, had promised her guards she would do.

Her mind was also occupied with the numerous things she wanted to see and do during her short stay in Byzantium, and, yea, three months was not nearly enough time, but longer than she wanted to be parted from Runa. Worry over Sidroc’s obvious anger also kept her awake.

Mayhap she should get up and close that wall now.

But she did not.

So it was her fault that just as she’d slipped into a light slumber she heard a rustling sound in her room. Before she could open her eyes, thinking it was probably Anna, who’d already checked on her three times, a heavy weight landed on her and a hand pressed over her mouth, stifling her scream. A man, she decided.

Whoever it was said nothing as she squirmed, trying to dislodge him. He just lay on her like a dead weight, almost suffocating her. One hand held her wrists over her head. The other hand still pressed against her mouth. His legs were wrapped around hers. She was immobilized.

“I am going to lift my hand. When I do, if you make even a squeak, I swear, I will strip you naked and blister your backside with the flat of my broadsword.”

It was Sidroc.

“Do you understand, princess?”

Before she had a chance to respond, he released his hand over her mouth, and she began, “Are you demented? How did you get in here?”

“Uh-uh! Bad girling! Bad! I told you to remain silent. Well then, you must prefer I do this.” He put a hand over her breast, and began to massage it roughly. She was wearing only a thin sleep rail, and it was as if he was touching her bare flesh. Even worse, she could feel his thickening against her thigh.

She made a whimpering sound.

“Does that mean you are ready to remain silent whilst I talk?”

She nodded.

“You will speak only when I ask a question. There is naught else you have to say of interest to me.”

If you only knew!

He took his hands off her mouth and wrists and rose to a kneeling position, his rump resting lightly on her legs.

“You are in such trouble, Drifa. Why did you come to Byzantium?”

“To study flowers.”

“Did you know I was here?”

“What?” That question surprised her. “Why would I come here if . . . oh, I see. You think I am chasing after you.” She made a tsking sound of disgust.

“You were hot for me once,” the cad pointed out. She started to say something and he wagged a forefinger at her. “Speak only in answering my questions. Remember.”

She pressed her lips tightly together, but her eyes shot daggers at him.

He just laughed. “So, have you killed any more men since I saw you last?”

“I did not kill you.”

“You tried.”

“I did not! I merely tapped you on the head with a pitcher. How was I to know your head was eggshell thin and would crack so easily? Do you behave in this lackbrained manner because some of your brains seeped out?”

“Nay, but a part of me has grown larger. Foolish maid, did I not tell you to remain silent?” He leaned forward a bit so that the bulge beneath his
braies
touched her nether parts.

Noting with hysterical irrelevance that he wore typical Norse attire now, not the Varangian uniform, she gasped and tried to push against his chest. “You brute! You ignorant oaf. Leave off!”

Which only caused him to take her hands in his again, lacing them on either side of her head. Then in one fluid move, he hooked her ankles with his and spread her legs wide. Arching back on extended arms, his position made his hard rod fit itself into her woman-channel. Only his
braies
and her sleep rail separated them.

To her dismay,
it
seemed lodged against a part of her in such a way that even the slightest movement caused ripples of pleasure to sweep out to other parts of her body. “You have no right to treat me with such disrespect.”

“Keep your voice down, lest one of your guards hear. See this knife in my belt sheath. It is sharp enough to split the hairs on a witch’s whisker. I would hate to kill one of my countrymen on his first night in the Golden City.”

“You would not!” It was hard to speak when she was trying to keep her body stiff and unmoving down below.

“I would. And it would be your fault for having a running tongue.”

Whff, whff, whff
, she huffed inwardly, fighting the rising arousal that just his body pressure was causing. If it were lighter in the room—there was only the moonlight seeping through the latticework—he would see that the skin on her face and other places was flushed. “Can I ask a question?”

“Just one.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can.”

She frowned with confusion. “One more question. Are you trying to seduce me into marriage again?”

“Are you being seduced?” He studied her closer and ran the knuckles of one hand over her breast, causing the nipple to peak.

The ripples turned into waves. Erotic waves.

“Marriage is no longer an option after your crimes,” Sidroc continued.

His insult stopped her pleasure waves like a dam rising abruptly in a fjord. Fortunately. Then another thought came to her unbidden. “Are you already married?”

“Nay.”

Yet another thought occurred to her as she puzzled his odd demeanor.
Crimes? More than one? Oh nay! Surely he does not know about Runa?
“Do you intend to wed, ever? Do you not want children?”

“Why are you speaking?” He ground himself against her. Once. Twice. Thrice.

She closed her eyes for a moment and almost wept at the joyful torture.

“If I do wed and, gods willing, if I fill my longhouse with babes, ’twill not be with the likes of a bloodthirsty wench such as you. I would sooner have a wolf than you to mother my sons and daughters.”