“Then search the camp and find him!”
And, as she expected, a short while later a great hue and cry of alarm was raised, echoing throughout the camp. Within moments a grim chief of the guards came rushing into the tent. Feigning panic, Hermione rose to meet him.
“What has happened?” she demanded shrilly. “Why all the shouting?”
“Princess Zora has been abducted, my lady! We found the empty litter near her tent and Phineas lying senseless beside it. Three of the bearers were strangled, while the fourth hovers near death.”
“No, this can’t be true,” Hermione objected with suitable disbelief while inwardly she fought the urge to laugh aloud in triumph. “It can’t be! How could such a thing have happened? Where were the guards?”
“Those assigned to your sister’s tent were murdered, their throats cut. The rest in the camp heard and saw nothing. The rain was so heavy, dousing the torches, and with no moonlight—”
“Did Phineas say anything when you found him? Did he see his attackers? Holy Mother Mary, I sent him a good while ago to escort Zora back to her tent after she and I had finished our supper. I thought him long abed!”
“When we managed to rouse him, he said only that he and the bearers were almost to the entrance when he was suddenly struck from behind on the head. He remembers nothing more. As for the slave, we will have to wait until he regains his senses…if he does.”
“Have Phineas brought to me.” Wringing her hands, Hermione began to circle the divan in distraction. “My women will care for him here.”
“Very well, my lady. I am ordering a search to begin at once for your sister—”
“No!” Hermione hysterically rounded upon him. “I forbid any guards to leave this camp!”
“But, my lady, Princess Zora’s abductors already have a good lead upon us. If we don’t set out soon—”
“I said no! We could be attacked again, and if your elite guards could not prevent this terrible event”—she glared at him accusingly— “what makes you think half their number will be enough to protect the camp? This could be some evil plot by Grand Prince Yaroslav…taking hostages to use against my father. Next, they might be planning to come after me!”
“Calm yourself, my lady. I will post a double ring of well-armed guards around your tent—”
“Yes, at once! But I still forbid any of your men to leave! You can blame the element of surprise for this unfortunate night’s work, but you will have no excuse for my father if we suffer a second successful attack!”
His sweaty face paling, the chief of the guards reluctantly acquiesced. “As you wish, Princess Hermione, but at first light I insist upon sending out some of my men. Prince Mstislav’s wrath will be fierce if we do not search for your sister.”
Sensing his stubbornness and accepting begrudgingly the truth of his words, Hermione decided it was wise to humor him. At least no guards would be sent out until morning, long hours away.
“Very well, that much I will allow,” she said shakily. “And though Chernigov is almost a week’s journey away, we shall make all haste and alert my father. If your guards fail to rescue my poor sister, his men surely will.” She bowed her head and covered her face with her hands as if about to weep. “Leave me.”
But no one would find her, Hermione thought smugly, watching the man through laced fingers as he strode from the tent.
The slavers who had captured Zora were miles down the Desna River by now, and would travel all night to put distance between themselves and the camp. They had been paid well to do so. Their ships would be past Chernigov and on their way south to Kiev long before word of the abduction ever reached her father, no matter how swiftly the caravan traveled. And even if the chief of the guards insisted upon sending messengers ahead with the grim news, they would still be too late.
Alone again, Hermione poured herself some wine and raised the goblet in a silent toast to Phineas. Her loyal chief eunuch had done his job well. It had taken him weeks to find a slave merchant to suit their purpose, but two nights ago while visiting a trading town not far from camp, he had finally succeeded.
A wily old trader bound for Constantinople with over one hundred slaves had readily agreed to have his men abduct a woman described as a concubine fallen into disfavor with her master’s wife. Apparently Prince Mstislav’s invading forces had killed both of the merchant’s sons, and he was only too eager to win his own brand of vengeance against the royal upstart from Tmutorokan. He believed he’d be depriving some arrogant boyar of his pampered whore. Gold grivna had changed hands and arrangements were made. All Hermione had to do was find some way to drug Zora, and that had been easy.
