The Norse King’s Daughter (20 page)

“Why have you kidnapped me?” she demanded.

He seemed taken aback. “Kidnapped. No!” He turned to Hakeem, “If you mistreated the princess in any way, I will have your head on a pike afore nightfall.”

“No, no, no!” she interrupted. “Hakeem did nothing wrong, other than bringing me here against my will, at your orders, I presume.”

“What does she say?” his mother demanded to know.

The prince told her.

And his mother ordered him, “Beat the woman for her insolence.”

Also in Arabic, he replied, “Later, Mother. We must get her consent first.”

His mother nodded.

Oh, so my consent is needed, after all.
Drifa was having trouble with this swinging back and forth between the two languages and having to not react to the Arabic one.

With a peremptory wave of his hand, ad-Dawlah indicated to Hakeem that he should leave. The man bowed and backed out of the room. She hoped the lout didn’t expect the same obeisance from her.

But nay, he turned to smile at her, an oily smile that must charm some women. Not her. She’d been around men too long not to understand when a devious seduction was in play. “Princess Drifa, you are more beautiful than a thousand sunsets.”

Oh please, spare me the nonsense.

“She is skinny as a winter-starved chicken,” his mother remarked.

Drifa schooled her face not to show that she understood.

“You can fatten her up afore the wedding,” the son replied with an ingratiating smile.

I have got news for you. There will be no wedding, and the only fattening will be of your smirking mouth when my fist makes its mark.

“She is old,” his mother observed.

“Not so old that she cannot bear me many sons.”

His mother shrugged.

Drifa thought,
When dragons fly and birds talk!

Turning back to her, he said, “My mother remarks on my good fortune in finding such a glorious bride.”

You are such a bloody liar.

His mother glared at her.

“Allah must be smiling on me today,” he concluded.

Or Loki, the jester god, because the joke is going to be on you, my high and mighty halfbrain. There will be no wedding with me, that I guarantee.
“Prince ad-Dawlah,” she began, forcing her voice to remain calm and polite.

“Call me Bahir,” he said, and led her to the table, where he indicated she should sit on a fat cushion next to his equally fat mother. Instead she moved to a cushion on the other side of the table.

He slid down beside her.

Subtly, pretending to adjust her cushion beneath her, she placed a small cushion between the two of them.

“Bahir,” she started again, “you must understand that I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, we don’t know each other.”

He flashed her a lecherous smile and said, “We can get to know each other after the wedding. This I promise you, my dear. Despite commitments to my other wives and concubines, I will devote three full weeks to you alone.” He smiled then as if he’d gifted her a great boon.

Some gift!
“In my country, a woman’s consent must be given.” That wasn’t entirely true, but he did not need to know that.

“This is your country now, Princess Drifa.” By his tone, she could tell that her protests were annoying him.

Good!

“I know this is all strange to you now, but you will become accustomed to our ways. Women here yield to the greater wisdom of their men.”

“Are you serious?”

“Watch yourself, Princess Drifa. You may be my betrothed, but that does not give you leave to cross the line of what is proper.”

“Is it proper to force me into marriage?”

“Enough on that subject!” he proclaimed in an icy voice. “The wedding will take place in three days’ time, with or without your consent. In the meantime, you will be taken to my harem to prepare yourself.”

Prepare myself? How? Do not ask, Drifa. You do not want to know.
“You have a harem here in the desert?”

“Of course.”

What? He cannot suppress his base urges for even a short time
, she thought snidely. “So, does your whole entourage move with you wherever you go?”

“Entourage?”

“Harem. I understand you have five wives, but—”

“How do you know I have five wives?” he asked sharply.

She wasn’t about to get Hakeem in any more trouble. “Someone mentioned it at the palace. The eparch Mylonas, I think, when he insinuated that I might have Arab kin.”
And that you had been watching me.

“Mylonas! What a pig!”

More like a rat, but pig works as well.
“In any case, aside from your wives, how many concubines do you have? I believe that is what you call the harem occupants. Or is it houris? No matter.”

“I have six concubines here. Twelve in my Baghdad harem. Four in my mountain harem. We could go to Baghdad for the wedding, where my father would be able to attend . . . he is not well, but, no, that would take too long and I am anxious to taste your charms.” Once again the oily smile.

“My father will arrive with an army to rescue me. Do you want to risk a battle with two hundred Norsemen?”

“By the time your father arrives, you will be big with my child.”

“You are so sure of yourself?”

