The Norse King's Daughter

  He recognized Wulfgar now, having met him one time briefly in Jorvik while Eric Bloodaxe had still been king of Northumbria. Wulfgar was a Saxon thane, heir to some vast estate in Wessex if he ever reconciled his differences with his estranged father, Ealdorman Gilford of Cotley. He knew this from Thork’s uncle who was Lord Erik of Ravenshire, a half-Saxon, half-Viking nobleman who secretly supported Wulf’s efforts against King Edgar.

  “Guntersson,” Wulfgar said in greeting, standing at the side of the arena where Sidroc had been in vigorous swordplay practice with Finn.

  Swiping a forearm across his sweaty brow, Sidroc returned the greeting with “Cotley,” and could see that Wulfgar was surprised at his knowing his full name.

  “Call me Wulf,” the man said, bristling. Obviously he preferred not to be known by his family name.

  He could understand that. “Call me Sidroc.”

  The two men sized each other up. Of the same height and musculature, each recognized the other as an equal foe, if the need ever arose.

  “Can you spare a moment?” Wulf inquired.

  Sidroc nodded and walked over to the barrels of water. Taking a long draught from a cup that hung at the side, he motioned for Wulf to sit on a nearby bench. Joining him, Wulf observed his surroundings. “ ’Tis an impressive display of military preparedness.”

  “You have no idea. This is only one of three fields where the Varangian Guard hone their skills, and there are three others for the tagmatic armies assigned to the palace. In addition, there are thematic armies throughout the empire. In all, tens of thousands of armed men, either off to battle, recovering from battle, or about to march off.”

  “I understand the emperor, John Tzimisces, is a former military man.”

  “He is. Well respected, too.”

  “And about to be married.”

  Sidroc rolled his eyes. “Wait ’til you see his betrothed. Her appearance will surprise you, but she is pious, you must credit her that. Was a nun most of her life.”

  “Piety is a requisite for marriage in Byzantium?” Wulf arched his brows at him.

  Sidroc snorted. “Hardly. You will soon learn that, as religious as this nation purports to be—they have hundreds of churches in Miklagard alone—they are great practitioners of adultery. And fornication. But then they do penance. Most men of the upper classes have at least one mistress. Many have several.”

  “And you?”

  Sidroc laughed, not at all offended by the question. “Only one.”

  “Have you enjoyed being a Varangian?”

  Sidroc shrugged. “It has met its purpose for me. There is much wealth to be gained for good soldiers.”

  Wulf nodded.

  “Are you interested in joining the guard?”

  “Oh, good Lord, nay! I am engaged in another enterprise.” He eyed Sidroc for a moment, as if wondering whether he could trust him, then told him about the pirate activities he led against King Edgar. “That is one of two reasons why I came here this morn. To see if you might be interested in joining us.”

  Ah, so that’s why he approached me. Sidroc was surprised and, yea, flattered at the offer. “Mayhap later. In truth, I am about to resign from the Varangians, but I must needs build a home for myself. ’Tis time for me to set down roots.”

  “Where? Dost have a place in mind?”

  “I’m considering the Orkneys, but I have not yet ruled out someplace in the Norselands. Wherever I choose, it will be far from my father’s jarldom.”

  “I can understand the need to distance oneself from a father, believe you me,” Wulf said. “At least consider it for the future.”

  “I will,” Sidroc said. “You mentioned two reasons for approaching me. The other?”

  “Stay away from Princess Drifa.”

  Sidroc stiffened. “Oh? And why would I do that? More important, why would you care? Are you interested in her yourself?”

  “Nay! But she is under my protection whilst I am still here in Constantinople.”

  “And how long will you be here?” Sidroc asked coolly. He did not appreciate being bullied on personal matters, even in the guise of friendship.

  “A few days. A sennight at the most. But Drifa has four guardsmen who will stay with her.”

  There was clear warning in Wulf’s words, past the point of mere bullying, and he did not like it. Not one bit. “What makes you think I would harm her?”