“Gullible little bitch,” Hermione muttered, disgusted by the conciliatory role she had had to play. She took a draft of wine, but her throat was so tightened that she could barely swallow.
Poison would have proved simpler—and she would have resorted to it if the right slave merchant hadn’t been found—but mute servitude suited a bastard daughter born of a common slave better than a quick death. A bastard who had usurped Prince Mstislav’s affection and become the favored one, the much beloved golden child. A bastard betrothed to Ivan, the man Hermione secretly loved and hoped to marry. That final indignity had forced the plan she had long nurtured. Tonight, vengeance was hers at last…
Hermione’s attention was drawn by a sudden commotion at the tent’s entrance. She glanced up to find Phineas suspended limply between two burly guards, his soaked tunic muddy and torn, his shaved head lolling upon his chest. How convincingly he played his part!
“Bring him here,” she ordered, gesturing to a divan that she quickly covered with a blanket. “Be careful, I tell you, or you’ll only cause him more pain!” When Phineas was settled, a warm blanket thrown over him, she asked one of the men, “Has the bearer been taken to the healer’s tent?”
“He is dead, my lady. A few moments ago.”
Absorbing this news, Hermione dismissed the guards with a nod. She held her breath, waiting until they were gone, then she exhaled slowly, a smile curving her lips.
“We’re alone, Phineas.”
The eunuch’s dark eyes opened, but he made no effort to rise. “I have pleased you, my mistress?”
“Infinitely, faithful one. You have secured my happiness. Lord Ivan’s bride will not be a bastard, but a true Rus princess with the blood of Byzantine emperors in her veins.” Kneeling beside the divan, she lifted his head and brought her own goblet to his lips. As he drank thirstily, she asked, “Did you give Gleb’s men my warning?”
Laying his head down, Phineas met her eyes. “Yes, mistress, but I have one fear. If Princess Zora tells them who she is before they can silence her tongue forever—”
“It will make no difference,” Hermione assured him as she refilled the goblet. “You said this Gleb burns for vengeance for the death of his two sons. Whether his captive is princess or concubine, he will follow my bidding and sell her with pleasure in the slave markets of Constantinople.”
“But if he becomes convinced of her royal parentage, he could find his revenge in giving her to Grand Prince Yaroslav.”
“You also told me that Gleb was a shrewd man,” Hermione reminded him. She had already considered this possibility and yet deemed her plan worth the risk. “To believe Zora was a princess, he would also know that he had not dealt with a rich, embittered wife as you described me to him, but someone vastly more powerful. I’m sure he would realize defiance of my orders would cost him his life.” She rose to her feet. “Enough talk, Phineas. I will summon my women to care for you. Remember, you’ve been struck violently upon the head. Now close your eyes and rest.”
Turning her back to him, Hermione went to the side entrance that led to her personal slaves’ tent. After sending one of the guards standing sentry outside for her women, she deftly pulled a small enamel vial from the tight sleeve of her sleeping dress and poured a measure of fine white powder into her goblet. The poison dissolved quickly and she
returned the vial to her sleeve.
“I imagine you’ve heard about the tragedy that has befallen my sister, and that Phineas was injured,” she said quietly to the first slave who entered. “I put you in charge of his care.” She handed the somber-faced woman the goblet. “See that he drinks this wine. It will calm him.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Glancing at the divan, Hermione felt a twinge of regret. Yet she couldn’t allow Phineas to live. He knew too much, and it would seem suspicious that the four bearers had perished but not him, however convincing his charade. He would expire of a sudden seizure within the hour, a development easily blamed upon his injury.
“Is there anything you need, mistress?” inquired another slave woman who followed Hermione to her curtained sleeping area at the rear of the tent.
“No,” she answered as the brocade draperies were drawn for her privacy. “Go and tend to Phineas with the others.” Turning away, she smiled to herself. “Tell him I said to sleep well.”