“Indeed! I have thirty-one children already, twenty of them sons. Sixteen of them legitimate children! You have nothing to fear when it comes to my virility.” He winked at her as if he’d imparted some deliciously lascivious comment.

“My father will not force me to stay, even if I am breeding or already have borne a child.”

“I suspect you will convince your countrymen that you stay here by choice, unless you wish to leave the child behind.”

What a loathsome, evil lout! “You are a despic—”

He pressed his fingertips to her lips. “A team of strongest horses cannot pull a word back once spoken. Take care what you say to me.”

Her opinion must have been reflected on her face because he leaned over and patted her hand. “You are not to worry. I will take care of you henceforth. Now eat. You will need your strength for the days ahead. And nights.” He winked again. As an afterthought, he added, “Allah be praised.”

Drifa did eat, although she almost tossed the contents of her stomach when she was given fermented goat’s milk, a prized beverage here. Its stink was almost as bad as its taste. Queen Latifah reluctantly handed her a glass cup of grape juice to wash it down, at the direction of Bahir.

The queen served her son the choicest pieces of sliced lamb, cutting them up for him like he was a small boyling. She even mixed some raisins in a plate of rice, topped by orange segments, which she passed to him. “I picked the oranges for you myself just after dawn,” she told him in Arabic.

“You are the best mother in the world.”

Drifa felt like gagging, and not just because the taste of fermented goat milk was still on her palate.

But then, she had more to worry about when his mother remarked, “Are you sure she is a virgin?”

The question seemed to startle Bahir, and he looked to her, as if her virginity or lack of it would show on her face. “I had not considered that possibility, but she
is
twenty and nine,” he said hesitantly. “And she
is
part Norse. You know how immoral those heathens are.”

Have I told you how handy I am with a pottery pitcher, you slimy son of a toad?

“Never fear, my son,” his mother said. “I will determine for myself if she still has a maidenhead once I take her to the harem.”

He nodded, his obvious concern placated.

But she had to wonder: Exactly how did one determine if a maidenhead was still intact? And what happened when they discovered it was not?

Chapter Nineteen

Lawrence of Arabia he was not! . . .

“B
loody damn woman!”

“Bloody damn delay!”

“Bloody damn Arabs!”

“Bloody damn Greeks!”

“Bloody damn camels!”

“Bloody damn heat!”

“Blood damn flies!”

Sidroc was so bloody damn mad he could bloody damn spit. Which he did because, of course, there was sand in his mouth. In fact, there was sand in every opening and crevice in his body. He no doubt had sand in his piss; he would have to check next time he relieved himself.

When he arrived in Miklagard a sennight ago, having arrived back in the city in record time, he discovered that Drifa had been kidnapped by some Arabs believed to be members of her mother’s family. Mylonas had alluded to it in her meeting with him, according to Ivar.

“What are you complaining about now?” Ianthe asked with irksome cheerfulness from her camel, which walked with irksome slowness beside his own irksome camel.

Her camel was a pleasant beast. His, on the other hand, had bitten him twice, attracted every flying bug in the desert, and broke wind repeatedly, usually when there was a back wind. He’d named his camel after the Christian religion’s Lucifer, equivalent to the Norse god Loki, whose name he hadn’t wanted to use for fear of further angering the Norse gods.

“He is always complaining, Ianthe,” Finn said from his other side. To no one’s surprise, Finn had found the most beautiful camel, with long silky fur. A female, no doubt, who batted its long camel eyelashes at him every chance it got. “Truly, if he keeps frowning like that, his face may freeze into furrows so deep Drifa will be able to plant roses in them.”

“We must be indulgent,” Ianthe told Finn. “Sidroc is grouchy because he is so worried about his ladylove.”

He choked on a mouthful of sand.

Ladylove?
Finn mouthed silently to him.

“Drifa is not my lady, nor is she my love,” he insisted hotly. “Get that idea out of your fool heads right now.”

“Whatever you say,” Ianthe said, clearly thinking otherwise.

In truth, Sidroc wouldn’t let himself question why he was so concerned over Drifa’s welfare that he’d appointed himself her savior, and that was the bone of his increasing self-induced irritation.

So what if she had gotten herself into trouble? So what if she was injured or being assaulted? So what if he never saw her again? He could not care less.

Which was a total lie.

He cared.

Too much.

“Why don’t you two drop back and entertain the rest of the ‘troop’?” he suggested.