  “You entered her bedchamber in the middle of the night.”

  “And?” Pray the gods that is all you know.

  “And I know that you were betrothed at one time.”

  “Drifa told you that?” I would not think it was something she would be inclined to boast about.

  Wulf shook his head. “Her guard Ivar did. And he was not happy to discover you there.”

  “Still trying to figure out how I got in, is he?” He chuckled. “Do you know the circumstances surrounding that betrothal?”

  “Nay.”

  “Why not ask Drifa?”

  “I did.”

  And obviously had no success if his frown was any indication. Sidroc had to smile at that. The wench was stubborn with others, too. Not just him.

  “What are your intentions toward the princess?”

  By thunder, he sounds like her father. “That is none of your concern.”

  “It is if you mean her harm.”

  It depends on your definition of harm, my friend. “I will do naught without her consent.”

  “That is the worst non-answer I have ever heard.”

  And the best you are going to get. “Drifa is no longer a young maid. At twenty and nine years, surely she has the right to make her own decisions.”

  Wulf bristled. “Drifa is a princess with a powerful father. Her age has naught to do with anything. This is a great adventure to Drifa, one she will never repeat again, once she returns home to mother her child.”

  Her child? Sidroc jerked back as if he’d been slapped. “Drifa is married?” He tried to recall if he’d even asked that question since she’d arrived in Miklagard. Probably not. He’d just assumed.

  “Nay, she is not married, and if you say one word defaming her honor, I swear you and I will engage in swordplay, and it won’t be for practice.”

  “First you offer me work. Then you offer me threats.”

  “My apologies. I may have overreacted.”

  “Dost think so?” But then Sidroc decided to end the argument . . . for now. “Has she ever been married?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How old is the child?”

  “The child is irrelevant to our discussion.”

  “I beg to differ. How old is the child?” he gritted out.

  Wulf shrugged, as if unsure. “Runa is four, I think, but I am not a good judge of children’s ages. She could be three or six, for all I know.” He threw his hands out in dismissal. “I have only been to Stoneheim once, and then only for a short time. I’ve never discussed the child with Drifa.”

  So the bitch let another man swive her, possibly soon after she rejected me. He hated the fact that he cared. Another misdeed to add to her list. Oh, she will pay. She will surely pay.

  “Mayhap she adopted the child,” Wulf offered.

  And mayhap not.

  “I expect she will wed on her return to Stoneheim,” Wulf added. “ ’Tis a promise she made her father in return for his permission to come to Byzantium.”

  “And is there a man picked out for that honor? Perchance even her baby’s father?”

  “I don’t know. As I said, I don’t even know if it is her birth child, although the girl does call her Mother.” He eyed Sidroc suspiciously. “You were once close to the princess. Why not ask her yourself?”

  “I intend to.”

  Chapter Six

  It was sort of a dinner date . . .

  Drifa had a wonderful day, even though she chose not to accompany Wulf, Thork, Jamie, and Alrek to the Hippodrome for the chariot races. Instead she’d unpacked h
er travel chests and enjoyed the small garden outside her chambers.

  She’d met one of the gardeners—there were seventy-five assigned to the various palace gardens—and he’d explained that hers was a butterfly garden. Already she’d taken out her parchments and sketched various plants and butterflies, noting which ones were attracted to which flower. Many of them would not prosper in the colder climates of the Norselands. She would certainly try, though.

  Now she was heading toward the royal dining chambers for a feast to honor the soon-to-be queen. She had dressed with special care tonight, looking every bit a princess with her single braid, intertwined with pearls, coiled into a coronet atop her head like a crown. She wore Norse attire: a long-sleeved white undershift of gossamer-thin linen, ankle-length in front and dragging a pleated train in back. Over it was the traditional, open-sided, full-length apron of crimson silk, embroidered on all the edges with gold thread in a writhing wolf design, the same one as on the Stoneheim banner. The gold-linked belt about her waist and the rare bloodred amber pendant hanging from her neck were further demonstrations of her stature. She even wore light gold hoops over each ear, from which dangled thread-thin chains holding a dozen tiny rubies.

