“And that is?”
“The Moslem tribes must unite to fight the Greeks. We have been splintered apart of late, since the defeat of our beloved Saif ad-Dawlah a decade ago. Our marriage will accomplish that. An added bonus will be your Norsemen joining our battles.”
“Do you think my father would align himself with you, even if I bore your child, if all I am is a prisoner in your harem?”
“Prisoner? My concubines are not prisoners. They are here willingly.”
She arched her brows in doubt.
Which further infuriated him.
At this point, she did not care. She was furious, too.
“Who says there will be no marriage?” he asked with an evil expression on his face. “We will wait until you get your bloody flux, or not. If you are not with child, I will wed you, and may Allah protect you from my rage, for I will not. If you are breeding, nothing will protect you from my wrath.”
Drifa should have been scared, but in fact she was jubilant. She was not pregnant, having evidence of that soon after Sidroc left the city. It would be at least two sennights until her next monthly flow. Time, that was what Bahir’s decision gave her. Time for Sidroc to come rescue her.
Please, gods, let Sidroc care enough to come after me.
But does she have to belly dance? ...
Two days later, Sidroc was preparing to send Ianthe into the tent city to become a harem houri.
She was dressed in a black robe with a hood and veil that covered everything except her hands and eyes that were heavily kohled. She was taking the place of a young Slavic woman they’d intercepted on the way to the privy tent. The woman, named Marizke, praised God for her rescue after five long years in the harem.
Gismun had reported back to them last night after one full day in the tent city, pretending to be a horse trader from one of the distant Arab tribes. He was offering a fine stallion for sale, one that Sidroc had actually been given by the emperor some time ago.
Gismun was able to tell them where the harem tents were located, and, to everyone’s distress, he said that he’d seen Drifa in passing. And she had fingermark bruises on both sides of her face.
When asked, Marizke told them that the prince was in a rage over Drifa’s lack of virginity, although no one was supposed to know about it except him and his mother, the evil queen. Apparently the queen mother had taken a dislike to Drifa, mocking her Norse background in front of one and all, and jabbing her with a cane every chance she got. Further evidence of the woman’s cruelty, she forced Drifa to sleep with her pet panther. Did not matter that the panther was harmless, Drifa had to be terrified.
Sidroc swore he would kill Bahir and his mother, once everyone was safely away from the tent city.
“You must be discreet. Never speak unless spoken to, and then only in one word, if possible,” Sidroc advised Ianthe.
“Get Drifa alone as soon as possible and inform her of our plans.
“Neither of you should do anything to draw attention to yourselves.”
“Sidroc! We have gone over these instructions already. You do not have to remind me.”
He wasn’t so sure about that. He was just so worried, leaving the fate of their plans in the hands of these two women. He should be more trusting, he supposed, but he knew how unpredictable Drifa could be. And Ianthe was growing more like her by the day. Finn, he trusted implicitly, but anything could go wrong in a situation like this.
“Pray,” Ianthe advised them all when dusk finally came. “Drifa and I will expect you after everyone has gone to sleep.”
He nodded, then pulled Ianthe aside. “Tell Drifa—” He stopped to clear his throat. “Tell her that I promise to return her to her little girling.” But then he realized when he saw the stunned expression on Ianthe’s face, how lackwitted that sounded, and added, “Tell her we have unfinished business.”
A woman is expected to do what? Eeew! ...
Drifa was sitting cross-legged on the carpet along with the other harem “prisoners,” which was how she chose to regard the concubines. They were getting yet another lecture from the Imad, the head eunuch, on “How to Please the Master.”
“Eeeew!” murmured Marizke, the Slavic thrall-concubine, who folded herself down beside Drifa after returning from the privy.
“He is still discussing ‘licking the tree,’ ” Drifa whispered to Marizke, who had her head bowed slightly as if listening intently to Imad. “I am a gardener, but I have ne’er licked any tree. Who wants to swallow ... bark?”
Marizke put a hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. “Or sap?”
Drifa’s head shot to the right. “Ianthe?”