Maidensong (37 page)

“No, mistress,” he said. “My very breath is yours.
But I have been with this house for more than half my
life. Old habits and old loyalties die hard.”

Rika felt her expression soften. “I understand, Al-
Amin, and your loyalty does you credit. You asked me
to trust you, and now you must trust me.”

“But this man—”

“I owe loyalty to this man as well,” Rika said. “I
know him, you see. It will be hard for you to under
stand, but I was once his slave.”

“Mistress!” The whites showed all the way around
his black eyes. “Since he was once your master, he will
not be able to serve you. He will surely try to violate you if he is not gelded.”

“He never violated me when I was his slave,” she
said without a blink. “He will not do so now. Al-Amin, I have tried to understand your ways. I wear what Farouk-Azziz asks of me. I study with the imam,
though in truth, he seems more concerned that he will
be polluted by being in my presence during my
monthly courses than he is about teaching me. I am
trying to accept your customs, but this is not my way.
It can never be my way.”

A mist passed over AI-Amin’s eyes and Rika wondered for a moment whether he sometimes wished there had been someone to stop his emasculation years
ago. Someone to lay a hand over his genitals and say, “
No, not him. Not this boy.” Al-Amin was fiercely loyal
to the house of Farouk-Azziz, but despite his protesta
tions of indifference, did he sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have his own house? His own woman? Children?

The moment passed and Al-Amin’s eyes cleared.
His expression
all
business, h
e
tossed a glance at the little priest, who was still kneeling in the
corner. “I assume since you didn’t really intend to buy
the other one, you will allow him to serve you in the
stables.”

“Very well,” Rika agreed. She handed the knife back to Al-Amin.

“Good. Then that one will remain untouched. But if
this one is to serve in your apartments, then it must
seem
as though he has been altered, my lady.”

“I understand,” she said. “What are you proposing?”

“Only that he be seen coming to me to doctor a wound in the groin area,” Al-Amin said. “A burn should do it. If I burn him, just here,” the eunuch ran
a fingertip along Bjorn’s inner thigh, “that should be
sufficient.” He turned away to heat the flat of his knife.

Rika’s gut twisted at the thought of burning Bjorn.
She could just release him, set him free to return north
with Ornolf in a few weeks. But her heart was greedy
for him. She’d lost him once. She couldn’t bear it a second time. He could serve in the stables alongside the cell mate he seemed to care about so much. But
then she’d barely be allowed to even speak with him.
That would be intolerable.

Al-Amin turned back, the blade glowing red. He
bent over Bjorn, gripping his leg to hold him still as he
lowered the knife. It would be quick. Bjorn was
drugged. He would feel very
little
pain now, but after
ward . . . she knew that of all wounds, burns were the most excruciating. Rika grabbed Al-Amin’s wrist.

“No,” she ordered. “Let him serve with the horses. I’ll not see him hurt.”

“As you wish, my lady,” Al-Amin said, with his habitual graceful half-bow.

*
  
*
  
*

 
Sultana was taking her ease in the vine-covered per
gola when Al-Amin and the other new slave carried the unconscious big man to a room adjoining
the stable. The horses nickered restively as they approached. Rika followed after, to be certain her new
slaves were properly housed, Sultana assumed.

“Apparently, she only had the big one cut. Pity about
the poppy juice. He made some interesting noises before it took effect,” Sultana said as she clicked her long nails on the arm of her chair.

Tariq nodded. “The Norse cow is bloodthirsty, isn’t she? She wanted to watch.”

Sultana narrowed her eyes as her gaze followed Rika’s retreating back. “I begin to understand her.”

 
Nearly a month later, Rika watched from her window
as Bjorn led a mare into the courtyard. The horse’s
coat gleamed, and she sidestepped skittishly, eager for
a romp. Bjorn held her head steady for Torvald to mount.

“When do you expect Ornolf and Jorand back in the city?” Rika overheard Bjorn ask.

“Maybe not for another week or so.” Torvald leaned
down to stroke the mare’s neck. “But I’ll ride to the docks every day to see if there’s word. If he’d known
you were here, Ornolf would never have run down to
Thessalonica.”

“Do you know if Jorand gave him the sword and
armband?”

Rika leaned forward, straining to hear, all
the while keeping herself out of sight. She didn’t un
derstand the urgency in Bjorn’s voice over a sword and
armband. He’d never been that consumed with trade
goods before.

“He did, months ago,” Torvald said. “But with only
Jorand for a witness, it wouldn’t hold up before the
Lawspeaker. Now that we have your word too, we can
take Fenris the Walker’s confession to court.”

“We’re a long way from a Lawspeaker and I have a feeling my mistress”—Rika winced at the bitterness in his tone—“won’t free me to go north when Ornolf leaves. Talk to her, Torvald.”

“I’d like nothing better, Bjorn,” the old man said. “
But she still wants naught to do with me. I lost all
right to tell Rika what to do a long time ago. So much
time wasted, so much pain.” Torvald’s voice drifted
off, and then he shook himself. “The ramblings of an
old man,” he said with disgust. “Always wanting to re
do the past and knowing it can’t be done.”

“It’s not only the old who want that, my friend.” Bjorn swatted the mare on the rump. He stood, hands
fisted on his hips, as Torvald’s mount trotted through
the big double doors. Rika thought Bjorn glanced to
ward her window before he turned and strode back to the stables, but the movement was so quick she couldn’t be sure.

