The Norse King’s Daughter (19 page)

“Pfff! Bugger the both of them! Just because I’m popular with my people and our lands flourish, just because more and more soldiers want to join my ranks, they figure I must be doing something wrong. Does it never occur to them that I am doing things right, as they should?” The general slammed a big hand on the table, causing the goblets of ale to teeter before righting themselves.

“I know this to be true, and it is what I will report to the emperor.”

“Will they be sending you to investigate the other
dynatoi
?”

Sidroc put up both hands. “Not me.”

“Are you sure you would not reconsider my offer to join my ranks? I would give you and Finn positions of authority. You would be well paid.”

“Nay. ’Tis past time I established my own homestead.”

“Why not here? I could give you land.”

“Again, I thank you for your offer, but I am a Norseman. ’Tis time for me to go home.”

And, actually, Sidroc had decided that his destination would in fact be the Norselands. He was tired of letting his father dictate his life. He would not settle in another country just to avoid proximity to his villainous family. Not too close, though. Mayhap he would seek an estate farther south in Vestfold. He would know the right place when he saw it.

Three days later, he and Finn were practicing swordplay with some of Leo’s soldiers when a messenger came riding in from the south. The closer he got, the more Sidroc stiffened with apprehension. He soon realized that he recognized the man. It was Farle, one of Drifa’s guardsmen.

This could not be good news.

Chapter Eighteen

The terrible trouble arrives . . .

D
rifa had been in Miklagard for more than two sennights, and she’d seen only a tiny portion of what she’d planned. Still, she was missing Runa fiercely.

So she decided to spend some time with Ianthe, who had become a good friend. She was bringing her sketch box with her, not just to show off her work, but in hopes that Ianthe could fill in some of the blanks about certain flowers that grew differently in this climate.

Ivar had rolled his eyes when she’d informed him of her plans. “Gardening again!” he complained. Really, Ivar was better suited to fighting her father’s battles with his battle-axe, not guarding her in yet another garden.

So she was not surprised that Ivar’s boredom had led to sleep when she went out to the hall that afternoon to inform him that it was time to go back to the palace. The palace gates closed at mid-afternoon, so they must hurry.

“Ivar!” she yelled with distress when she was unable to wake him.

At the same time, Ianthe yelled at her, “Drifa, come here at once.”

It was already too late. A masked man had come up behind her, lifting her off her feet and carrying her back inside.

“Oh my gods! You’ve killed my guardsmen,” she said in Greek, since she assumed that was his nationality.

“He is alive. Just an herb-induced sleep in his ale,” the man replied, also in Greek, but it was clear this was not his first language.

“But I brought him his ale,” she said, her gaze catching with Ianthe’s fearful one.

“The ale was tampered with. Your other guardsmen and my workers are ‘asleep’ as well,” Ianthe told her. “Even Joseph Samuel.”

“As you two will soon be, too,” her captor said, then spoke in a foreign language to three other masked men who emerged from the balcony door, as well as the steps leading to the shop below stairs. Although she was not proficient in Arabic, she recognized bits and pieces of their words as ones Rashid, her brother-by-marriage Adam’s healer assistant, had taught her when she visited their Northumbria home.

Drifa and Ianthe were bound and gagged then with some scarves the leering men found in a low chest in Ianthe’s solar. Then the men dragged in Drifa’s four guardsmen and Ianthe’s shop workers with Joseph Samuel, all limp with the same deep sleep as Ivar; they bound and gagged them as well. The only one missing was Irene, Ianthe’s elderly maid, and Drifa could only assume that she was the culprit who’d tampered with the ale and helped these men. Luckily Drifa and Ianthe had only drunk wine, or they would be in the same condition.

“We must wait for a few hours until it is dark,” her captor said in heavily accented Greek.

“Shall we put these two to sleep, Hakeem?” one of the others asked the man who appeared to be the leader.

“We can wait, Faisal, as long as they are gagged. Did you put a sign in the shop window saying they are closed for a funeral?”

“Yes. I wonder whose funeral it will be? Ha, ha, ha!” Faisal must be the second man’s name. By the gods, he reeked of garlic. Did no one ever tell him a little went a long way?

Drifa saw no humor in such a morbid jest.

“Shall we take both women with us when we go?” another man asked. “The Greek woman could act as translator.”

“I do not think it will be necessary since the princess speaks Greek,” Hakeem remarked. “Although we could use the Greek woman on our journey to sate our lust and then sell her in the slave marts in Baghdad.”

