The Viking's Captive (35 page)

“But perhaps that is the best part, Theo,” Romanus said as if thinking aloud. “No other king or emperor could boast of the same. Mayhap if the Princess Tyra works out, I could establish a separate female guard. Truly, my dear, I will be the envy of every monarch in the world.”

Theophano was not convinced. “Like a freak dwarf, or a double-headed cow?” she sneered.

Tyra bristled with outrage, but held her tongue when Gunter and Egil squeezed her forearms from either side in warning.

Even more alarming, Theophano kept looking from Tyra to Romanus, as if she suspected that her husband had a personal interest in Tyra … which was ridiculous, of course, especially when he had a woman of Theophano’s outstanding beauty.

Unfortunately, that suspicion proved true when Theophano whispered to her husband, loud enough for Tyra to overhear, “She is so
big,
dearling, and not at all pretty.”

Romanus, the dumb dolt, answered, “Dost think so, dearling? On the contrary, I think she is stunning. Tall, yes, and perhaps not pretty, but very attractive.”

Holy Thor! That should put an end to her hopes of joining the Varangian Guard. A jealous wife would never allow her husband to employ an attractive woman. Not that Tyra considered herself attractive. It must be something Adam had done to her that made her appear different to men. She and Gunter and Egil exchanged meaningful glances, and shrugged. Perhaps they could continue on to the Rus lands and find mercenary work there. Or they could backtrack to Trelleborg and become Jomsvikings, but Tyra misdoubted the knights would allow a woman to join their ranks. Or her men could stay and become Varangians while she went off on her own.

Romanus clapped his hands together as if making a decision. “It is done. You and your soldiers are welcome to join my army, Tyra.” He motioned for a man standing off to the side to come forward. “Let me introduce you to my general, Nicephorus Phocas. Nicky, you can find a place for several accomplished fighting men … and a woman, ha ha ha … can you not?”

Tyra was in awe. Who had not heard of General Nicephorus Phocas? Nicephorus was famous for his spectacular triumphs in recent years in Crete.

Whereas Romanus was young and handsome, Nicephorus, at fifty or so years, was short and squat with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His complexion was swarthy from years of serving under the Syrian sun. His eyes, piercing and sad, were small and dark, under heavy brows.

He stared for a long time at Tyra before speaking. “We are constantly involved in battle to drive the infidels back to the desert. That is my brother Leo’s area of command,” he told her. “Do you have any problem fighting Arabs?”

For some reason, an image of Rashid flashed into her mind. But she gave the answer that was expected of her. “The enemy of my friend is my enemy, too.”

He nodded his acceptance of her words, then waved a hand in the emperor’s direction. “It is as you wish, Your Majesty.” Then he walked away.

Romanus walked down the steps toward her, smiling widely. “Welcome to Byzantium,” he said warmly, kissing her lightly on one cheek, then the other.

Over his shoulder, Tyra saw Theophano glaring at her with venom. It appeared that her welcome to Byzantium was not a universal one.

“Be careful,” Gunter advised her in an undertone. “Be very careful, my lady.”

Egil concurred by adding from her other side, “You have entered a real vipers’ nest here. And the queen asp has her eye on you.”

Their words of caution were reinforced when the empress stepped down from the royal dais and went off to the side, where she and General Phocas put their heads together, looking up from time to time toward her.

An uncomfortable ripple of foreboding swept over Tyra’s body. Battles she could fight—‘twas what she’d been trained to do. But court intrigues were another matter.

Gunter and Egil were here with her, and several dozen of her
hersirs,
but still Tyra came to an alarming conclusion.

I am all alone.

Tyra’s fears were reinforced that night as she prepared for bed in one of the small castle chambers that had been assigned to her. Gunter and Egil and all her soldiers had been given quarters in the army guardhouse. She was virtually isolated from her men.

Azize, a Turkish slave assigned to her, whispered a
warning as she smoothed out the bed linens. “Be careful of the empress, my lady. Her beauty is a facade to hide much evil. Nothing and no one stand in the way of her ambition.”

Tyra was surprised that a servant would speak so bluntly, but she was not about to question the maid’s good intentions. “Perhaps your view is biased because of your situation,” Tyra suggested kindly as she began to take off her clothing. From her language, it was clear that Azize was not of common birth. No doubt she was a prize of one battle or another and resented the empress’s royal position, which she might very well have held in another country.

Azize shook her head vehemently. “The empress tolerates no rivals … real or perceived. When Romanus became emperor, she had his mother and five sisters relegated to a distant part of the castle, like prisoners. Then, after his mother died, Theophano forced all five girls into nunneries, against their will. The Patriarch Polyeuctus himself was called in to shear their hair in public. Ahhh, the wailing and lamentations were so sorrowful! All five of them were then sent to different convents so they would never see each other again in this lifetime. They are now slaves as much as I.”

Tyra decided then and there to heed Azize’s warning. The sooner she was out of this palace, the better. She slept with her sword that night. Adam’s shield on the floor by her low pallet served as an odd comfort to Tyra as she began her new life in a foreign country.

H
umor is ageless …
“What has a hole on the top and is full of mead?” one Stoneheim soldier asked another Stoneheim soldier.

“A barrel of mead?” a third soldier interjected innocently, though he had to know the answer.

“Nay, the
drukkinn
king of Stoneheim.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” the men sitting around the alehouse table laughed.

