The Norse King’s Daughter (6 page)

That was cruel and unwarranted, and what did it say about Runa and what he would do if he discovered his daughter was alive and that she wanted—nay, intended—to keep the child in her care? Would he consider her an unfit mother, rather, caretaker?

She had to tell him.

Just not yet.

“But that does not mean I will not rut with you. By now you have surely lost your maidenhead.”

“And if I have?”

“It matters not a whit to me. Your experience in the bed arts will be more appreciated than a fumbling virgin’s lack of skill.”

Just then there was a tap on the door, and Ivar said, “Princess Drifa, are you all right? I heard voices.”

Quickly, before she could say him nay, Sidroc rolled over to his back and tucked her in at his side, her head on his shoulder. A sharp knife was pressed at her breast on the other side. “Enter,” he said.

Ivar opened the door hesitantly. “Princess?” Then noticing Sidroc, he drew his sword. “Guntersson! How did you get in here?”

“Princess Drifa let me in, did you not, sweetling?”

She nodded, feeling the sharp point of his knife cut through the cloth of her sleep rail. Turning her face away from him, she tried to gather her thoughts.

“My heartling is just shy,” he told Ivar, then pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Are you not, my little sweet cake?”

Sweet cake?
Her head swiveled so that she could glare directly at him.

“Didst know that the princess and I were betrothed at one time, Ivar? We are . . . um, reconciling.” He made the word
reconciling
sound lewd.

Ivar’s eyes shot to her. With her scant clothing and her bruised lips that he would no doubt attribute to kissing, his indignation faltered. “This is the first I have heard of this. Tell me true, princess, do you want the knave gone, or not?”

She hesitated for only a second. “He will be leaving in a moment. Will you not, my big cow cake?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

Sidroc chuckled and told Ivar, “Leave us for a few moments, and I will be gone . . . for tonight. We have a few matters to
discuss
.” The implication was that they would get a quick swiving in yet.

The obnoxious dolt!

Now that the need for silence was gone, she turned on him. “Get up out of my bed. At once.”

He rose, but just sat on the side of the bed, staring down at her.

She raised the bed linen up to her shoulders.

He laughed derisively before turning more serious. “You said earlier that you had something to say to me.”

Hah! The time for that particular talk had passed. Still, there were some things that must be said. “I apologize for causing your injury. Not for the hitting, mind you. That you deserved. But I ne’er intended to do you such injury.” She waited, expecting—nay, hoping—that he would accept her apology.

He did not.

“I did try to make reparations,” she said.

He just arched his brows at her.

“We tried to find you. I mean, my father and Rafn sent longships hither and yon in an attempt to discover your whereabouts, but you disappeared.” Again she waited for his acceptance of her words.

He said nothing. At first. Then he pointed out, “I lay abed, dying as far as you knew, and you went on a ‘pleasure journey.’ Do you wonder why I am so angry?”

“I can explain.”

“Familiar words. Dost recall how many times I asked you to let me explain my rush to wed?”

She could feel her face heat. He was right. She had refused to listen to his excuses. “I know now why you acted thus . . . your daughter.”

He bristled. “How do you know about her?”

“Finn told us. Do not blame—”

He put up a halting hand. “I do not want my daughter’s name to come from your tempting lips. Ever! She is dead and gone, and whilst you may not have wielded the weapon of her demise, you are partially responsible by keeping me from rescuing her in time.”

“Wh-what?” she sputtered.
Holy Thor!
The man thought Runa was dead.
Now I really do need to tell him of her whereabouts
. “Sidroc, I have something important to tell you.”

“There is naught of importance you could impart to me in my present mood. Now, continue with this lackbrained apology of yours.”

She was the one who bristled now, even as her mind reeled with the news that he thought his daughter dead. “There was no excuse for the cold-blooded way in which you went after me.”

He shrugged.

“Can I say one more thing about your dau— you know who?”

“Nay.”

Despite his refusal, she blundered on, “What if others took matters into their hands whilst you were in a death-sleep?”

He stood abruptly and glared down at her. Nigh shaking with fury, he spat out, “You dare . . . you dare to blame me for Signe’s death? You dare to imply that others did what I could not? I could kill you for that alone.”

“That’s not what I meant. I was merely—”

He waved a hand back and forth in front of his face.

“No more. I must needs leave afore you force me to kill your guardsman.”

“What is it you want from me, Sidroc?” she asked tiredly.

“My father will pay one day for his perfidy, but you . . . It is not what I want, but what you will do. I lost six sennights of my life because of you, six extremely important sennights, and so much more. I intend to make you my bed thrall afore either you or I leave Byzantium. Six sennights. Forty-two nights you will pleasure me in the bed furs.”

“Rape?”

“Nay. As I recall, your passions rode high when I touched you afore. They will again. Your embers will burn, believe you me.”

He was deluded if he thought she would willingly accept him under that kind of threat. Even so, she asked, “In what halfwitted circumstances do you imagine that I would agree to be your anything?”

“Everybody has a weakness. I will discover yours, and then you will yield.”

Drifa thought immediately of Runa and shivered.

“See, already I can see guilt on your devious face. What is it you hide, princess?”

“Not a thing,” she lied, knowing she must change the subject, and quickly. “Assuming you could succeed, and I am unwilling to concede that you could, what if you breed a child on me?”