  Her hersir companions had also dressed according to their high rank, complete with heavy, etched gold rings hugging their upper arms. Betimes appearances did matter, and this was one of them.

  If she had been dazzled by the splendor of her surroundings yestereve, she was stunned by the demonstrations of wealth exhibited as they walked through the Imperial Palace. Fresco-painted plaster walls and ceilings, mosaic floors, marble fountains with bronze sculptures of animals spouting water, triptychs: the three-paneled, hinged, iconic paintings or carvings of the Christian God or his saints or the Blessed Mother, in little alcoves, furniture so finely carved and decorated, she feared they would break if anyone sat on them, and lighting fixtures hanging from the ceilings, some of which must hold a hundred candles, as well as oil lamps attached to the walls.

  They were seated by the head chamberlain far down the great banqueting hall, on divans situated before low tables groaning under heavy gold plates, of such quality they could support a Norse family for several winters, beside which were silver knives and spoons. Until the meal would be served, the tables displayed sumptuous foods to be eaten with the fingers. Dates, olives, botargo—the eggs of salted mullet served on tiny squares of paximadi, a bone-hard Byzantine bread softened with wine—various cheeses, and some odd green nuts. Wine spiced with anise was poured into goblets of agate encrusted with colored stones. No rustic mead or drinking horns here.

  It was no sign of disrespect that the princess was not seated closer to the dais, the chamberlain explained to her. There were so many heads of countries here to witness the emperor’s upcoming wedding that it was difficult even to get everyone into the hall.

  Almost immediately she realized that Sidroc, Finn, a few of the Varangians, and a beautiful Greek woman had followed them into the banquet hall and were being seated by the same chamberlain across their table.

  Sidroc nodded his head at her.

  “I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon.”

  “The chamberlain probably thought to make you more comfortable with fellow countrymen. Little did he know I would as soon break your neck as break bread with you.”

  The woman who now sat beside Sidroc gasped at his rudeness, and Drifa’s companions started to rise with outrage.

  Drifa motioned for her defenders to sit down. “Pay no mind to the offensive boor. He is harmless.”

  Sidroc gave Drifa a look that said he would show her how harmless he could be.

  The woman punched Sidroc in the arm with her little fist and hissed, “Behave,” which struck Drifa as oddly intimate.

  But then he surprised them all by saying, “My apologies, Princess Drifa. Betimes I have been out in the field with men too long, and I forget how to treat a lady.”

  What a load of boar droppings!

  “Ianthe, this is Princess Drifa of Stoneheim,” Sidroc began. Then to Drifa, he said, “And Princess Drifa, this is Ianthe Petros, my . . . friend.”

  Ianthe cast Sidroc a glance of consternation.

  Clearly his mistress.

  Sidroc also introduced Ianthe to Wulf, Thork, Jamie, and Alrek, who was staring at the Greek woman as if she were a goddess come to earth. In addition, he introduced Drifa and her hersirs to the three other Varangians with them, besides Finn.

  There was some discussion then about what the men had witnessed at the Hippodrome that day. Apparently an unknown warrior had come on the scene to win an important race, for which he was awarded a Saracen stallion. One of the Varangians had participated in a chariot race recently and engaged them with harrowing tales of how close the spiked wheels came to each other and what happened when a spectator had fallen over the railing into their path. He’d also explained the whole system of racing at the far-famed Hippodrome, whereby teams of four colors entertained the crowds several days a sennight. And it was all free to the public.

  Someone asked Drifa what she had done that day and she told them about her garden and the intriguing manner in which certain flowers attracted certain types of butterflies. She planned to examine other gardens on the morrow after her scheduled audience with the emperor. The men were probably bored with her plant obsession, especially those with whom she’d traveled and had heard her prattle endlessly about this flower and that bush, but they pretended interest. One of the Varangians even mentioned that he’d seen a rose in Egypt one time that was so dark it appeared black.