Drifa’s eyes shot to Ianthe’s, which widened with even more fear.

Oh, merciful Asgard, she wished that Sidroc was still in the city. Who else would come looking for them? Other than her guardsmen, she did not think anyone would notice that she was missing. Leastways, not immediately.

“No. Best we follow orders directly,” Hakeem decided, thank the gods!

It seemed like forever that they lay in their uncomfortable positions on the floor. Only occasionally could she make out the conversations taking place outside on the terrace. The name Mylonas came up a few times, but more often it was ad-Dawlah. That latter fit in with their earlier mention of Baghdad.

An awful prospect occurred to Drifa then. What if they took her to that city in the midst of Arab lands? She might never be found.

She knew her guardsmen, if they were allowed to live, would initiate a search immediately and mayhap even draw in the emperor, though gods only knew if he was in on this scheme. And her father would of course come with an army, but by the time word was sent to him, and he made the return journey, sennights, even months would have passed. Her fate might be sealed by then.

Sidroc . . . he was her only chance, she decided.
Please, Thor, and Odin, and even the One-God, let Sidroc return soon and care enough to look for me. And let these men leave my guardsmen and Ianthe alive
, she prayed.

When nightfall finally came, Hakeem, still masked but identifiable by his height, approached her with a vial of amber liquid. He took off her gag and ordered her, “Drink this.”

“Is it poison?”

He laughed. “Nay, ’tis just a sleeping draught . . . to make you amenable on your journey.”

“Nay!” she said, and turned her head. “Please don’t do this.”

Hakeem took her chin in a bruising hold. “I can pinch your nose and force your mouth open, or you can drink willingly. Either you comply, or I kill off every person in this room, starting with the female jeweler.”

“If I cooperate, what will you do to the others?”

“Give them more of the sleep potion so they will not awaken until tomorrow. No one has seen us without our masks. So no need to kill them, but I will if I have to.”

Drifa opened her mouth immediately, and soon felt herself drifting off to sleep.

The next time she awakened it was to a loud, strident noise, “
Gronk! Gronk! Gronk!
” She soon realized that it was dark, and she was riding atop a camel, in front of a man . . . Faisal, she was pretty sure, by the garlic smell of him.

“She awakens,” Faisal called out to Hakeem, on another camel.

The six camels holding her and the now unmasked Arab men halted, and she was lifted down. Her legs were weak and her knees folded, but Hakeem caught her with a curse at her “clumsiness.” Just as rude was the camel, who spat at her. She’d seen camels from a distance before. Not up close. She hadn’t realized what unpleasant creatures they could be. Smelly, for one thing, and they attracted hordes of flies.

In Greek, Hakeem advised her, as if she were a petulant girling, not a kidnapped woman, to go into some nearby bushes and relieve herself. When she returned, he ordered Faisal, “Give her more to drink.”

She protested, but water was withheld until she complied. When the vial was held to her mouth again, she drank it and a cup of water thirstily, soon succumbing to sleep again under the soothing rhythm of the animal beneath her.

For the next three days and nights—leastways, that’s how long Drifa thought it was—she was either riding on a camel’s back, sleeping in a tent, or relieving herself in the bushes, her limp body propped ignominiously between two laughing guards since she was so weak with the drugs.

Finally, on the morning following her third night away from Miklagard, Drifa was conscious, though bone-weary, as they approached what appeared to be a small city of colorful tents.

She turned her head to ask Hakeem, whose camel she was on now, “Where am I?”

“The desert outpost of your husband-to-be, Prince Bahir ad-Dawlah.”

“What? I am not betrothed to anyone.”

“Yes, you are, Princess Drifa.”

“I gave no consent to a betrothal.”

“A woman’s consent is not necessary in this land. Only that of a father or guardian, and your uncle, King Asbar, definitely approves.”

“I don’t understand.”

“In time, in time.”

She noticed that Hakeem spoke to her with respect now, something that had been missing back at Ianthe’s quarters or during this long journey. He led her gently, a hand under her elbow, into one of the smaller tents, where he told a slave girl to prepare bath water and a meal for the princess. He never distinguished what princess he meant. She hoped Norse.

She was wrong.

She bathed and dressed in clean clothing . . . a demure Arab gown with face veil to be worn when out in public over a more revealing silk gown. Then she was escorted through the city of tents to the biggest of all, Prince ad-Dawlah’s home away from home. A flag with a rampant sword dripping blood against a black field edged in red hung atop its center pole, emblematic of the “Sword of the State,” she assumed. There was no breeze moving the flag in the oppressively hot desert heat.

