The Norse King’s Daughter (28 page)

The whole time he was getting acquainted with Runa, he kept looking for Drifa. She should be sharing this experience with him.

After that, King Thorvald enticed him into the great hall, where numerous toasts were being made to the heroes of the day. Not that Sidroc considered himself a hero. If he’d killed his father, deprived the earth of his cruel being, mayhap that would have been heroic, but all he’d done was slice off his father’s ear.

Dinner was about to be served when he’d had enough.

“Where is Drifa?” he asked the king.

“Is she not with Runa?”

Sidroc shook his head.

“Mayhap she went to the garderobe.”

“For four hours?”

The king shrugged. “One never knows what women do in there.”

He stomped off and saw Ianthe, who was just coming downstairs from the chamber that had been assigned to her and Isobel. “Have you seen Drifa?”

“I have not seen her since we arrived. She was standing on the shore last time I saw her,” Ianthe said.

“Nay, she was in the garden when I first met Runa. Remember?”

She shook her head. “I did not see her there.”

Sidroc was starting to get a bad feeling.

“What? Why do you have that odd expression on your face?” Ianthe asked him.

“Vana hinted that I might have done something to make Drifa jealous.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

He ducked his head sheepishly, then set his gaze on her.

“Me?” Ianthe squeaked out.

“You
and
Isobel.”

“Why would Drifa be jealous of . . . oh, can you be such an idiot? Drifa was expecting you to come for her, wasn’t she?”

“She was expecting me to come for Runa. Same thing.”
Isn’t it?

“Men! Tell me true, Sidroc, does Drifa know that you love her?”

“How would she know that if I don’t know it myself?”
I mean, I do know, but ’tis hard to put it into words. Bragi, god of eloquence, has ne’er blessed me.

Ianthe threw her hands up in the air, as if he were a dunderhead. He was beginning to share her assessment.

“Sidroc, what did Drifa say when you greeted her today? How did she receive you?”

“Uh.”

Ianthe put a hand on each hip and arched a brow.

“I haven’t had an opportunity to talk with her yet. I thought to settle other matters first so I would have time with Drifa.”
To show her with my hands and body what my clumsy words could not.
“I had to first fight my father and get to know my daughter.”

She shook her head at him. “What have you been doing that was so much more important? Never mind. What makes you think she’s jealous?”

“Vana. She asked what I was thinking, bringing not one but two women with me to Stoneheim.”

“And what did she say when you set her straight?”

“I never got a chance—”

Ianthe rolled her eyes. “Aaarrgh! No wonder Vana treated me and Isobel with such cool regard. You must find Drifa and make things right, and you must do so afore her grievances have time to fester. Oh, and you should plan on groveling. A lot.”

“I think not! I have had more than enough of chasing my tail over that woman, the very one who clobbered me over the head with a pitcher and left me for dead, the very one who kept my daughter’s existence from me. And what did I do in return? I saved her from a life of harem servitude. I put off my departure from Byzantium to take care of her business. I filled the hold of my longship with half-dying trees and bushes. I brought her new best friend to visit. What need have I to grovel?” Somehow, Drifa’s sins did not seem so bad in the telling.

Just then, Vana was about to swan by them with her arms piled high with bed linens, but he put a hand to her shoulder to halt her progress. She stopped, but stared at his hand as if it were leprous, until he let go.

“Where is Drifa?” he demanded to know.

“As if I would tell the likes of you!”

Some women should have been born tongueless.
“Drifa would want you to tell me,” he lied.

“And that is why she wept as she left?”

Wept? She wept? Oh, I am in big trouble.
“Left? Left for where?”

Instead of answering him, Vana said snidely, “I see you and your mistress have found each other.”

“I am not his mistress,” Ianthe said at the same time he protested, “She is not my mistress.”

Vana arched her brows skeptically. “Never?”

He could feel his face heat with color. “Not for a long while.”
And what business is it of yours, anyhow?

“How long a while?”

Ianthe was blushing now, too.

He did not want to answer, he really didn’t, but Vana appeared as stubborn as . . . as Drifa. “Three months.”

“So long?” Vana’s voice reeked with disdain.

“Your sarcasm ill-suits,” he told her.
Even if it is warranted.

“Your arrogance ill-suits,” she told him, then walked away, muttering, “Bloody maggot arse hole!”

