The Norse King's Daughter

  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. Instinct
ively 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.

  “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 b
ack 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! . . .

  “Bloody damn woman!”

  “Bloody damn delay!”

  “Bloody damn Arabs!”