Chapter 2
Zora awoke to the sound of snoring. Her ears buzzed from the loud rumbling noise and her head pounded viciously. Dazed, she opened her eyes, her blurred vision gradually focusing upon a canvas wall only inches from her face.
She wondered who could be making such a racket. Her brain ached at the effort to think. Surely not one of her slave women, and if a guard was sleeping at his post outside her tent, she would have to report him for his laxness. Yet she wasn’t inclined to leave her bed to discover the culprit. Besides her terrible headache, she felt dizzy, and it was comfortable lying here, the furs so soft beneath her.
“Furs?” she breathed, confused. Her bed had never been covered with animal skins, but a fine silken quilt. And she slept between linen sheets, not under a prickly wool blanket like the one pulled up to her shoulder.
Filled with sudden unease, Zora winced as she slowly raised herself on one elbow. Massaging an aching temple, she looked around the small, shadowy interior.
This wasn’t her tent! The space was empty but for this low pile of furs and some wooden barrels stacked against an opposite wall. A strange roughly dressed man slumped on a bench near the entrance, his arms crossed and his chin resting on his chest. Another snore shattered the stillness and she realized he was fast asleep, his mouth hanging open and drool trickling from one slack corner.
Her confusion mounting, Zora thought to rise, but suddenly uproarious laughter sounded just outside the tent. Gasping, she fell back upon the furs as if she had been struck and rolled onto her side, squeezing her eyes shut. Her companion snorted awake, the bench creaking as he shifted his stout bulk and rose.
“Damned Varangians,” he grumbled, coming to stand over her.
Zora fought the urge to stiffen as the man nudged her bottom with his toe. She heard him grunt and, to her disgust, break wind as he scratched himself, then he turned abruptly as the tent flaps were thrown aside.
“Still asleep?” The voice was gruff and gravelly, like that of an older man.
“Aye, Gleb. Hasn’t twitched a muscle. Whatever that eunuch used to drug her, he must have given her a double dose to knock her out for this long.”
So she had been drugged, Zora thought wildly, the dense mist gradually clearing from her brain. But how? When? She had gone to Hermione’s tent, had drunk some wine… Oh, God! Vague memories crowded in upon her and became more vivid…her strange weariness, the litter crashing to the ground, Phineas’s whispered voice, brutal hands seizing her—
“It’s just as well. I’ve no time for her right now. This trading camp is swarming with eager buyers. Foreign merchants, too. I want to make more sales before we set off again. The journey downriver will be swifter with a few dozen less slaves.”
“But, Gleb, do you think we should risk another hour’s delay? We’ve already been here since midafternoon and it’s nearing sunset. Guards could have been sent out to look for the wench.”
The older man gave a dry laugh. “For a concubine? I doubt it, but if they are, we’ve managed a good day’s lead on any search party. Why do you think we kept our ships so hard to the river until we stopped here?”
She was no concubine! Zora screamed silently, her thoughts reeling. She forced herself to take steady breaths, knowing both men now stood over her.
“Pity she has to lose her tongue, a fine beauty like this,” the younger one muttered. “As a mute, she won’t fetch but half the price in Constantinople.”
“To hell with your sentiments! The great Prince Mstislav’s soldiers showed no mercy when wielding their knives, accursed butchers! They did the same thing to my sons before both were slain as supposed spies, hacking out their tongues, chopping off their fingers, noses, ears…” Falling silent for a moment, Gleb’s roughened voice was bitter when he added, “That eunuch’s mistress paid me well to carry out her orders, and I’ll not invite her wrath. Call me when the girl wakes. I’d cut out her tongue now but she’d choke on her own blood.”
Horrified, Zora feared her pounding heart would give her away. Holy Mother Mary, please tell her that this was a terrible dream!
Yet Phineas’s urgently whispered words came back to her with bone-chilling clarity— “Grab her and be gone!” She knew the nightmare was real. Hermione had finally engineered the cruelest offense of all, staging reconciliation while treachery seethed in her breast.
Zora banished her sister’s hateful image from her mind as the two men, engrossed in a discussion, moved away from her toward the entrance. She half opened her eyes to take a peek at them.