But then another thought seeped into his muddled head, and he mused aloud, “Drifa went away and left Runa here for me. Does she intend to give up that child of her heart? To me? Is that why she has gone away? What would prompt such action? Certainly not jealousy. It must be . . . could it be . . .”

“Of course it is, you thick-headed fool,” Ianthe said.

“ . . . love?”

Chapter Twenty-seven

The only thing missing were the violins . . .

D
rifa had been at Evergreen for several days, assessing its worth as her new home. She could see where it had gotten its name. It was overridden with pine trees, even up to the back courtyard.

The timber fortress castle was small in comparison with Stoneheim, but that was fine. She did not need anything bigger for herself.

It was the hardest thing she’d ever done, leaving Sidroc and Runa, but it was the right thing to do. Sidroc deserved to have his daughter with him, wherever that might be. And he had every right to choose the woman who would be with him, even if it wasn’t she.

And, really, with the scare that had been posed by Jarl Ormsson, wasn’t this the best for everyone? Things could have been so much worse if Runa had been taken to Vikstead.

Still, she never realized that love could hurt so much. She suspected it was something she would have to abide for the rest of her life. A solitary life, she vowed. No longer would she let her father cajole her into marriage.

She would spend her time restoring Evergreen. Hopefully she would be too busy to think about all she had lost.

Thus it was that she was sitting at a table in the small solar off the great hall, making lists of all she must do. There was only a small staff in residence, but she had set them to raking old rushes, scrubbing tables, and laundering bed linens. Many more would be needed.
Housecarls
protected the estate, but only a dozen or so. Then she would need gardeners to help clear out the deadfall and pines that encroached on the keep. Carpenters to make repairs to the roof. Kitchen and chambermaids.

It would make a good home. Perchance one day she could even open her home to other women who wished to escape captivity, whether it be from a harem or from a bad marriage. Divorce with good cause was acceptable in Norse society, but usually the women had no place to go.

But wait, she heard a ruckus outside in the front courtyard. It better not be the housemaids arguing again over who should clean the privies.

As she walked out of the solar and across the hall toward the huge double doors, which had been opened to air the dankness, she saw two figures approaching from the fjord. One tall and one small.

She put a fist to her mouth to stifle a cry. It was Sidroc dressed to high fashion in a pewter-gray tunic over black
braies
. His face was clean-shaven, and his hair combed sleekly off his face into a queue secured with a leather thong.

He was holding the hand of Runa, who was also dressed as if for some great event. The blue Greek-style
chiton
left her shoulders and arms bare to expose a strand of colored crystals wrapped around like an endless arm ring from her wrist to her elbow. The blue gown was embroidered with butterflies along the edges. There were also crystal beads woven into her inexpertly braided hair. Had Sidroc bought the gown for his daughter? Had he actually combed her hair for her? She knew what a difficult task that could be with a squirming child.

At one point, Runa skipped to keep up with her father’s long strides, and she could have sworn she saw the big Viking take a skipping step as well, but she was probably mistaken.

By the time they came up the stone steps leading to the keep, tears were streaming down Drifa’s face.

“Mother! You are crying!” said Runa, who was about to rush up to her, but Sidroc held her back and whispered something to her. The little girl nodded.

“Drifa, how could you have left me alone with your demented family?” Sidroc spoke chiding words, but his eyes were giving a different message, one she did not dare interpret, it was too precious.

“I do not take offense at your characterization of my family. I have been living with them for almost thirty years and betimes feel a bit demented myself.”
Like now.
“What exactly have they done now?”

“They are planning what they call the wedding of the century. At last count their guest list measured a thousand from nine countries.”

She did not need to ask whose wedding. Stoneheim must be a total madhouse. “I will put a stop to it at once.”

“Will you now?” he drawled.

She nodded, unable to speak over the lump in her throat. She leaned against the door frame for support.

“And your father is the worst of all. He wants to sell head drillings to any Vikings who are interested during the wedding feast.”

Drifa’s mouth dropped open. “That is awful, even for my father. Don’t worry. Adam would never consent to such foolishness.”

“Your father seems to think anyone will do. He’s already hired the blacksmith.” He smiled at her then.

The rogue! He knows what his smiles do to me. I might just melt into a puddle at his feet.

