Maidensong (30 page)

He’d protested that it didn’t matter, and maybe it
wouldn’t for a while. But sooner or later, it would. A
life without honor was no life at all. They both knew
that. And he would come to despise her for destroying
him. His love would turn to hate.

She told herself she could bear living without him.
She could even bear a loveless marriage to a stranger. But she couldn’t bear Bjorn’s loathing.

They reached the home of Farouk-Azziz, a three-
story affair just off the main road that presented blank
marble walls to the street. From this position, Rika
could see only one tall set of double doors and no win
dows. Despite its opulence, the house had the look of
a prison. Her courage nearly faltered.

Ornolf rapped soundly on the door and the opening
swung wide to reveal a portly, bare-chested eunuch.
His broad, swarthy face parted in a wide smile as he
recognized Ornolf.

“A thousand welcomes, Northman.” The man
sketched a gesture of greeting as he bowed
to admit them. “My master will be pleased to see you
again so soon.”

Uncle Ornolf returned the gesture and smiled. “
Many years and good ones, Al-Amin,” he said in the
time-honored tradition of Byzantines.

Rika knew she was expected to step forward, but her feet were leaden. She felt rooted to the spot. Once
she entered this house, there was no going back.

Bjorn scooped her up into his arms and carried her
over the threshold into the large enclosed courtyard.

“What are you doing?” She tightened her arms around his neck, barely resisting the urge to lay her head on his shoulder.

“Don’t you remember? It’s bad luck for a bride to trip on her new doorstep,” he said loudly, then
dropped his voice in an urgent whisper. “Even now,
love. Say the word and
I’ll
take you away.”

Sharp-edged longing pierced her chest, nearly stopping her breath. There was nothing in the world she
wanted more. Nothing except the life she wanted for
him, a life of purpose and honor among his own peo
ple. A life he could never have if he broke his oath for
her. She pressed a hand against his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath it.

Somehow, her mouth formed the words. “I can’t.”

The hopeful light went out of his
eyes and the flat, dead expression returned. He set her
down lightly and stepped back from her.

“Then good-bye, Rika.” He turned and strode out of
the Arab’s house without a backward glance.

 
Rika watched numbly as Bjorn turned on the far side of the courtyard door and strode forever out of
her sight and out of her life. Ornolf gave an almost im
perceptible nod toward Jorand and, on that tacit sig
nal, the young man broke into a trot after his captain. The big eunuch closed the double doors behind Jorand, barring them with a massive piece of timber. Rika’s first impression of the house as a prison rang more true by the moment.

“Please, come with me and refresh yourselves.” Al-Amin led them into a vine-covered pergola in the
spacious courtyard. He clapped his hands and maidservants appeared bearing silver ewers filled with
rosewater. “If you will condescend to wait here, I will
inform the master of your coming.” He bowed once
more before turning to glide into the dark shadows of
the house.

Rika followed Ornolf’s example and splashed some of the fragrant liquid on her face. Perhaps it would
help her to feel something. She had the eerie sense of
watching herself from outside her own body, a strange
detachment from the actions of her own limbs.

All she wanted to do was hide somewhere and cry
until there was nothing more inside her to spill out.
There were so many unshed tears pressing against the back of her eyes, she felt the tension in her face creep
down her neck. If she once succumbed to weeping, she
feared she’d never stop.

“Oh, mistress,” Helge said. “Isn’t this a fine place?
I’ve never seen the likes of it, so I haven’t.”

The Arab’s house was more
than magnificent. In Rika’s wildest dreams, not even Val
halla was this opulent. The size, the ornamentation,
the costly building materials and fine appointments of
the house proclaimed not only wealth but exquisite
taste as well. Rika sniffed. However gilded and per
fumed it might be, a cage was still a cage.

The house was designed in a large square surround
ing the open courtyard, in which a riotous garden
bloomed. The lowest level of the
three stories was devoted to stables and storage. The
kitchens must be on that level as well, since Rika could
smell the savory aroma of roasting meat and the yeasty
scent of baking bread mingling with the homely scent
of warm horseflesh and fresh straw. Water splattered into the base of a fountain whose flow disappeared into a low, white marble building in the cen
ter of the courtyard. Bathhouse, she surmised.

 
The boxy appearance the house presented to the
outside world was softened inside by arches and sinuous curves. It seemed deceptive to Rika and she
yearned for the straight lines of a longhouse. Inside the
massive structure, every room on the second story
opened onto a wide veranda. On the third level, the
chambers had a window or a door with a balustrade
that overlooked the courtyard. She saw no one at any
of the openings, but she felt the oppressiveness of eyes on her. Her spine straightened.

Never forget who you are.

She hadn’t heard Magnus in her head in weeks, but the old skald’s voice was most welcome. Her mouth
twitched. She would remember. A skald carried herself
with dignity
to
generate the respect she deserved. Her
heart was numb, and would likely never recover, but
the poise of her art might carry her through the uncer
tain future. She hoped it would. It was all she had.

*
  
*
  
*

Farouk-Azziz leaned back into a cushion and popped a sweet date into his mouth. His young guest was enjoying himself, which was all to the good. Yahya al-Ghazzal, court poet from the Caliphate of Cordoba,
had been sent as an emissary to the Byzantine court,
and was thus worthy of Farouk’s notice.

