The Viking's Captive (37 page)

Her first day in the harem, they’d left her pretty much alone.

The second day, she’d taken a bath, willingly, in a marble tub big enough to hold twelve people. Then it took eight eunuchs of considerable size to hold her
down while every single hair on her body was plucked off. She was now hairless
everywhere
except for her head. Somebody was going to pay for that atrocity.

Today, she was attending harem school. The lesson of the day … bloody hell, the lesson of every day, she would guess … was the best way to please the master. The instructors were the head eunuch, Selim, and an aging houri Salome. She thought it ironic that a man with no manparts should be teaching women how to please those who had such parts … along with a lady whose female parts had long ago dried up.

There were three dozen women lying about on low divans sucking up this sexual knowledge like thirsty camels drinking water. Tyra’s contribution was to snort her disbelief or make rude comments at various intervals, especially when they recommended such things as rouging the nipples, which they referred to poetically as flower buds. “Not unless the male is going to rouge his
lily,
too.”

“M’lady,” warned Kareem, a surly-looking eunuch who stood near her. He was about three feet tall and three feet wide. With an evil grin, he caressed the small whip he held in his hands. “Wise females know when to curb their tongues.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, which probably wasn’t a smart choice, if his low growl was any indication.

“Always keep one’s eyes downcast with meekness,” was another morsel of wisdom the two instructors tossed out.

“Hah! Only if you want to fall flat on your face.” Almost immediately, she said, “Ouch!” Kareem had switched her across the back.

“Then there is piercing one’s belly button with a gold ring,” Selim was saying. He ordered a young woman in
the front row to stand and demonstrate. She had a gold ring, all right, smack in the center of her belly.

Tyra winced and thought,
Ouch!
“That is attractive? Really, ladies, are you believing this hog swill?”

This time, Kareem took great pleasure in putting his full force behind the swish of the whip across her back. Mayhap she would rest her tongue for a bit, after all. She adjusted her position on the divan and heard the tinkle of tiny bells. All the women were scantily clad, mostly in diaphanous pants and vests with lots of little bells. “What are we? Cows? Do we need bells to find our way home?” she muttered. Actually, Tyra would be mortified if anyone other than two hundred women were to see her in this attire. She looked like a six-foot scarf, in her opinion. Of course, she’d forgotten that she was not going to speak anymore, but Kareem had not. Three hits she got this time.

She was going to make Kareem eat that whip when she got out of this place. If she ever got out of this place. Nay, nay, nay, she could not think that way. Someone was sure to come for her. Gunter. Or Egil. Or her soldiers. They’d better come.

But wait. The program was finally getting interesting. Selim and Salome were handing out smooth marble rods to all the ladies. They were about the width of her forefinger and twice as long. She frowned, trying to figure out the purpose of such an object.

“Today you are going to be taught how to strengthen a
new
muscle in your bodies … one which will enhance the pleasure of the master during bedplay. And your pleasure as well,” Selim added as an enticement.

Muscles? That was a subject with which Tyra was well acquainted, but she did not think there was any muscle that could be considered new to her.

She was wrong. As one of the houris demonstrated the purpose of the marble wand, Tyra’s eyes widened.

“There is an inner muscle that you must learn to control.” Selim instructed, “Clench, unclench, clench, unclench, clench, unclench …”

As he repeated the order over and over, Tyra began to understand the principle. And all she could think was,
For the love of a Frost Giant! What would Adam think of this trick?

But then she immediately chastised herself.
I am never going to see Adam again.

Am I?

The intrusion of Adam into her thoughts erased all interest in the demonstration. At some point she was going to have to face her feelings about him, and the mistakes she might have made. In that moment, Tyra made a vow to herself. If she ever escaped this harem … and she had no doubt that she would … she was going to return to Stoneheim and make peace with her father and sisters.

Then she was going for Adam.

Really, every good soldier knew that there were times when it was best just to cut one’s losses. She was unhappy here in the Eastlands. She had been unhappy in Byzantium. And it all had to do with Adam … or his absence from her life. It didn’t matter where she was; she could be happy if he were there.

Yea, she was going for Adam. Even if she had to kidnap him again. They had unfinished business … the least of which involved marble wands.

Well, mayhap not the least.

P
rincess, where art thou? …

King Thorvald was lying on couch number three in the Hall of Nineteen Couches, as indicative of his high standing in the court of Emperor Romanus. Adam, Tykir, and Bolthor were on couches much farther down the line, as indicative of their lower standing.

It was late on the night of their arrival, and Adam could not care less where he sat, whether his plate was gold or silver, whether he got one more dish served in grape leaves, whether his face was fanned by a dancing girl, or his fingers washed with rose water. If Adam spoke with one more Byzantine physician about herbs and healing, he was going to scream. Medicine was his profession, but Tyra was his obsession.

Six hours in the emperor’s presence, and they had not yet been given permission to discuss the purpose of their mission. They had not seen or heard of any of the Stoneheim contingent.

“Protocol,” King Thorvald had advised him. “We must follow protocol to accomplish our ends. Diplomacy is the key if we want to leave this land where we are far outnumbered.”

He had told the king exactly what he could do with
his diplomacy, and the king had told him that mayhap he wouldn’t give him his daughter after all.

It was probably a good thing he and Thorvald were separated. Angry words spoken in haste needed time and space to heal.

