“I suspect you will convince your countrymen that you stay here by choice, unless you wish to leave the child behind.”
What a loathsome, evil lout! “You are a despic—”
He pressed his fingertips to her lips. “A team of strongest horses cannot pull a word back once spoken. Take care what you say to me.”
Her opinion must have been reflected on her face because he leaned over and patted her hand. “You are not to worry. I will take care of you henceforth. Now eat. You will need your strength for the days ahead. And nights.” He winked again. As an afterthought, he added, “Allah be praised.”
Drifa did eat, although she almost tossed the contents of her stomach when she was given fermented goat’s milk, a prized beverage here. Its stink was almost as bad as its taste. Queen Latifah reluctantly handed her a glass cup of grape juice to wash it down, at the direction of Bahir.
The queen served her son the choicest pieces of sliced lamb, cutting them up for him like he was a small boyling. She even mixed some raisins in a plate of rice, topped by orange segments, which she passed to him. “I picked the oranges for you myself just after dawn,” she told him in Arabic.
“You are the best mother in the world.”
Drifa felt like gagging, and not just because the taste of fermented goat milk was still on her palate.
But then, she had more to worry about when his mother remarked, “Are you sure she is a virgin?”
The question seemed to startle Bahir, and he looked to her, as if her virginity or lack of it would show on her face. “I had not considered that possibility, but she is twenty and nine,” he said hesitantly. “And she is part Norse. You know how immoral those heathens are.”
Have I told you how handy I am with a pottery pitcher, you slimy son of a toad?
“Never fear, my son,” his mother said. “I will determine for myself if she still has a maidenhead once I take her to the harem.”
He nodded, his obvious concern placated.
But she had to wonder: Exactly how did one determine if a maidenhead was still intact? And what happened when they discovered it was not?
Chapter Nineteen
Lawrence of Arabia he was not! ...
“Bloody damn woman!”
“Bloody damn delay!”
“Bloody damn Arabs!”
“Bloody damn Greeks!”
“Bloody damn camels!”
“Bloody damn heat!”
“Blood damn flies!”
Sidroc was so bloody damn mad he could bloody damn spit. Which he did because, of course, there was sand in his mouth. In fact, there was sand in every opening and crevice in his body. He no doubt had sand in his piss; he would have to check next time he relieved himself.
When he arrived in Miklagard a sennight ago, having arrived back in the city in record time, he discovered that Drifa had been kidnapped by some Arabs believed to be members of her mother’s family. Mylonas had alluded to it in her meeting with him, according to Ivar.
“What are you complaining about now?” Ianthe asked with irksome cheerfulness from her camel, which walked with irksome slowness beside his own irksome camel.
Her camel was a pleasant beast. His, on the other hand, had bitten him twice, attracted every flying bug in the desert, and broke wind repeatedly, usually when there was a back wind. He’d named his camel after the Christian religion’s Lucifer, equivalent to the Norse god Loki, whose name he hadn’t wanted to use for fear of further angering the Norse gods.
“He is always complaining, Ianthe,” Finn said from his other side. To no one’s surprise, Finn had found the most beautiful camel, with long silky fur. A female, no doubt, who batted its long camel eyelashes at him every chance it got. “Truly, if he keeps frowning like that, his face may freeze into furrows so deep Drifa will be able to plant roses in them.”
“We must be indulgent,” Ianthe told Finn. “Sidroc is grouchy because he is so worried about his ladylove.”
He choked on a mouthful of sand.