She could not stand the tension any longer. “Why are you here, Sidroc?” And she glanced meaningfully at Runa as if to say,
Is it not enough that I left you the child of my heart?

Runa whispered loud enough for even the seamen down at the fjord to hear, “Now, Father? Now?”

“Yea, sweetling. Now,” he said.

Runa turned her attention to Drifa. “We have come to pro . . . pro . . .” Runa looked to her father for help.

“Propose.” He held Drifa’s eyes as he spoke.

Drifa whimpered.

“We want you to marry us,” Runa explained, as if Drifa hadn’t understood.

Drifa tilted her head in question at Sidroc. Something was not making sense here. “Where is your mistress? Or should I say mistresses?”

“Women? More than one? At one time? Tsk, tsk, tsk! You flatter me.” He shook his head at her. “If you refer to Ianthe and Isobel, they were on their way to Britain.
As they always intended.
But when they heard about the wedding—the
potential
wedding—they delayed, in case you wanted them there.”

“Why would I marry you, Sidroc?”
Foolish question! But then I am feeling foolish.

“I know, I know the answer to that, Mother.” Runa was jumping up and down. She glanced up at her father, as if looking for a cue.

“Go ahead, rosebud,” he said.

Runa preened. “Because we love you.”

Drifa let out a sob and turned tearful eyes to Sidroc.

He smiled again, one of those I-can-make-you-do-anything smiles, and said, “Because
I
love you.”

She was so mad at him for so many things.

He was so mad at her for so many things.

But what did it matter if he loved her?

“Well, Drifa, are you suddenly without words? Pray Odin the sky does not fall down.”

She launched herself at him, and he caught both her and Runa in an embrace. Against his neck, she whispered, “I love you, too.”

And the lout said, “I know.”

Reader Letter

Dear Reader:

Well, Drifa is the last of the Viking princesses. Did you like her story?

I smile sometimes to think of where I have placed my Vikings over the years. The Norselands, of course, which would be all the Scandinavian countries. Norsemandy (Viking Age Normandy). Britain. Iceland. Scotland. The Baltics. America. And now Byzantium.

What next? you may very well ask.

Well, how about Transylvania, Pennsylvania, and a group of Viking vampire angels? Talk about tortured heroes with a sense of humor! This Deadly Angels series will begin in May 2012.

That doesn’t mean that I will discontinue the historical romances. Wulf, and Jamie, and Thork, and even clumsy Alrek deserve their own stories some day. I’m thinking these so-called Viking pirates need their comeuppance, maybe even capture by a group of Amazon-like female Viking pirates. And in the back of my mind, there has always been a story calling to me:
The Harlot Bride
. Maybe Isobel from
The Norse King’s Daughter
would fill that role well.

Keep in mind that the previous books in this series are still in print, either as new books or as reissues:
The Reluctant Viking
,
The Outlaw Viking
,
The Tarnished Lady
,
The Bewitched Viking
,
The Blue Viking
,
My Fair Viking
(retitled
The Viking’s Captive
),
A Tale of Two Vikings
,
Viking in Love
, and
The Viking Takes a Knight
. I have made sure to update the reissues, giving them new, funny scene tags, as well as new reader letters and glossaries.

For the record—in case you thought I was guilty of an anachronism—trepanning, or head drilling for medicinal purposes, did take place in the tenth century. In fact, ancient (meaning before the time of Christ) skeletal remains show drilled holes in skulls. Archaeologists tell us they were made for a variety of purposes: to release evil spirits, to alleviate headaches, or to relieve the pressure of swelling on the brain. There is no evidence that head drilling had the sexual side effect mentioned in my book (grin).

And just for a note of interest . . . there’s a reason that I wanted Drifa to have an interest in irises. My aunt Eliza was a great gardener, and her favorite flower was the iris. Over the years, every time anyone in her small town traveled around the world, they would bring her back roots (or rhizomes) from some special species. In the end, she probably grew hundreds of different kinds. Unfortunately, when I went back to that town a few years ago, an art gallery was located in her former home, and all the gardens dug up and planted with grass.

Keep checking my website at www.sandrahill.net for more information on my books, genealogy charts, free novellas, and contests. I love hearing from readers at [email protected], and, as always, I wish you smiles in your reading.

Sandra Hill