“Didst hear that the king tupped Bertha last night?” another soldier called out. Bertha, the alehouse whore, straightened up. “The only problem is, he tupped the wrong hole.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” More communal laughter.

“The king tupped himself,” the soldier explained to one man who hadn’t understood the jest.

These men must be demented to find humor in these endless hole-in-the-head jokes, Adam thought, but after a forced two-sennight stay in the trading town while the king recovered from a high fever, he and his friends were bordering on demented, too.

“You’d better be careful that Thorvald doesn’t overhear
these jokes,” Adam warned. “He may not appreciate your laughing at him.”

“Nay, you are wrong there,” Bolthor spoke up. “Thorvald seems to enjoy the hole-in-the-head jests best of all. In fact, I have composed a saga about this very thing, ‘Viking Men with Humor.’”

Bolthor was already starting to perform before Adam had a chance to groan. Rashid, the traitor, was applauding.

There was stone silence in the ale room. Bolthor was a giant of a man … too big for them to taunt with laughter or ridicule.

Finally Adam said, “Very good, Bolthor,” though he gritted his teeth in saying so. Then he added, “I noticed that you had no rhyming words in that one.”

“How sharp-witted of you to notice, Adam! I like to mix my sagas … some rhyming, some not.”

“Excellent idea!” Tykir said.

Adam’s head swiveled toward Tykir so sharply he would probably have a crick in his neck tonight. “Excellent idea?” he mouthed silently.

Tykir just grinned.

“Someone ought to tell Bolthor the truth someday,” Adam grumbled.

“He who tells the truth should have one foot in the stirrup,” Rashid advised him.

“Sagas and proverbs! I think I have landed in hell and no one bothered to inform me.”

“It is good to know the truth, but it is better to speak of fig trees,” Rashid continued.

“Aaarrgh!”

“Methinks I will go over and talk to Bertha,” Rashid said.

“If you dare to offer her a spot in my harem, I swear I will tell the world you are a eunuch.” Adam shoved his trencher and wooden goblet aside and placed his forehead on the table before him. Then he banged his head several times.
Welcome to the world of the demented!
“I have to get out of this place. I am dying of boredom. Soon I will be composing sagas and proverbs myself.”

“Now, Adam, we will be gone from here in a day or so. Even you have said that the king is much improved,” Tykir said.

Adam should be thankful. It had been questionable at one point whether the king would survive the fever that overcame him soon after leaving Stoneheim. “But two whole sennights we have lost here. The king planted the idea in my head that Tyra might be in danger in Byzantium, then succumbed to the fever. All this time, even as I tended to Thorvald, I have been worrying that we will be too late.”

Tykir nodded his understanding, then leaned back on his bench against the wall, a dreamy expression on his face. “There was a time, afore Alinor and I were wed, when we were separated for a short time. You may not be aware of this fact, but my lady can be a very stubborn person.”

Adam made a snorting sound and said, “And you are not?”

“Not as thickheaded as she. But do not tell her I said so,” he quickly added. “In any case, during those several sennights when we were apart, I worried about her welfare. She had two evil twin brothers, you know? But mostly, she occupied every moment of my every day because I was coming to accept the fact that I loved her, and I had never told her. I was all twisted up inside.”

Mayhap Tykir had the right of it. Betimes Adam felt as if he’d been turned inside out. He wasn’t sure what he thought anymore. Sometimes he even forgot to eat. “I’ll tell you one thing, Gunter’s pretty face is going to be not so pretty when I am done with him, and Egil’s over-tight
braies
will fit him much better. Furthermore, Tyra had better not be scratching her groin again. After seeing her in that red gown,”
and seeing her naked,
“I cannot bear the thought of her trying to act the man.”

“That is the least of your troubles, boy. I can see clearly that you are in the same spot I was in then. You have not yet come to terms with your feelings.”

“Oh, God! Spare me from Vikings who speak of feelings. Next Bolthor will be …”

Uh-oh! I spoke too soon.
Already he saw that the verse mood was coming onto the skald’s face,
again.

“This is the saga of Adam the Lesser, also known as the saga of ‘Three Dreaded Words.’”

Boredom breeds hasty decisions …

Another sennight had gone by, and Tyra was in the exercise arena, practicing battle skills with other members of the Varangian Guard. She was bored, and more than a little chagrined by her service in the Guard thus far.

Romanus was indeed treating her like a freak. Her uniform was the same as other members of his Guard, except more feminine in subtle ways. Tucks and folds he had apparently ordered resulted in her attire clearly showing that she was a woman with breasts and rounded hips and long legs. And he paraded her before every emissary who visited his court from other countries. It was hard to miss their smirks and rude stares or blatant invitations to couple with them, like a court whore. Worst of all, the empress’s hatred toward her was becoming more and more evident.

Inside the palace enclosure there were supposedly fifty thousand retainers. Up till now, Romanus had kept Tyra as part of his private imperial bodyguard, though some Varangians served on active duty, too. During any reception or public event, the emperor had three lines of soldiers arranged in a semicircle behind him. The first arc included those fighting men who had recently distinguished themselves in the ruler’s service. The second group was less important, but still meritorious of royal recognition. The third group, where Tyra had been assigned,
included the “Barbarians,” or “Varangians.” All of them stood at attention, eyes lowered the entire time, in full uniform, armor, and weaponry.