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“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 her 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.
