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That was not going to happen so soon, for the simple reason that the sixtieth anniversary of her father’s birthday was to be celebrated in ten days’ time. Everyone was coming, including three of her sisters who lived in Britain. Her father would never countenance her absence from such an important event. “Why must we rush?”
His face flushed, but all he would reveal was “ ’Tis not important, but you will understand in good time.”
He’d landed in the royal barmy bin where all the king’s men ... and women ... were missing a few stones from their turrets ...
Later that day, Sidroc sat on a bench on one side of the hearth in the largest solar of Stoneheim, surrounded by members of the Norse royal family who had come from far and wide to celebrate the king’s upcoming sixtieth birthing day anniversary. They were all that a family should be, and all he’d never experienced himself.
After at least a dozen futile attempts, Sidroc had yet to ask King Thorvald for his daughter’s hand in marriage. He supposed that he should have told Drifa from the beginning why he must marry, and with haste yet, but he was experienced in the love arts, and he knew, sure as gammelost stinks, she would have balked if he told her it was not so much that he needed her, as that he had a newborn baby who needed a mother. Women wanted to be courted. Later ... he would tell all later. They would both laugh about his craftiness.
For now, Drifa’s sisters were eyeing him suspiciously. This family did naught but talk and laugh and shout over one another, and the subjects they discussed were outrageous. Like some experiments being done with honey on a man’s staff to prevent conception, for the love of Frigg! “Now, if a man could lick his own cock, that would be another thing,” the king had proclaimed, and they’d all laughed, even the women.
In truth, going by the glaring sisters, he would not be surprised if someone asked Drifa in front of one and all if she still had a maidenhead. Actually, he hoped they did. Mayhap then he would have a chance to make an offer of marriage and get it over with.
In the midst of his elation this afternoon over Drifa’s acceptance of his proposal, he’d forgotten her having told him days ago of the planned feast, but she hadn’t warned him of the deluge of guests who would arrive so soon. If she thought he was going to linger around this overcrowded castle for ten more days, without a wedding, he had news for her. “King Thorvald, can we speak in private?”
“Later, my boy, later,” the king said jovially, turning back to a servant who was carrying a tray with goblets of mead.
Drifa, who sat on the bench beside him, squeezed his hand. “Have patience.”
Patience! He gritted his teeth, trying not to appear overanxious. He’d already wasted three sennights in this drafty, hodgepodge, stone and wood castle, designed by one of the sisters, Breanne, who had a passion for building things. Chairs, tables, pigsties, castles, and whatnot. In fact, Breanne sat beside her husband, the Saxon Lord Caedmon, on an opposing bench whittling on a stick to amuse a child who hovered watchfully over her shoulder.
Another sister, Ingrith, was returning from the kitchen, where she’d been engaged in her particular passion. Cooking. As evidenced by the delicious aromas wafting through the air. Roast hare and honey oatcakes would be his guess. Ingrith’s husband, another Saxon lord, John of Hawks’ Lair, who seemed bemused by the whole situation, said near his ear in passing, “You are a dead duck, my good man, once these barmy birds get their claws in you.”
Lord Hawk was the one doing the experiments with honey, cocks, and male seed caps. He had no room to complain of barmy birds, in Sidroc’s opinion.
“I wish you would get your claws in me. Quickly. On the marriage bed,” he whispered to Drifa.
“Patience,” she said again, though she was now wearing a pretty blush on her face reminding him of how close to swiving they’d come today. Mayhap he would visit her bedchamber tonight, to seal the deal, so to speak.
“What did you say to Sidroc?” Ingrith inquired of her husband, who tugged her down to sit on his lap. You’d expect that of a newly wedded couple, but these two had been together for at least a couple of years.
“I was telling the man how fortunate he is to be in the midst of such intelligent Vikings, dearling,” he assured his wife.
“Pfff! I can only guess—” Ingrith’s words were cut off as the oldest sister, Tyra, approached with her husband, Adam the Healer. Another Saxon. What was it with these Viking women? Would a good virile Viking not do?
Tyra was a big woman. In fact, she’d trained to be a warrior at one time. Tyra stared pointedly at Drifa’s blush and at her hand laced with his, resting on his thigh, then glared at him.
“Should I kill him, Father?” the bloodthirsty wench asked.
“Good gods, nay! We may have a husband for Drifa yet,” said King Thorvald.
Drifa tsked her opinion.
Obviously the old goat was more aware of his intentions than he’d let on. In fact he winked at Sidroc, then leaned his massive body back into an armed chair, a horn of ale in hands propped on his lap, his legs extended to the fire. Although he was an old man, he appeared to be in fine physical condition, and although his hair and beard were white, they were finely groomed and adorned with precious jewels. The quality of his tunic and braies and boots attested to his high station.
Sidroc’s best friend, Finn Vidarsson, ofttimes referred to as Finn Finehair, who had traveled here with him, was the only other man of his acquaintance who took grooming so seriously. In fact, Finn was known to trim his chest and man-hairs on occasion, a habit that he claimed women loved. Finn had never wed, claiming he’d never met a woman who matched his beauty. If Sidroc had not witnessed Finn’s prowess in battle, he would question his manliness.
Calling himself back to the present, Sidroc demanded, “I must needs speak to you as soon as possible, King Thorvald. ’Tis urgent that I get home to Vikstead afore—”
“Did I tell you about the time Adam drilled a hole in my head?” King Thorvald asked him.
Only about a dozen times. “Did I tell you—?”
“Saved my life, it did,” King Thorvald said, as if Sidroc hadn’t spoken. “Made my cock get bigger, too, I warrant.”
“Father! Such language!” five women protested, including Vana, who was married to Rafn, the Viking hersir who commanded all the troops at Stoneheim. Vana had a passion for cleaning and was scrubbing at a trestle table behind them while the family meeting was about to commence. Though why he would be included in a family meeting posed both good and bad possibilities in Sidroc’s befuddled brain.
“Mayhap Adam should drill a hole in your head,” the king suggested to him.
