Sandra Hill Read Online Free Page A

didn’t leave scars as Steinolf’s leather whips and rope ties had.
    She should be insulted that she’d been discarded by one Arab potentate after another. Not so! Although being sold a sennight ago to this bedouin tribe in the Arab mountains after two years of swallowing sand in the Baghdad region was a bit of a blow to her pride. Especially since the men … and women … here smelled ripe betimes, like the back end of a camel, an animal she had come to loathe. Sheikh Fakhir’s large tribe did not follow the Norse practice of frequent bathing; in fact, she’d yet to see one of them set soap to skin. Not like the city Arabs who bathed and perfumed themselves daily, men and women alike. She was less than aromatic herself, being forced to follow the nomadic tribe’s practices.
    “Tell me again how you came to be here,” demanded Zena, Fakhir’s fourteen-year-old third wife. Madrene was only his fourth concubine, which meant that Zena could order her about. The little half-brained maggot!
    When she’d first arrived in this land, Madrene had been able to speak bits of the Arab language because of the trading she’d done as mistress of Norstead. After living here for two years, she’d become proficient. Thus, she was able to understand Zena’s words.
    Right now, Zena … short and very plump … was admiring herself in a piece of polished brass thatFakhir had given her when she’d pleased him particularly well in his bed rugs. Madrene knew he was pleased because they all slept on rugs in the same tent, all seventeen of the family and workers, and everyone got to hear all of Fakhir’s grunts and Zena’s squeals of pleasure.
Holy Frigg! You would think a pig was being stuck.
    Instead of obeying Zena’s order, Madrene said, “I cannot understand how you can bear to have Fakhir slake his lust on you. What any man needs with three wives and four concubines is beyond my comprehension.”
    “It is a sign of his wealth,” Zena said in her usual condescending manner. If she only knew how ridiculous she looked when she turned up that hooked nose of hers. “You envy me, that is why you speak so disparagingly of my husband.”
    Oh, yea, I envy sharing bed furs with an old man who has seen at least fifty summers. A repulsive, hairy man who has stomach problems which cause him to break wind at the most inappropriate times. Like during prayers … or lovemaking … or riding his favorite camel.
That was what Madrene thought, but she did not dare share those sentiments with Zena, who would report back to her beloved spouse. Fakhir was already angry with Madrene, feeling that he had been duped in his purchase of an accomplished concubine … her.
Ha, ha, ha!
    Zena picked up a date from a wooden bowl and popped it into her mouth. “Entertain me, or I will tell my husband that you displease me. He will have you beaten … or something.”
    It was the “or something” that worried Madrene. While she pondered the threat, she continued towork the wooden churn which would eventually, after great strain to her arms, turn the camel’s milk into a loathsome form of butter. Better this than the curdled camel’s milk she’d made yesterday, which hung inside the tent in a large leather pouch. To the Arabs’ delight and her dismay, one camel, even without drinking any water, could produce five buckets of milk per day.
    You’d never know that she was supposed to be a pampered concubine, not that the leisurely life mattered a whit to her. Madrene had run her father’s large farmstead for years, and milking a cow had always given her an earthy feeling of satisfaction. Milking a stubborn, spitting camel was a whole other matter!
    “Did you hear me, you lazy wench?” Zena whined. “I want to be amused.”
    Madrene gave Zena a sweeping look that clearly showed which one of them was the lazy wench. Zena totally mistook her survey, and preened as if Madrene had been admiring her.
    Madrene sighed at the uselessness of insulting the