That was another thing that made him bloody damn mad. Once he and Finn had reported to the emperor what they’d discovered at the border lord’s estates, and once Sidroc had spoken his mind to Mylonas over what he suspected was the eparch’s involvement in the plot against the Norse princess, and once he had made plans to rescue her—though why that was his responsibility he could not understand—he was faced with a mob of people wanting to come with him. The mob being Finn, Drifa’s four bodyguards, who were nigh prostrate with guilt at losing her, and Ianthe, who claimed to now be Drifa’s best friend. If Drifa hadn’t come to visit her, it never would have happened, in Ianthe’s remorse-ridden mind. It was all Ianthe’s fault. No, it was everyone’s fault, they each proclaimed. Except Finn, who came along to enjoy the debacle. Nay, that was unfair, Finn was a good friend, and a soldier always wanted a comrade with weapon-skill at his back.

In any case, the bunch hadn’t ever asked if they could tag along. They’d insisted. And when he’d repeatedly refused, they’d said they would follow after him anyhow.

He was particularly intrigued by Ianthe’s comment that Drifa would need female companionship when he uncovered her secret. And then the infuriating woman had sealed her lips, refusing to say more. ’Twas galling to think the princess witch had a secret, which apparently involved him, which she shared with a person who was almost a stranger, but not with him.

“Will I be angry when this secret is revealed?” he’d asked. Surely Ianthe could tell him that at least.

Ianthe had shrugged.

Gods, I am coming to hate shrugs.

“Happy and angry at the same time. I am hoping happiness will overwhelm anger.”

What a load of feminine ill-logic!

They camped that night around a fire at an oasis, which meant a puddle of water with one single palm tree and about a million hectares of sand.
Oh joy!
Hopefully they would arrive on the morrow at the desert tent city Mylonas had reluctantly mentioned to him, under pressure from the emperor.

“What is your plan?” asked Ivar, who was dipping a hunk of
paximadi
into his cup of ale.
Paximadi
was the hard bread the Greek military carried on all their missions. It lasted forever because it was hard as a rock.

He was saving his to feed to Lucifer at the end of this mission in hopes the devil would choke to death. His luck, the beast would turn the bread into vomit and spew it at his face.

“Are you listening, Guntersson? What is your plan?”

What plan?
“First, we must discover where Drifa is being held.”
That sounds like a plan, doesn’t it?
“It makes no sense for us to go storming into an enemy encampment, and that is how we must view this Arab tent city. Believe me, they will not welcome us.”
You would think I had actually thought this out, instead of barreling ahead on the steam of my emotions. Emotions? Me?

“I can go in, dressed in Arab garb,” said Gismun, one of Drifa’s guardsmen. “My dark hair and complexion look least like a Norseman of us all.”

“It could be dangerous,” Sidroc warned.

Gismun’s chin shot upward. “I am a Viking.”

That said it all.

Sidroc nodded. “Once we locate Drifa, we must attempt to remove her with stealth. Our numbers do not warrant an all-out attack.”

“I know where Drifa is,” Ianthe said with certainty. “She is in a harem.”

Everyone turned slowly to stare at Ianthe.

“Mylonas inferred to us in our meeting with him that Drifa had an Arab cousin who might wish to marry her for purposes of an alliance,” Sidroc mused aloud.

Ianthe waved a hand dismissively. “Does not matter. That is where she would stay. At least at first.”

“How would you know that?” Sidroc asked.

“One of my shop assistants had a cousin who had been kidnapped by a tribe of Arab nomads at one time and ransomed for coin. She told us many stories.”

“And?” Sidroc prodded. Why had Ianthe waited until now to tell them this? Did she not realize that every bit of information was necessary for this mission to succeed?

“Even if the ad-Dawlah cousin plans to marry Drifa, she would first go to the harem where she would be prepared for marriage,” Ianthe explained. “That could take days or even weeks.”

Sidroc did not dare ask how she would be “prepared.” He had enough to worry about without that bound-to-be-alarming enlightenment. And in the back of his mind he had a picture of Drifa wearing the revealing harem garment he’d bought for her. For no logical reason, he did not want anyone else seeing her in that manner.

Drifa’s fourth guardsman, a mostly quiet, mid-aged man named Ulf, said, “As long as the princess is a virgin, she has naught to worry about. They will treat her with respect and gentle care.”

Ivar exchanged an accusing, horrified look with Sidroc.

Through a tight throat, Sidroc asked, “What happens to those women who are not virgins?”

