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Drifa had dressed to the highest standards today, befitting her role as an emissary of a Norse king. She wore a saffron-yellow linen gunna, long-sleeved and ankle-length with a train, tucked in at the waist by a gold-linked chain. Over it was the open-sided Norse apron in a deep apricot silk, so fine a quality were both garments they billowed when she walked. In fact, she needed the tight twisted rings about her wrists to keep the fabric from covering her hands. Gold brooches in the pennanular style sat on each shoulder, fastening the shoulder straps. Her black hair, newly washed, hung straight down her back, held off her forehead with a silver fillet made up of writhing wolves, whose jaws met in the center, holding an amber star. The wolves represented her father’s standard, and the star represented the Star of the North. On her feet were soft white brocade slippers with silver and gold embossing. A heavy gold chain about her neck held a pendant matching the one on her fillet, a larger star set in gold. Rune rings adorned several fingers.
She was flanked on both sides by the four hersirs who’d brought her to Byzantium. They’d taken as much care with their appearance today as she had. More than one woman gave them double looks as they passed by, especially Jamie, who wore Scottish attire that left bare his muscular legs. Her four guardsmen were in the crowd behind them.
As they neared the dais where the emperor and empress sat, Drifa stumbled with shock over what happened before her very eyes. If not for Wulf and Thork, she might have fallen flat on her face.
The throne rose up in the air a little and the golden lions sitting on either side began to shake their tails and roar. Gold and silver trees embellished with precious stones, like diamonds and rubies, held life-like birds that began to sing. It was the most astonishing marvel she had ever seen. It must be magic, or the most incredible feat of some mastermind.
The emperor laughed at what must be stunned looks on their faces.
The logothete, who had led them forward, stopped at a circle of purple marble, where he used his staff to rap on the floor for attention from the murmuring crowd. In a booming voice, he announced, “Your Serenity, I bring you Princess Drifa of the Norselands and her companions, Lord Wulfgar Cotley of Wessex, Lord Thork Tykirsson of Dragonstead, Lord James Campbell of the Scottish Highlands, and Lord Alrek Arnsson of Stoneheim.” Drifa stifled a grin at the wincing men beside her, none of whom claimed to be lords of anything.
Her men went down on one knee and lowered their heads. Alrek almost tipped over, but Wulf grabbed his arm and caught him in time. Drifa merely bowed her head as befitted her high station. If they’d been in closer proximity, she might have been permitted to kiss the emperor’s right hand. As it was, they were at the bottom of three porphyry steps that led to the pedestal on which the thrones rested.
“Rise and welcome to Byzantium. Your presence at this blessed time is an honor to both me and the empress,” the emperor said, looking toward the stone-faced woman at his side, who would be his wife in a few days. In truth, Drifa felt a shaft of pity spear her for the Empress Theodora, who appeared out of place and miserable.
The emperor and empress sat on the double seat of an ornate, double-cushioned throne under a canopy of purple silk hangings. Purple was the color reserved for royalty because its dye was made from the scarce murex shell.
The emperor wore a long-sleeved tunic of purest white with jeweled embroidery around the neckline and a straight line down from chest to feet. Around his neck was a purple chalmys cape adorned with golden squares, the edges of which held jeweled pendants hanging from gold chains. If that wasn’t enough glitter, on his head the emperor wore a gem-studded crown that had a fringe of gem pendants hanging from chains down the nape. Her father and his men would have a good laugh over the crimson shoes.
Like peacocks, the females were not so colorful. Empress Theodora wore her mostly gray hair pulled tautly off her face into coils above each ear. She wore no jewelry, except for her diadem, which was a smaller version of the emperor’s crown. Her chiton was pale blue silk with no embroidery or adornment of any kind. And she wore no face paint, like many women of the court did ... kohl, rouge, powder, and such.
With ritualistic fanfare, the logothete took the parchment roll of credentials from Drifa and handed them to an aide standing near the throne.
“Your Majesty, I bring you gifts from my father, King Thorvald.” Drifa motioned with her hand for each of the hersirs to step forward one at a time. “Here,” she said, opening a carved wooden case with a satin lining, “are samples of some of the most precious amber harvested by Vikings in the Baltics. As you see, they are all colors and sizes, suitable for display or decoration or to be made into fine jewelry.” The emperor leaned forward with avid interest.
“For you, Empress Theodora, I have a special gift.” Thork handed her a small, silk-lined leather pouch. Having learned that the empress had been in a convent at one time, Drifa had commissioned Ianthe this morning to quickly make up a set of prayer beads, which the Greeks called komvoskoini. Hers were made of tiny amber balls on a silver chain with a silver amulet containing a relic of St. Sophia that Ianthe had provided. A simple job for Ianthe’s assistants, just a matter of stringing the beads, really.
You would have thought Drifa had handed Theodora a sack of gold, so pleased was she. In fact, tears welled in her eyes as she said, “I thank you for your gift, Princess Drifa.” Then the empress added, “I understand you are interested in flowers. Would you care to see my private garden?”
Drifa nodded, and the empress said that one of her ladies would contact her for a time and place.
The empress was no less homely than she had appeared the night before, but she was a kind woman, Drifa realized, and that was more important. To her, leastways.
She also gifted the emperor with rare white furs from the North Bear, a tun of mead, and a finely crafted sword perfected in the pattern-welded style, its hilt of solid silver embossed with gold.
After the presentation of gifts, the emperor gave her a formal invitation to the wedding and bid her stay in the palace as long as she was in the city. He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross in the air, a signal of dismissal. The logothete backed them away from the throne, calling out, “So be it! So be it!”
As they turned a short distance away, she noticed General Sclerus, chief commander of all Byzantine armies, who had been pointed out to her the night before. He was talking, head to head, with a rat-faced man who stared at her suspiciously.
She soon found out why.
“I am Prefect Mylonas,” he said, putting a hand on her forearm to halt her progress.
She tried to shrug off his insolent hand, but the rodent just squeezed.
“I noticed the products you gave the emperor. I wonder what other goods you have brought into our country. I know for a fact that you have declared none. No one trades in Constantinople without my permission, not even royal personages.”
“Trade? What trade?” she sputtered.
“That is what we will discuss. Come to the Praetorion tomorrow before noon. Do not force me to send my men for you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
He shrugged. “And here’s another bit to ponder, m’lady. I noticed you have Arab blood in your pretty body. Do you perchance act as spy here in Constantinople for our Arab enemies?”
“That is an outrageous suggestion. I have only ever known one Arab in passing in my whole life, and he was a medical comrade of my Saxon brother-by-marriage.”
“Be there. Tomorrow. That is all I will say for now.”
