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“What is legal and what is right are two different things,” Drifa argued.
“You exceed yourself, bi— girl.”
“No more than I should. And, for your information, I have seen Sidroc.” And he is more than alive.
“Me too,” Ivar said.
“In fact, he is on his way here now, from Byzantium where he has been a Varangian,” Drifa added.
“So you say.” Ormsson emptied his horn of ale, belched, and motioned to a maid for a refill.
Drifa and Vana exchanged glances of disgust.
“What exactly do you want?” her father asked.
“The child, of course.”
“The child stays here, awaiting her father’s return.”
“Which might never happen,” Ormsson remarked. “And I want a hundred gold coins for wergild. Return of the wet nurse Eydis. And thirty lashes to the backs of each of the princesses.”
That last was so ludicrous that Drifa let out a burst of laughter.
Ormsson gave her a look that said if he got her alone she would not be laughing.
“You touch one of my daughters and you will leave Stoneheim in pieces,” her father threatened.
“There is an alternative,” Bjorn said, eyeing Drifa in a rather crafty manner. “I would take your youngest daughter to wife.”
Drifa and everyone on her side of the table gasped.
The king held up his hand to stop Drifa from speaking.
“I thought you were already wed.”
“So?” Bjorn said. “The more danico is an accepted practice in the Norselands, as you well know.”
“I was ne’er married to more than one woman at a time,” her father said. “Nor will any of my daughters be second wives to any other. Besides, my daughters choose their own husbands.”
“That is ridiculous,” Ormsson scoffed. “No wonder your females behave so badly when you give them free rein.”
“I see no husband here to Princess Drifa. She has been on the shelf long enough.” Bjorn licked his lips, staring at her like she was a choice boar steak.
“That is not for you to say.” Her father eyed the three men as if they were manure under his boot.
“Leastways, Drifa is betrothed.”
Oh nay, not that again!
“That is the first we have heard of this.” Ormsson appeared set back by this knot in his plans. “Methinks there is no betrothal. Name the man, if there is one.”
Her father beamed as he announced, “Sidroc Guntersson.”
Now it was those on the other side of the table who gasped.
“You risk war with us,” Ormsson said, “over a split-tail.”
Drifa didn’t know if he referred to Runa or her. Either way, it was an insult.