“They do not marry them, that is for sure,” Ulf said. “They are either cast into a harem for life as a concubine, or they are sold on the slave market.”

Finn tilted his head and gazed at him with questioning eyes that asked, loud and clear,
You didn’t, did you?

Oh, that was wonderful. Now Sidroc joined those who were weighted down with guilt.

“Once Gismun steals into the tent city and discovers Drifa’s whereabouts, I think I should slip into the harem tent, assuming that is where Drifa is located. With veils and such, and the protection of the Blessed Virgin, to whom I have been praying, I will not be recognized.” This from Ianthe, of course. “We must warn Drifa to be ready to escape on a moment’s notice.”

“I have an idea,” Finn said. “This particular ad-Dawlah is a noted horse breeder. I could locate where his herd of horses is being held and release them. That should create a furor calling all the men to help round them up, distracting attention away from the harem tent.”

“That sounds like a good plan, depending on what information Gismun brings back to us,” Sidroc said.

Everyone began talking at once then as they discussed the various paths this rescue might follow. ’Twas impossible to hear oneself think until Finn clapped his hands for attention.

“Just one question,” Finn said, a forefinger upraised. “Can I bring one of the harem girls back with me?”

They all laughed, assuming he was making a jest.

Sidroc hoped he was jesting.

In any case, a bit of humor was like sauce on a bad piece of meat. They needed to laugh, or else they would weep at the bad situation they were in.

What was it about men and virgins?

The first day, Queen Latifah stuck her grubby fingers up into Drifa’s female parts and announced with glee, “Not a virgin!”

Drifa didn’t know what outraged her more, that two males witnessed her humiliation, albeit eunuchs ordered to hold her down on the bed, or that the prince who proposed to marry her would allow his mother to go at her with such rough handling. The only thing that could be worse was if Bahir had stood there himself as witness.

Even so, Bahir was furious when he entered the harem tent, which was actually a series of interconnecting tents, containing everything from soft pallets for sleeping, to bathing chambers, to salons. A number of the concubines, some as young as thirteen, scurried out of the way of their storming master, no doubt having suffered from his fury in the past.

Stalking right up to her where she sat on the edge of the bed, her gown thankfully tugged back down, he yanked her to her feet by a pincer hold on her upper arms, then backhanded her so hard she fell back down. His ring had cut into her face and she felt the blood gather and leak down to her chin.

“You lying bitch!” he yelled in Greek.

“I never said I was a virgin. Mayhap you should have thought of that afore having me taken.” Sometimes Drifa did not know enough to keep her thoughts to herself.

“You dare to talk back to me?” he spat out and pulled her back up by her hair so that she stood so close to him she felt his spittle on her face. She had to turn her face to accommodate him or lose a hunk of hair. Even then, he slapped her other cheek. She would be black and blue afore morn. “You will pay, whore. You will pay.” He shoved her back down.

“You can always send me back,” she suggested.
You better, because I swear I will put a dagger through your slimy heart eventually. A pitcher over the head would not be good enough for the likes of you.

“Never! You were brought here for a purpose and that purpose still exists.”

“And that is?”

“The Moslem tribes must unite to fight the Greeks. We have been splintered apart of late, since the defeat of our beloved Saif ad-Dawlah a decade ago. Our marriage will accomplish that. An added bonus will be your Norsemen joining our battles.”

“Do you think my father would align himself with you, even if I bore your child, if all I am is a prisoner in your harem?”

“Prisoner? My concubines are not prisoners. They are here willingly.”

She arched her brows in doubt.

Which further infuriated him.

At this point, she did not care. She was furious, too.

“Who says there will be no marriage?” he asked with an evil expression on his face. “We will wait until you get your bloody flux, or not. If you are not with child, I will wed you, and may Allah protect you from my rage, for I will not. If you
are
breeding, nothing will protect you from my wrath.”

Drifa should have been scared, but in fact she was jubilant. She was not pregnant, having evidence of that soon after Sidroc left the city. It would be at least two sennights until her next monthly flow. Time, that was what Bahir’s decision gave her. Time for Sidroc to come rescue her.

Please, gods, let Sidroc care enough to come after me.

But does she have to belly dance? . . .

Two days later, Sidroc was preparing to send Ianthe into the tent city to become a harem houri.

She was dressed in a black robe with a hood and veil that covered everything except her hands and eyes that were heavily kohled. She was taking the place of a young Slavic woman they’d intercepted on the way to the privy tent. The woman, named Marizke, praised God for her rescue after five long years in the harem.