It was always beneficial to have an ear in those
labyrinthine halls of power. If Farouk-Azziz could culti
vate a friendship with al-Ghazzal, he would have a useful source of imperial information without having
to pay for it openly. In his years of navigating the curious webs of Byzantine intrigue, Farouk had learned
that this type of insider gossip was far superior to the
drivel collected by paid informants. And if the supplier
of information was unaware he was being used, far more profitable.

“How do you find court life?” Farouk kept his voice neutral.

“Here or at home?” The fastidious young man dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a perfumed linen cloth.

“Either,” Farouk said.

More than two decades ago, Farouk had come on a
diplomatic mission from the same Moorish caliph. He found the rich city of the Christians to his liking and
stayed on to build a trading empire of his own. The
long tentacles of his contacts stretched eastward to the
Indus for silks and spices, north to the icy fjords for
amber and furs, and south to Africa for fabulous gem-
stones and ivory. Farouk could easily afford to sit back
and luxuriate in his wealth for the span of several lifetimes without lifting a finger to increase it further.

But he liked the game and he played it very well.

“Like our Saracen brothers, we fight with the Chris
tians near us and trade with the ones who are far
away.” Yahya selected a plump piece of roast
fowl, drizzled with fruit glaze, from a delicate china
plate. “The whole world is mad.”

“And if it were not, what need would we have for
poets to bring us sanity?” A
little
flattery often loos
ened a man’s tongue quicker than the wine he used to ply non-Muslims.

“True.” The younger man accepted Farouk’s state
ment as his due. “Still, does it not seem odd that the
Byzantines, who send men to fight against the Sara
cens in Jerusalem, trade and treat with the men of Cor
doba, who are followers of the same Prophet?”

“Odd, yes,” Farouk-Azziz said. “And for us, most
fortunate. It gives us a clear field in which to trade here in Constantinople without having to compete
with our Saracen brothers.” He took a sip of iced
pomegranate juice. The ice shavings were a decadent
luxury he never denied himself, even though they came
at great expense from the distant mountains. “What do
you think of the imperial couple?”

“Oh, the Empress Theodora.” Yahya rolled his eyes
and clutched at his chest. “I wonder at the emperor’s
wit, allowing her to go unveiled. She is far more than a moon of beauty. She is the sun in full radiance. Anyone
who’s seen her up close could not fail to be captivated
by her dark eyes. I confess myself lost.”

Farouk-Azziz was mildly alarmed at his comrade’s ef
fusiveness. “Bridle your passions, my young friend, or
they will be your undoing. Just because the Christians are foolish enough to display their women, don’t think they will tolerate any indiscretion with them. Confine
your lovemaking to poetry praising Theodora’s charms and you will do well. And find yourself a wife while
you’re at it.” He winked broadly. “Find yourself two.”

The poet chuckled. “You’re right. And your advice is such that I will happily follow.”

A servant stepped discretely into the room from behind a stone lattice. He made a brief obeisance before
Farouk-Azziz.

 
“A thousand pardons, my master,” Al-
Amin said, his high-pitched voice severely at odds with
his size. “The bridal party from the North has arrived.”

“So soon?” Farouk frowned. “I didn’t expect them till
next spring. Very well. Show them in.”

Al-Amin bowed and slid out of the room, graceful despite his bulk.

“You have personal business,” Yahya said, wiping
his mouth and starting to rise. “My thanks for this repast. I will leave you now.”

“No, please stay.” Farouk-Azziz put a hand on the
young man’s arm. “It is only the arrival of my newest
wife. My trading partner to the north, a minor potentate in that frozen world, has sent me a bride to solid
ify our alliance. I have but three wives, so she will make the fourth.”

“Ah, but I have heard it said you are a connoisseur of feminine delights and that your harem is full of
beauties.” The poet’s tone was tinged with admiration
and just a touch of envy. “Surely you already have
more women than the All-Merciful allows.”

“Truly, women I have in abundance, but wives? No.” He shook his head. “Is it not most fortunate that while we who follow the Prophet are confined to just
four wives, no limit is set on the number of concubines
a man might enjoy?” A sybaritic smile creased his face. “And of all the pleasures women can offer a man, the
greatest, my young friend, is variety.”

“Are the women from the north fair to look upon?”

“Who knows?” Farouk said. “The men are a strong,
handsome race and devilishly quick with a blade. They
are utterly fearless, but unbelievably coarse in their
manners. I believe their trading representative, Ornolf,
may even be illiterate.”

“Uneducated savages,” Yahya pronounced. “No
match for a businessman with your acumen.”

“They have not had the advantages of our educa
tion, it’s true, but it is a mistake to underestimate
them. They are shrewd traders. I confess that Ornolf
has bested me a time or two in our negotiations,”
Farouk-Azziz admitted with grudging respect. It was
part of what made the game worth playing. “You must
stay and meet them. Perhaps it will amuse you to see
what type of flower blooms in the cold north.”

*
  
*
  
*

Rika wasn’t aware of the eunuch’s reappearance in the
pergola
till
he spoke from the shadows. “The master is
delighted by your coming. Please, walk with me.”