The older one, Gleb, wore a purple silk caftan over his gaunt frame, a stark contrast to the stout guard’s coarse woolen shirt and trousers. A close-cropped graying beard covered Gleb’s jaw. He looked shrewd, his features angular and pinched, and she stifled her irrational impulse to jump up and tell him that she was no mere concubine but Prince Mstislav’s daughter.
If this slaver’s sons had been killed by her father’s men, any such revelation would place her in greater danger. Who knew what Gleb would do to her then? Maybe kill her on the spot!
Zora shut her eyes as Gleb left the tent and his stocky subordinate retook his seat. It seemed her traitorous sister had chosen her abductors with care. Her only hope lay in escape.
Interminable moments passed while Zora lay upon the furs, her body tense beneath the blanket. She heard the bench creak each time her captor shifted his weight, but she didn’t dare look at him, certain that he was watching her. She couldn’t have been more astonished when a short while later, a loud, gargling snore burst from his throat. After a third such noise, she dared to raise her head. He was stretched out upon the bench, sleeping again!
Seizing her chance, Zora pushed back the blanket and rose shakily to her feet, fighting the lingering dizziness. For the first time she noticed that her silken clothes had been exchanged for a plain linen tunic and she was barefoot, her slippers gone. Why, those bastards must have seen her naked! And she was a princess!
Refusing to dwell upon the indignity, Zora swallowed hard as she took a few cautious steps to test her wobbly legs. When she felt certain that she wouldn’t collapse, she edged stealthily across the tent, all the while keeping a cautious eye upon her prone captor.
She almost jumped through her skin when he snorted and smacked his lips, but he did not waken. Carefully she lifted the flap, peering outside, and was dismayed to see that the camp was abustle with activity, traders haggling everywhere over various goods while groups of silent slaves, mostly women, were being led here and there. She also heard muffled male laughter emanating from several tents and occasionally high-pitched squeals that were decidedly female.
But there was one clear advantage. Although the tent was pitched near some larger ones, it was also close to the trees. If she could reach the forest, she could hide near the river and wait for the caravan to pass. The merchant had said there was only a day’s lead between any search party and the trading camp. But if she couldn’t escape through the front entrance
, fearing that she might be seen…
Zora’s gaze fell upon the knife protruding from the man’s leather belt. Dare she?
Another resounding snore startled her, spurring her into action. With shaking fingers, she crouched beside him and eased the weapon from its sheath, then moved quickly to the rear tent wall. Fortunately the razor-sharp blade slashed through the canvas as silently and smoothly as if the fabric were butter, and falling to her knees, she slipped through the narrow opening.
Her heart beating in her throat, Zora lifted her tunic above her knees and fled, looking neither to the left nor right but dashing straight for the tree line. She was nearly there when her left heel glanced off a jagged rock and, grimacing in pain, she had to hobble the rest of the way. She was almost crying with relief when she safely reached the dense woods. She leaned upon a trunk and paused for a brief instant to catch her breath and inspect her foot.
“By the blood of Odin, where are you flying to, my pretty bird?”
Gasping in fright, Zora glanced up to find a huge Varangian trader fastening his breeches as he stepped from behind a tree. Her heart sinking, she realized she had been so preoccupied with her injury that she hadn’t noticed the man relieving himself against a gnarled trunk only a few feet away.
“Stay away from me!” she cried when he took a step toward her. Brandishing the knife she still held, she glanced beyond him to the darkening forest and freedom, then met his leering gaze. In the fading light filtering through the leaves, his eyes appeared a pale, chilling blue, and the deep scar bisecting his sparsely bearded cheek only heightened his air of menace. His hair was white-blond and coarse, and he was dressed in fur skins like a barbarian.
“Have you flown from your master’s nest?” Ignoring her poised weapon, he advanced another step. His gaze roamed over her, lingering uncomfortably on the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. “I don’t remember seeing you among the other women. If I had, I swear I would have sampled you first.”
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