He took another sip of the wine in his goblet and turned to speak with Tykir, who was listening to something being said by a slave girl wearing a clinging garment. Assigned to feed Tykir grapes or fan his face in case a bead of sweat dared to pop out, she purred to him, “You are such a fascinating man.”

Tykir must have heard Adam’s snort of disgust, because he blushed and told the slave girl, “I am not all that fascinating.”

“Alinor is going to kill you when she hears about this,” Adam remarked.

“That is assuming
someone
has a death wish and chooses to tell her,” Tykir said out of the side of his mouth.

On his other side, Adam heard Bolthor grumbling to his slave girl, “Just because I speak slowly does not mean that I think slowly.”

The girl just giggled. She probably did not understand the Norse language, and thought he was commenting on her rouged nipples, which were visible through the fabric of her gown.

“Here is a saga for you two,” Bolthor said. “A Viking View of Life.”

For once, Bolthor’s saga made sense. Tykir nodded, and Adam told him how impressed he was. There was something revolting about the excess of this court. There should be a better balance between rich and poor. Strange idea, that. Who would have thought it would come from Bolthor? But then, perchance Adam had been guilty like many others of thinking Bolthor was slow-witted just because he spoke slowly.

Adam’s slave girl, who had to be all of thirteen years old, had gone off to deliver a message for him to King Thorvald. She was returning now.

“Your king says to come forth. The emperor will speak with you now,” she told him in her girlish voice. “You two, as well,” she added, indicating Tykir and Bolthor.

Adam nodded and stood, noticing that Thorvald was doing the same, with the help of two servants, one of whom handed him his staff. If Adam wasn’t so worried about Tyra, he would be concerned about the king, who was not as strong as he believed.

Within seconds, the four of them stood before the emperor and empress, whose divans were on a dais elevated slightly from the rest of the room. Romanus and Theophano—both extremely handsome people—did not rise for them. Instead, they remained half reclining on their low sofas.

The four of them were dressed in their best finery … quality cloth, exquisite embroidery, amber jewelry, silver armlets … but they looked like paupers compared to these two, and most others at the court.

“Welcome to Byzantium, Thorvald. I believe you were a friend to my father.”

Thorvald nodded. “And to his son, as well.”

After Thorvald introduced the three of them, Romanus said, “I understand you had a miraculous operation performed on you of late.”

Here we go again with the miracle business,
Adam thought.

“Yea, I did. A hole in the head.”

Oh, God, please, no hole-in-the-head jests.

“This is the physician who cut into my scalp and saved my life,” the king went on, waving a hand at Adam.

“Aaahh!” the emperor and empress both sighed, duly impressed, he supposed. Or bored.

“Would you care to tour my hospitiums on the morrow? I have five of them. Mayhap you can explain this head drilling to my healers,” Romanus suggested to Adam.

“I would be honored to do so … at another time. There is a more urgent matter on my mind …
our
minds … first.”

He could tell that the emperor was not pleased with his answer. Still, Romanus inquired, “And what would that
urgent matter
be?”

“My daughter,” the king said. “I must see my daughter Tyra.”

At the same time, Adam said, “My betrothed, Tyra.”

“Your betrothed?” the empress asked with surprise.

Equally surprised, the emperor turned to his wife. “She did not tell us she was betrothed, did she, Theo?”

“She does not know yet,” Adam admitted, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment.

Romanus and Theophano both smiled, while Thorvald, Tykir, and Bolthor chuckled on either side of him.

“Where is she?” Adam asked bluntly.

The emperor narrowed his eyes at him and replied with equal bluntness. “Serving with the Army of the East.”

Theophano put a hand on her husband’s sleeve, a crafty expression sweeping over her face. “Did I forget to tell you, husband? The Stoneheim soldiers are serving with the Varangian Guard under General Leo Phocas, but the warrior princess known as Tyra …” She shrugged, and said no more.

“What of Tyra?” Adam and Thorvald both prodded at the same time.

“Alas, she is missing,” Theophano explained.

A bull-like roar emerged from Thorvald’s chest, and Adam saw for the first time where the king had got his reputation as the Wolf of the North. In truth, Adam was as angry as the king over the empress’s seemingly indifferent attitude about Tyra’s fate.

The emperor was clearly shocked at his wife’s words, but not about to challenge her in such a public forum. He gave his wife a long look which made it clear that there were explanations to be made on her part later. For now, he stood behind her by proclaiming, “There you have it, then. My wife has told you … Tyra is somewhere in the East … missing.”

Adam and Thorvald exchanged worried glances then. Thorvald had warned him of the dangers of court intrigue. Now he was experiencing them firsthand. He would bet his bag of herbs that the empress knew more than she was saying.

The king’s face was red with suppressed fury and his hands were clenched into tight fists, but Thorvald, to his credit, spoke in an even tone when he addressed the emperor. “Romanus, I am the king of a small section of a small country, but I am ruler there, just as you are here. And my daughter Tyra is a princess in her own right, no matter how she may portray herself. You have
not shown the proper respect for a daughter of Norway. And I can tell you this for a certainty. Not only do I take umbrage at your lack of concern, but my fellow kings of Vestland and all the Norse countries would join in my outrage if they learned of this. We protect our own.”

Romanus sat up on his divan, then stood abruptly. His Imperial Guard behind him drew their weapons, ready for any command. Romanus’s face was as red as Thorvald’s when he asked, “Do you threaten me, Viking?”