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“Look at those tapestries.” Thork pointed to one of the walls. “My mother would swoon with envy.” The enormous tapestry in question depicted the Last Supper, the One-God religion’s Christ with his twelve disciples.
Drifa had met Thork’s mother, Lady Alinor of Dragonstead. She was far-famed for her sheep and uniquely woven wool fabrics.
“Mayhap you could purchase a tapestry—a much smaller one—to take back to her,” Wulf suggested.
“Me too. And some painted tiles. And cuttings from those flowers over there.” Drifa smiled. “I fear my longship will be overflowing with goods when I return home.”
“And this just your first day here,” Wulf observed, a rare smile of indulgence on his handsome face.
“Perchance you will bring a new husband home with you, too,” Thork added with a twinkle in his mischievous eyes.
She heard a snorting sound behind her, and knew with certainty that it was Sidroc.
“Nay, I have had enough of devious, full-of-themselves men. I much prefer digging in my garden and a good pile of ... manure.”
There was another snort behind her. And much laughter from her guardsmen and hersirs, although they could not know that it was a directed remark.
“I thought we had some fine castles in the Highlands, but they are huts compared to this,” Jamie remarked. “If I brought any of these fine objects home to gift my parents, they would look out of place in the untamed, bare-bones surroundings. Like gold plating a pigsty.”
“There is charm in the wildness of the Highlands,” Drifa asserted.
“Yea, there is,” Jamie agreed with a grin that implied there was wildness, and then there was wildness.
Wulf added his opinion. “A rich cream sauce on a breast of pigeon is welcome on occasion, but betimes a thick slab of bloody, hearth-roasted boar better suits.”
“Wine is fine, but beer is better?” Thork asked.
“Precisely,” Wulf said. “And, believe you me, wine flows in Byzantium like mead in the Norselands.”
Once they had all been shown to their chambers and Drifa was introduced by the chamberlain to her new maid, Anna, a Greek slave girl, Drifa thought she was finally alone, but nay, Sidroc was outside in the corridor talking to Ivar, one of her guardsmen, an older man who was a long-time comrade of her father’s.
Well, this was her opportunity. “Sidroc, I need to speak with you.”
He held up a halting hand. “And I have things to say to you, as well, but not now.”
“When?”
He smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. “At my convenience, m’lady.” On those words, he walked lazily after his comrades, his black polished boots clicking on the marble floor.
Sidroc seemed so angry with her. Why? She had rejected his suit, but surely he had to admit that he’d given her cause. Well, she had struck him over the head and he had been in a death-sleep for six sennights, but she had not meant to do him such harm. Still, that must be the reason for his fury. Once she informed him that his daughter was at Stoneheim and thriving, he would probably be thankful, and all would be well again.
Or not.
She would not think on it now. Later.
“What was he discussing with you, Ivar?” she asked.
“Just warning me of the perils to watch for here in Miklagard, and in the palace itself.”
“Oh? Is there something in particular I need to worry about?”
Ivar shook his head. “Nay, as long as we guard you well, your safety is assured.”
“Beware of snakes in the garden, however, princess,” Wulf said, coming up to them. “And I do not mean the crawling-on-the-ground kind. I have warned you afore, and will do so again, there are devious men, and women, in this court who would slit a person’s throat whilst offering words of welcome. The daughter of a Norse king would make a valuable captive for ransom.”
Drifa rolled her eyes. All these warnings were becoming tiresome, but it was interesting that Sidroc was concerned for her safety. A good sign, surely. She held to that positive thought until later that night when she was enlightened to his true sentiments.
For hours she’d been restless, unable to sleep. A new bed in a new country. The unfamiliar sounds of water trickling in the fountain of the small garden separated from her bedchamber by only a latticed wall. A more secure wall could be pulled closed and locked at night, which she should have done, and, in fact, had promised her guards she would do.
