Maidensong (31 page)

They followed Al-Amin into the cool interior of the
house, up a circular marble staircase and down a long veranda that was open on one side to the courtyard and dotted with doorways into various rooms on the
other. Glimpses of polished onyx floors strewn with
ornate rugs and costly mosaics flashed by Rika’s eyes, making her feel light-headed. When the eunuch finally turned into one of the openings, she was relieved to be
able to wait behind a stone lattice to allow her eyes
time to adjust to the dimness.

Through the ornate stonework, she could make out
two men reclining near a low table, laden with all
manner of delicacies. One of the men was younger, in
clined to pudginess, and, after popping a trifle into his
mouth, he licked his fingers in an effete manner.

The other man was older, his dark hair and neatly
trimmed beard shot with silver, but he was firm-jawed yet. He
was handsome in a fierce, hawkish way. The lift of a dark brow and the calculating snap in his eyes told Rika she did not want this man for an enemy. Which was her prospective husband? It
didn’t really matter to her, but she recognized immedi
ately that the elder man was the more dangerous of the two.

They followed Al-Amin into the room to be announced, Ornolf with powerful strides, Torvald and
Helge toddling after him, clearly overwhelmed, and fi
nally Rika. She held her head high, and reminded her
self that her sacrifice was a small thing really, to ensure the life of her brother.

And the honor of the man she loved.

The younger man eyed her unabashedly and barely
contained his snicker. The older man frowned and
muttered something in Arabic. Rika couldn’t be sure
but she thought she caught the phrase ‘red Norse
cow.’ Then the man pasted a smile on his face that
didn’t reach his eyes and stood to welcome Ornolf.
Rika looked down at the
little
Arab. She topped him
by half a head.

“Welcome, my old friend,” Farouk-Azziz said,
switching to Greek to speak to Ornolf. “I had not thought to have the
pleasure of your company for some time yet, let alone
glimpse the rare northern . . .” he faltered for a mo
ment, obviously taken aback by Rika’s appearance, “moon of beauty you have brought for me.”

Farouk-Azziz’s dinner guest failed to disguise his disdain when he gazed on Rika. He murmured a few
words to his host which confirmed her suspicion that the Arab ideal of feminine beauty was epitomized by the petite, dusky morsels already crowding her future
husband’s harem.

Farouk gulped and stared up at her as if the sheer
size of his new bride was enough to unman him. He
whispered a biting retort back to his friend, a scathing
remark about her unfortunate garish coloring and glit
tering pale eyes. Rika thought she caught him making the sign against evil with one hand. Obviously, when Farouk first suggested this union, he’d never stopped to
consider that tall, pale Northmen must come from
tall, pale Northwomen.

Ornolf balled his fists at his sides, Rika noticed. He
must have heard the slighting remark as well, but he
feigned ignorance, as he’d admonished them all to do
at times. “The
Jarl
of Sogna is pleased to honor your request for a bride and has sent you a highly esteemed
daughter of his house. Rika of Sognefjord.” Ornolf
waved a hand in her direction and she inclined her head to the Arab.

How interesting that he seemed not to want her.
She was strangely comforted by the Arab’s look of un
ease. It made her feel that she was not the only fly
trapped in Gunnar's web. Perhaps this was her chance
to break free. A small shivering started deep inside
her. She hadn’t felt it in a long time, but she still rec
ognized it. Hope.

“Alas,” Farouk-Azziz said. “An unforeseen complica
tion has arisen that may preclude our arrangement.”

“And what might that be?” Ornolf’s tone was not sympathetic.

The Arab stared at Rika for a moment before col
lecting his thoughts. “A religious difficulty,” he said. “I am, as you know, a follower of the Prophet and people
of the North are notoriously pa— your people are the
devotees of many gods. Under the laws of my faith, I
cannot enter into a marriage with an unbeliever.”

“We’ve come a very long way for you to remember
this difficulty just now.” Ornolf glared down at Farouk-Azziz.

“My friend, you and I have established a long and
fruitful partnership,” Farouk said. “We have agreed on
so many mutually profitable trades, I had simply forgotten that there would naturally be this difference between us.”

“The
jarl
will be extremely displeased,” Ornolf said. “
He will no doubt look to find another trading partner.
One who will be a man of his word.”

Rika resisted the urge to smile. Gunnar would be
livid. But it would not be her fault that the Arab failed
to live up to his part of the bargain. Her pulse jumped.
She and Bjorn could marry before they returned to Sogna in the spring.

“Do not be hasty,” Farouk said. “You wound me, Northman. You know I stick to my agreements, even
when you have gotten the better of me. I would will
ingly take this Northern flower as my wife, but how-
could I ask her to give up her gods and embrace my
faith? It would be too much.”

The quick flare of hope sputtered and died. Rika’s
first assessment was correct. The Arab was dangerous.
With his well-crafted argument, he deflected all the
failure of their union neatly into her lap. Gunnar
would indeed be furious. At her. And Ketil would pay
the price of his rage.

She had to do something to turn this back on Farouk-Azziz. Could she give up Thor and the rest of the gods? Magnus had taught her all she knew of them, but the court of Asgard seemed to have forsaken her. After all, they stood by and watched, amused no doubt
at her present predicament, without lifting a finger to
help her. She needed time to figure a way out. Sud
denly renouncing the Nordic pantheon seemed a small hurdle.