Helge padded softly up beside her in time to see Bjorn disappear from the courtyard below. “I know
you’re set to marry the Arab, Little Elf, but I wish it
were different for you, so I do.” The old woman’s eyes
watered, rheumy with age. “The
jarl’s
brother, he’s a
fine lad.”

“So he is,” Rika agreed, wiping away the tear that
trembled on her lashes. “But wishing changes noth
ing.” She heard a swish behind her and knew Al-Amin
had entered with the breakfast tray she and Helge shared.

“Al-Amin?” she called. “I’d like to go riding.”

“Riding, my lady?” Al-Amin set down the breakfast tray.

Helge lifted the silver lid. “Och! You forgot the oranges,” she scolded. The old woman had become accustomed to the eunuch’s presence and was even emboldened to boss him around herself when Rika was there to back her up. Al-Amin toler
ated Helge much like a sturdy Akbash guard dog ac
cepts a yapping Maltese, a vague annoyance but
something to be endured for his mistress’s sake.

“In the North I often rode horseback, and
I’d be able to get around the city better than on foot,” she said.

“I shall order a chaise for you, my lady,” he offered. “
Surely that is more in keeping with your station.”

“But it is not in keeping with my will,” Rika said. “
You will ride with me, Al-Amin. See that the North
man rides as well. Two servants in attendance should
surely be enough to remind everyone of my ‘station.’ ” Since the household still believed Bjorn had been gelded that first day, his accompanying her on a ride would occasion no comment.

Al-Amin’s eyebrows shot up, but Rika’s rigid posture warned him that further argument
would be fruitless. “As you wish, my lady.”

Before the morning sun rose high enough to turn the
air sultry, Rika and her escorts rode out the double
doors. The men both trailed her and when she glanced
back at Bjorn, he failed to disguise his scowl. She motioned him forward and he sullenly nudged his mount into a trot to come even with hers.

“Al-Amin has no Norse beyond a word or two, so
we may speak freely. Have you nothing to say to me, Bjorn?”

“And what would my lady have me say?” His eyes
were brittle dark holes. “She has
only to make her wish known and whatever words she
wants will pour out my mouth.”

“I would have thought a thank-you might be appro
priate.” Rika looked away from him, his stare making her uncomfortable.

“Ah!
J
a,
thank you for making me your slave, Rika.”

"You made me yours quickly enough," she fired back at him.

Bjorn nodded grudgingly. "And all you lost was a little hair. Do you expect me to be grateful that you force
me to watch you start married life with another man?"

This conversation was not going as she’d hoped. Her
heart was so full of what she meant to say to Bjorn, but
all they seemed able to do was jab at each other.

“I meant you owe me thanks for freeing you from
that Hel of a prison, and . . . for other things.” She
wasn’t sure he was aware how close he’d come to be
ing gelded. Even days later, she sometimes woke in a
panic, dreaming of Al-Amin standing over his bound
body with a knife.

“Well, there is that. Dominic told me that you in
tervened before Al-Amin made a soprano of me. I suppose that does merit a hearty thanks, even if the
whole household still believes me a eunuch.” Bjorn’s
crooked smile did not suggest he was especially grate
ful. “But I just figured you plan to have use of my
cock in the future when you weary of waiting in line
for your husband’s.”

She struck him hard across the mouth. The force of the blow made her
shoulder ache. “You are the most hateful man I’ve ever
known,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Thank you, my lady.” He bobbed his head at her in mock deference.

Rika wheeled her mount around and drummed her
heels into its flanks. She bolted down the street, forcing pedestrians to scatter before her. Al-Amin and Bjorn spurred their horses to follow.

“If you upset my lady again,” Al-Amin said to him as
they pounded down the street, “I won’t take your
manhood next time. I’ll have your life.”

 
Rika dressed for dinner carefully. She’d become accus
tomed to the ethereal, flowing style of the
palla
worn
by high-born Byzantine women. The loose robe was
comfortable, even sensually pleasing to wear, while
draping her figure with flattering folds. Farouk-Azziz
was lavish in his gifts and had chosen rich fabrics in
colors that suited her.

Each evening when Farouk-Azziz was at home in the city, he invited Rika to dine with him. He seemed en
chanted by her Norse stories and had been astounded when she bested him at chess. She knew that after she
retired to her suite, he always summoned one of his
wives or concubines to his bed. There was much gos
sip and tittering about his sexual preferences swirling through the harem and tallies kept of who had been
called on how many nights. But Rika was the only
woman who shared his meals.

At first, Rika was sure it was because he wished not
to offend his trading partner, but lately, she’d read
something else in his hooded eyes. Something danger
ously close to desire. She still hadn’t committed to Is
lam, and therefore to Farouk, but he pressed her to do
so with more fervor.

“Did you enjoy your ride today, Little Elf?” Helge ran a silver comb through Rika’s hair. It was still
shorter than usual for one of her station, but the old
woman had a knack for arranging it, tucking the curl
ing ends in an elaborate upswept style that disguised
the lack of length. “You weren’t gone long.”

Rika bit her lip. Bjorn was insufferable. He was crude and hateful. How could she ever have thought
he loved her if he was capable of treating her like that?
She decided to ignore Helge’s question by posing one
of her own. “Helge, why would someone repay a kind
ness with anger and harshness?”