  “I would love to see that someday,” Drifa said, on a sigh. As much as she knew about plants and flowers, there was so much she did not know or had never seen.

  “Princess Drifa would as soon be gifted with a pretty weed as a fine jewel,” Sidroc told his mistress with amusement.

  Drifa would as soon lean across the table and clout the oaf with one of these gold plates, and she did not care if he was unconscious for another six sennights.

  By the grin on his face, she could tell that he read her mind.

  Ianthe watched the silent exchange between the two of them with interest. Then she addressed Drifa, “Princess Drifa—”

  “Please, Ianthe, just call me Drifa.”

  “Speaking of jewels, Drifa,” Ianthe began again with a smile, “what is that stone about your neck?”

  “Ianthe is a jewelry maker,” explained Finn, who had been occupied thus far with a woman on his other side . . . a woman whose husband was getting redder and redder in the face, either from excess wine or Finn’s attentions to his spouse. In either case, ’twas best that Finn find another object for his affections.

  “It is amber,” Drifa told Ianthe, noticing for the first time the intricately crafted silver chain hanging from her neck like a spiderweb interspersed with pale blue stones. Pretty, loose wrist rings, also of silver, adorned both arms. She wore gold-braided sandals, the type of open shoe men and women alike favored in this warm climate.

  Ianthe really was a beautiful woman, with golden eyes and light brown hair center-parted and coiled on either side of her head in the Greek fashion, all complemented by her long, sleeveless, green silk tunic in a style the Greeks called a chiton. Her skin had the olive cast of a true Byzantine.

  In addition, Drifa noticed that the matching ear ornaments that Ianthe wore hung from pierced ears. Drifa did not know many women who put holes in body parts, in her part of the world, leastways. Some men did, though, especially sailors, which Vikings were. To some, it was a sign that they had traveled around the world. To others, it was payment for burial in the event they died at sea or in battle.

  “Amber? Really?” Ianthe appeared fascinated. “I always thought amber was yellow or orange in color.”

  “Actually, amber comes in many colors,” Thork interjected. “My father is a far-famed amber harvester and trader. I have seen amber clear as rain, yellow, orange, red, brown, green, blue, and even black, wh
ich is actually just dark shades of all these other colors.”

  Everyone looked at Thork with surprise. He was usually so frivolous. ’Twas hard to see him as a serious student of anything but play.

  “We call it the Gold of the North,” Drifa added.

  “The most interesting amber has a small insect in it, or bits of a flower or leaf. Look at this one.” Thork pulled an oval piece of amber the size of a flattened egg out of a side placket in his braies. It was yellow in color with flower petals inside forming a cross. “I carry it for luck.”

  “Like worry beads,” Ianthe remarked.

  “Exactly. I worry a lot,” Thork said, winking at Ianthe.

  Sidroc made a snorting sound of disgust, but Ianthe just smiled at Thork. The rascal.

  “Actually, Ianthe, I have brought the emperor a gift of amber, a dozen stones of varying shades,” Drifa said. “My meeting with him is not until tomorrow afternoon. Wouldst like to see them before that?”

  “I would love to.” Ianthe beamed at her offer. “But why not come to my shop so that I can show you my handiwork. It is located just outside the palace gates, walking distance. We can break fast and talk.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  Ianthe gave her directions.

  Sidroc looked as if he’d swallowed a sour apple at the prospect of his mistress and former betrothed becoming friends.

  Wulf and the others just laughed, except for Alrek, who was still gaping at Ianthe with cow-eyed adoration. “I could accompany you, Princess Drifa,” Alrek offered. Sidroc snorted again.

  Alrek was a man who talked with his hands. He was also not known as Alrek the Clumsy for nothing. No one was surprised when one of his hands hit a goblet and wine flew everywhere, dousing his companions.

  It was touching to see the way Alrek’s friends covered for him, pretending not to see another example of his clumsiness. Would he ever outgrow it? Hardly, since he must have seen close to twenty and two winters already.