“May I be given instruction in your faith before I de
cide whether to put aside my own?” she asked in flaw
less Greek. Ornolf’s tutelage was proving its worth.

Farouk-Azziz jerked his head toward her, obviously
stunned that she was able to follow their discussion.

Rika lifted a haughty brow at him. “When a ‘red Norse cow’ is moved to a new pasture, she must be
given time to acquire a taste for different grass.”

The young man seated behind Farouk snorted and
nearly choked on a fig. Farouk ignored his distress and stared at Rika, clearly reevaluating her.

“With your permission, Ornolf.” He bowed and
pressed his fingertips first to his lips and then his forehead. “May I show this Northern moon the delights of my garden? You are welcome to observe us from the
veranda to preserve her reputation, but by your grace,
I would have private speech with her.”

Ornolf looked askance at Rika, and when she nodded slightly, he agreed. Farouk-Azziz offered his arm and escorted her from the room.

They walked together in silence down the long ve
randa and through the cool marble stairwell. The sun
had set behind one of Miklagaard’s seven hills, but the
garden still retained some of the heat of the early autumn day. Farouk-Azziz stopped next to the fountain where the air was cooler.

Very astute
. The patter of the water would also cover their words, protecting their privacy from any who might wish to overhear.

“You surprise me, Rika of Sognefjord,” he said,
wincing as though even the syllables of her name were harsh and jarring to his tongue. “In my experience, impudence and intelligence in a woman is not a likely combination.”

“Then I would have to assume your experience with
women is somewhat limited,” she fired back. “You sur
prise me as well. I had been told that Arabs were a
people of great courtesy and discretion.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “You have me at a dis
advantage, then, for you had warning of me. No one told me that women of the North were so quick of
mind and tongue.” He gestured for her to sit on one of
the elegant carved benches ringing the fountain while he remained standing. “You
are certainly no cow and I cover my head with ashes
for having presumed to say so. My profoundest apolo
gies for an unworthy statement.”

“Accepted,” Rika said. “But I never despise someone who speaks the truth as he sees it. It’s most refreshing.”

He cocked his head at her, like a fierce tiercel sur
prised by the fight in the field mouse he’d planned to
have for supper. “A woman who values truth is also re
freshing. Tell me some truths about you, Rika of Sogne
fjord. Why do you wish this marriage to go forward?”

Rika weighed her answer. If she’d been hurt by his
insulting comment, she might have been tempted to
hurl the fact that she was in Miklagard only under the direct coercion. But her heart was still so abraded by Bjorn’s departure, she couldn’t feel anything, certainly
not this little man’s slight. Besides, it was better to
spar with Farouk-Azziz than fend off his amorous in
tentions. She was grateful that he seemed as reluctant
to wed her as she was him.

“Truth, like a rare spice, is sometimes best used sparingly. My reasons are my own, and I have not said I want our marriage to proceed.” She gazed up at him with a directness that seemed to unnerve him. “I have only said I’m willing to learn about your faith.”

“If you were a man, you would no doubt have been
a judge,” Farouk said as he settled next to her on the
bench. As the day dimmed to twilight, it seemed her
strong features were less jarring to him. She suspected
he liked her better sitting down. “For a woman, you have great subtlety with words.”

“Perhaps you have not spent enough time speaking with the women you know. And if I were a man, we would not be in your lovely garden having
this conversation,” she said. “But I should be comfort
able with words. In my own land, I am accounted a fair storyteller and a poet.”

“That explains much.” A flicker of respect glowed in
his eyes. “I confess that poetry touches this jaded heart
of mine and gives me more joy than all my trading em
pire. I am truly honored in my trading partner’s choice of a bride for me.”

“Ah, but by your own words, it remains to be seen
whether I shall be your bride,” she replied smoothly. “The religious difference?”

“A situation I will endeavor to remedy immediately.
I shall engage an imam for your instruction at once.”
His dark brows nearly met over his hawkish nose. “Li
bidinous adventures with women I’ve had aplenty. I’ve
never encountered one that challenged my wit. Until
now. Your lessons in Islam will begin in the morning.
Will that satisfy you?”

“Very well,” she said, then hurried on in a flash of inspiration. “Ornolf told us he cannot return to the
North so late in the year. There will be ample time to
give your faith a fair hearing over the winter. If I find I
cannot convert or if I still find no favor in your eyes, I
will leave with Ornolf in the spring.”

Farouk smiled. “You have just ex
tended our betrothal by several months. Skillfully
done. Remind me not to talk trade with you. During
that time, you and your party must be honored guests
in my poor home. And you must share some of your
tales of the North with me.”

“I would be pleased,” she said.

“Rika of Sognefjord, perhaps we can make a pact
with each other.” He stood and offered her his arm. “
Let us agree always to speak the truth to each other and . . .”

“And what?”

“And hope for the wisdom to know when to
speak it sparingly.” He shrugged in a self-deprecating manner.

Her lips parted in a thin smile. She could deal with Farouk-Azziz, but he would bear careful watching. “Agreed.”

Bjorn plowed down the street, giving way for no man. The well-dressed, perfumed citizens of Miklagard skit
tered out of his path. He wished he’d encounter some
one who would challenge him. The longing to strike
something was fast building to a fever in his blood. He
heard quick booted steps behind him, but didn’t turn
his head. If it was a foe, he was ready. If it was a med
dlesome friend . . .