Just then a
muezzin
burst forth with the
azan
, a droning call to prayer. One after another, she saw men drop to their knees and bow their heads to the ground. Meanwhile, others picked up the
azan
so that it was like a haunting echo of rising crescendo all around her. Hakeem had told her earlier that the call went out to the faithful five times a day. When she’d asked if women participated, too, he’d been horrified.

The interior of the desert prince’s tent was surprisingly luxurious. Persian carpets on the ground. Incense burners in the four corners. Big, fluffy pillows scattered about. A low table with solid gold platters holding figs, dates stuffed with walnuts, and flaky honey cakes.

Overseeing the activities of various girls working about the tent was an elderly woman with a hawk nose and piercing black eyes, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Although she wore no face veil, her gray hair was covered with a sort of head rail of pale blue, matching her plain gown of lightweight material in deference to the heat but running to her wrists and ankles. Although it was hard to tell under the voluminous gown she wore, the lady appeared to be as wide as she was tall, which was not very. On her calloused feet were sandals. Her fat, gnarled hands were petting a large gold and black cat on a leash. A leopard, for the love of Frigg!

Drifa froze in place, but Hakeem whispered in her ear, “Not to worry. The animal has no teeth, and it has been castrated and declawed.”

A eunuch leopard.
Rather than being relieved, Drifa was horrified that such a beautiful, wild animal should be so treated. ’Twas like turning a Norseman into a scullery maid. Luckily, her face veil was still in place, and her expression was hidden.

The woman eyed her with a sneer, then said something to Hakeem in a rapid, biting flow of Arab, too quick for Drifa to understand.

“Queen Latifah would like you to remove your veil and outer gown.”

Drifa doubted that such a request had been made. At least not so politely.

But it was not necessary for her to react because with a great flurry of activity outside the tent, a man soon entered, gave her a passing glance, then went to the old lady, who was smiling of a sudden. The leopard growled its displeasure, and Drifa had a suspicion that the man might have been the one to emasculate the cat. The prince leaned down and kissed the woman on both cheeks. “Mother, how bide you?” he asked warmly.

“Pains here, pains there, my son,” she said, shrugging. “How went the horse breaking?”

The man smiled. “Fifteen wild stallions now ready for market.”

“My talented son!” The woman nigh beamed with pride.

They were speaking in Arabic, of course, which Drifa was able to understand now that the words weren’t all jammed together. For some reason, she’d let no one know of her linguistic abilities thus far. Instinctively she sensed it was the wise thing to do.

“I told Hakeem to take the woman’s
abayah
off but he is slow to obey,” the old lady whined. “Too long in the Christian lands, I think.”

Hakeem gasped, especially when the man, whom by now Drifa assumed was Prince ad-Dawlah, walked up and slapped Hakeem across the face. “Do you disobey my revered mother?”

“No, master,” Hakeem said, bowing his head. Then to her, in Greek, ad-Dawlah said, “Take off your veil and
abayah
. At once.”

Drifa’s gaze locked with the prince’s then. Oh, how she wanted to refuse, but she feared what he might do to Hakeem, who was innocent, in this instance anyhow.

She removed her veil and the outer gown, letting both drop to the ground. Raising her chin haughtily, she demanded of the prince in Greek, “Is this how Arabs treat guests in your land?”

At first he stiffened with affront, and his mother could be heard sputtering with outrage at her tone, no doubt, but then he put a genial expression on his face and bowed to her. “Forgive my manners, Princess Drifa. Welcome to our land. Your land, too, of course. The birthplace of your mother.”

As he spoke, his dark eyes surveyed her figure, much as he would if he were at a horse fair, contemplating a purchase. So she did the same to him.

He was not a bad-looking man, what she could see of him in the white robe he wore, tucked in at the waist by a heavy twisted rope belt. No jewelry, except on his left hand there was a heavy, jeweled ring on his middle finger. He was only slightly taller than she, but well built, with wide shoulders and narrow hips. His black hair, slicked back off his face wetly, or greasily—she wasn’t sure which—was threaded with a few strands of gray; he was after all forty and one years old, according to the man from the Rus lands she’d met at the wedding feast. A meticulously trimmed mustache adorned his otherwise close-shaven face. Drifa suspected by the arrogant way he carried himself that he and Finn would make great comrades-in-vanity.