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Yea, let’s.
“Yes, Sidroc behaved like a pig when discussing his betrothal to you. Men ofttimes act like pigs. Nothing new there. You reacted emotionally when you hit him over the head with the pitcher. I would have done the same. But you are a woman with heart, and when you heard about his daughter, you acted according to your conscience and rescued the child. It was never your intention to hide the child from Sidroc. In fact, you tried many times to locate him over those first few years. Sidroc might say you should have tried harder, but that is neither here nor there. You took care of his daughter these many years and grew to love her. To me, and I suspect to Sidroc, your biggest crime will be failing to tell him now. Each hour, each day, that has gone by while he is kept in ignorance, your innocence loses its ... innocence.”
“So it is hopeless?”
“Not at all. ’Tis obvious that Sidroc has an attraction for you. Oh yes, he does. I saw the way he looked at you during the feast and while you visited my shop. You must use that attraction to your advantage.”
She frowned in confusion.
“You must marry the man.”
“Whaaat?” she squealed.
“If you are wed, Runa will live with you both.”
“But he does not want to marry, and especially not me.”
“Then you must seduce him.”
Drifa groaned. “I am as far from a seductress as a rowboat is from a longship.”
“Drifa, Drifa, Drifa. All women have the tools. I will teach you how to use them.”
Was Drifa really about to get sex lessons? From the former mistress of the man to be seduced?
If her sisters ever heard about this, they would be hiring a skald to write sagas about her escapades.
If her father ever heard about this, he would have her baptized and locked in a convent for life.
If Sidroc ever heard about this, he would probably laugh himself silly, or kill her, or both.
“Well?” Ianthe tapped her foot impatiently.
Drifa took a deep breath and said, “Let the lessons begin.”
Chapter Seventeen
It wasn’t the wedding of Kate and PrinceWilliam, but still ...
For the days that followed, Drifa felt the presence of someone watching her. A stranger. Not Ivar and the other guardsmen. Never in a private place.
The wedding procession from the Great Palace to Hagia Sophia cathedral was led by a hundred Varangian Guardsmen in dress uniforms; she’d seen them earlier lounging about playing dice as they awaited their duties. The Varangians were followed by another hundred tagmatic troops, also in dress uniforms. All wore plumed helmets and rode black stallions with silver trappings. She assumed Sidroc and Finn would have been among them if they were in the city.
After that were several dozen priests and monks, hands folded together in front of their chests in a prayerful attitude. Drifa was glad she wasn’t close to their aromatic bodies since so many of them disdained bathing as a lust of the flesh.
Then came choirs that sang beautiful hymns in Latin, followed by drummers and lute players. The only thing missing was the acrobats, but they would probably come with the exiting procession.
Emperor John was already in the cathedral with his entourage awaiting his bride, who rode in an ivory, gilt-edged sedan chair with curtains of spun gold mesh. She was carried by eight Ethiopian men of equal height, whose muscular skin had been oiled to look like polished ebony. Camel guards surrounded the chair, and behind rode the patriarch on a snow-white mule, an attitude of humility and purity, Drifa supposed. After that were the empress’s eight ladies-in-waiting with their kohled eyes, rose-pomaded lips, and chalk-powdered throats and bosoms riding two apiece in their own sumptuous sedan chairs. What a contrast to the churchman! How the nun-like Empress Theodora must hate all this pomp!
The people who crowded the city streets kept shouting, “Long live Empress Theodora!” followed by cheers. Occasionally she would reach out a hand and toss coins to her subjects, causing near stampedes.
Princess Drifa and her four guardsmen—who looked especially handsome dressed all in black, tunic and braies of softest wool tucked into their waists by heavy etched silver belts, with silver-hilted swords scabbarded at their sides—walked behind the procession, along with several hundred other dignitaries and emissaries from other countries. In all, the procession along the short distance from the palace to the church took more than two hours.
Halfway through their walk, Drifa was bumped from behind. When she turned, dark eyes stared at her intently from beneath the burnoose of a desert-style robe, the kind she’d seen her brother-by-marriage, Adam the Healer, and his aide Rashid wear on occasion. “Begging your pardon, mistress,” the man said in heavily accented Greek and bowed away. It happened so quickly that her guardsmen saw her stumble but hadn’t noticed the man, who’d no doubt pushed her. She decided not to alarm them, leastways not until later.
Once inside, all thoughts of danger melted away under the most magnificent splendor. Drifa was not a Christian, but she could appreciate the heavenly sense of beauty dedicated to their One-God. The high central dome had dozens of arched windows that let in sunshine to reflect off the marble pillars and mosaic walls, many with colorful lapis lazuli, telling stories in art about their One-God and saints and angels. It was enough to turn a heathen Viking into a believer.
“Holy bloody hell!” Ivar murmured beside her, and it did not sound at all sacrilegious. All of their jaws were gaping open with astonishment.