“I would take it from you. Like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

Her blood turned to ice, but she could not let him see the effect his words had on her.
Think of something else, Drifa. Change the subject.
“You know, I have a gripe, too. Rafn told me what you said about me. ‘Bugger the bitch.’ ”

“Appropriate, don’t you think?”

“Nay, I do not. I could just as easily say ‘Bugger the bastard.’ ”

“Go right ahead. Mayhap we can accommodate each other.”

“You are such a vulgar man.”

“A little bit of vulgarity adds spice to the sex act.”

“I can’t do this. I won’t do this.”

“You have no choice; princess or not, I will have you, and I will have you good and well, and often.”

May the gods spare me from the arrogance of a Viking man!
Not that it was ever going to happen, still she had to ask, “That will satisfy you?”

At first, he stared at her with contempt, but then he grinned down at her with blatant wickedness.

“I certainly hope so.”

The more he learned, the more he fumed . . .

Sidroc was on a military exercise field within the Imperial Palace grounds the next morning when he was approached by one of the four
hersirs
who had accompanied Princess Drifa.

He recognized Wulfgar now, having met him one time briefly in Jorvik while Eric Bloodaxe had still been king of Northumbria. Wulfgar was a Saxon thane, heir to some vast estate in Wessex if he ever reconciled his differences with his estranged father, Ealdorman Gilford of Cotley. He knew this from Thork’s uncle who was Lord Erik of Ravenshire, a half-Saxon, half-Viking nobleman who secretly supported Wulf’s efforts against King Edgar.

“Guntersson,” Wulfgar said in greeting, standing at the side of the arena where Sidroc had been in vigorous swordplay practice with Finn.

Swiping a forearm across his sweaty brow, Sidroc returned the greeting with “Cotley,” and could see that Wulfgar was surprised at his knowing his full name.

“Call me Wulf,” the man said, bristling. Obviously he preferred not to be known by his family name.

He could understand that. “Call me Sidroc.”

The two men sized each other up. Of the same height and musculature, each recognized the other as an equal foe, if the need ever arose.

“Can you spare a moment?” Wulf inquired.

Sidroc nodded and walked over to the barrels of water. Taking a long draught from a cup that hung at the side, he motioned for Wulf to sit on a nearby bench. Joining him, Wulf observed his surroundings. “ ’Tis an impressive display of military preparedness.”

“You have no idea. This is only one of three fields where the Varangian Guard hone their skills, and there are three others for the tagmatic armies assigned to the palace. In addition, there are thematic armies throughout the empire. In all, tens of thousands of armed men, either off to battle, recovering from battle, or about to march off.”

“I understand the emperor, John Tzimisces, is a former military man.”

“He is. Well respected, too.”

“And about to be married.”

Sidroc rolled his eyes. “Wait ’til you see his betrothed. Her appearance will surprise you, but she
is
pious, you must credit her that. Was a nun most of her life.”

“Piety is a requisite for marriage in Byzantium?” Wulf arched his brows at him.

Sidroc snorted. “Hardly. You will soon learn that, as religious as this nation purports to be—they have hundreds of churches in Miklagard alone—they are great practitioners of adultery. And fornication. But then they do penance. Most men of the upper classes have at least one mistress. Many have several.”

“And you?”

Sidroc laughed, not at all offended by the question. “Only one.”

“Have you enjoyed being a Varangian?”

Sidroc shrugged. “It has met its purpose for me. There is much wealth to be gained for good soldiers.”

Wulf nodded.

“Are you interested in joining the guard?”

“Oh, good Lord, nay! I am engaged in another enterprise.” He eyed Sidroc for a moment, as if wondering whether he could trust him, then told him about the pirate activities he led against King Edgar. “That is one of two reasons why I came here this morn. To see if you might be interested in joining us.”

Ah, so that’s why he approached me.
Sidroc was surprised and, yea, flattered at the offer. “Mayhap later. In truth, I am about to resign from the Varangians, but I must needs build a home for myself. ’Tis time for me to set down roots.”

“Where? Dost have a place in mind?”

“I’m considering the Orkneys, but I have not yet ruled out someplace in the Norselands. Wherever I choose, it will be far from my father’s jarldom.”

“I can understand the need to distance oneself from a father, believe you me,” Wulf said. “At least consider it for the future.”

“I will,” Sidroc said. “You mentioned two reasons for approaching me. The other?”

“Stay away from Princess Drifa.”

Sidroc stiffened. “Oh? And why would I do that? More important, why would you care? Are you interested in her yourself?”

“Nay! But she is under my protection whilst I am still here in Constantinople.”

“And how long will you be here?” Sidroc asked coolly. He did not appreciate being bullied on personal matters, even in the guise of friendship.

“A few days. A sennight at the most. But Drifa has four guardsmen who will stay with her.”

There was clear warning in Wulf’s words, past the point of mere bullying, and he did not like it. Not one bit. “What makes you think I would harm her?”

“You entered her bedchamber in the middle of the night.”

“And?”
Pray the gods that is all you know.

“And I know that you were betrothed at one time.”

“Drifa told you that?”
I would not think it was something she would be inclined to boast about.

Wulf shook his head. “Her guard Ivar did. And he was not happy to discover you there.”

“Still trying to figure out how I got in, is he?” He chuckled. “Do you know the circumstances surrounding that betrothal?”

“Nay.”

“Why not ask Drifa?”

“I did.”

And obviously had no success if his frown was any indication. Sidroc had to smile at that. The wench was stubborn with others, too. Not just him.