“Where are you going?” Arne called out as Rurik stepped over the headless corpse and strode through the gradually thinning crowd, traders and buyers alike returning to their business now that the bloody spectacle was finished.
Rurik didn’t answer, his gaze sweeping from one end of the camp to the other. No sign of the merchant or the woman. He was about to begin a search of every tent when he spied a flash of purple silk near the well-lighted docks, and he began to run. Arne huffed not far behind him, grumbling loudly about the witchery of women.
“Hold!” Rurik shouted, not surprised to see the merchant and his burly companion, the woman slung over his shoulder, increase their pace as they headed toward a large river ship that was already loaded with slaves and other retainers. “Hold, I tell you!” When Rurik was almost upon them, the merchant turned back and hastened to meet him while the other man hurried on with his precious load.
“Ah, forgive me, good sir…how forgetful of me! Your gold is right here.” Smiling tightly, the merchant held out a small leather pouch. “Count it if you must, it’s all there. Twenty grivna, the least I could pay for such skill and bravery, such honor—”
“I don’t want your gold.” Rurik’s gaze burned into the man’s eyes. “Tell your fat companion to bring the woman here, now, or I will not hesitate to slit your treacherous throat.”
“Treachery! What treachery—”
Rurik grabbed the older man and spun him so that he faced the river, his sword resting ominously against the merchant’s scrawny neck. “Tell him!”
“As you wish, as you wish! Urho! Bring the slave to me at once!”
“Now talk and quickly, but keep your voice low,” Rurik commanded, aware that they were eliciting much observation from curious passersby. “Where did you get that woman?”
“Her parents sold her to me…they were poor, needed the silver—”
“You lie! Before that Varangian trader struck her down, she promised me a reward if I helped her. No peasant’s daughter would swear such a thing, and no peasant wench would speak with such refinement. Where did you find her?”
“Please, I cannot say or my life may be forfeit!”
“Speak or your life is forfeit.” Rurik turned his weapon so that the razor-sharp blade rested upon the man’s bobbing Adam’s apple.
“Very well, I will tell you! Stay your sword! My men abducted her from a wealthy river caravan a day’s eastward journey from this camp.”
“A caravan?”
“Traveling from Tmutorokan to Chernigov.”
Rurik tensed, his instincts alert. Such a caravan might be somehow connected with Prince Mstislav…
“How could your men have gotten so close without an alarm being raised?” he demanded. “Surely there were guards—”
“Yes, but what few we found near the girl’s tent were slain. It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. Everything was arranged in advance.”
“By whom?”
“The eunuch of the woman who wished to rid herself of her husband’s favorite concubine. The half man paid me much gold to see that the girl’s tongue be cut out and she be sold in Constantinople. He said that if his mistress’s orders were not followed, she would not rest until I was found and punished.”
So the wench was a concubine. Rurik watched as the man called Urho drew near with the limp woman. She was wrapped in a dark cloak with only her head visible, her long sandy-colored hair, more blond than brown, tumbling down Urho’s back. Rurik found himself wondering what it might feel like to touch that golden tousled mass, to bury his fingers in it…
Rurik snorted. From his own reaction, he was not surprised that she was a favored one.
Her status would explain her graceful speech. She must have been granted an education with the finest tutors by her wealthy master—whom Rurik suspected was a member of Mstislav’s senior druzhina to afford such a luxury—no doubt fueling the jealousy that had brought her to this trading camp. The woman who had sold her into slavery must have hated her, which meant her master must love her. The hapless wench had promised him a reward, hadn’t she? She probably knew that her master would pay well to get her back.
“How much were you paid?” Rurik asked, again pressing his sword against the merchant’s stubbled throat. “It must have been a great sum for you to put your own life in jeopardy.”
“Two hundred gold grivna.”
“A woman’s cunning knows no bounds,” Rurik muttered, disgusted. This concubine’s nemesis obviously wanted her to suffer, otherwise she would have had her killed. To cut out her tongue and sell her to some foreign buyer? He wondered what the witch would think when her beautiful rival turned up once more upon her doorstep, but with a tale of treachery to condemn her before her husband…for Rurik had a bold plan formulating in his mind.
“Arne, go to the ship and bring me the money chest,” he called to his friend who was standing close by, sword drawn.
The warrior’s bushy black brows knit together. “My lord?”
“Just do as I say.”
Shaking his shaggy head, Arne sheathed his sword and lumbered away, grumbling to himself.
“If you’re thinking to offer me money for the wench, I will not take it,” said the merchant stubbornly. “She is not for sale.”
“You took a rich woman’s gold readily enough—”
“Why not enrich my purse and steal away some boyar’s whore?” The man spoke vehemently, oblivious to the cold metal pressed against his flesh. “I’m no warrior. What better revenge could I seek against the scourge that has come upon our land? Those bloodthirsty hordes from Tmutorokan! I lost two sons to that usurper Mstislav’s men!”
Rurik turned the merchant so abruptly to face him that the older man almost lost his footing. “Is this true?”
Fear shone from the merchant’s eyes, but his expression remained hard. “I have said too much already. For all that I know, you could be one of them.”
“I am not,” Rurik replied, his voice almost a whisper. “But I can tell you no more. Now answer me.”
The merchant studied Rurik’s face for a long moment, then his bony shoulders seemed to drop. “I would not have sold my soul for coin. My sons’ faces haunt me in my dreams, their voices beg me for justice. If you take this woman from me, I will have lost everything, my vengeance and, one day I fear, my life.”
Rurik could see that the older man spoke the truth, and he chose his next words with care.
“Would you sell me the wench if I told you a greater vengeance could be yours? A battle will soon be fought, and your slave may be the bribe I need to sway the outcome to our favor. I can tell you little else, except that you and your remaining family would be safe in Novgorod, should you choose to seek refuge there. This I promise.”
Rurik glanced toward the docks, and spying Arne returning with the chest, he turned his gaze back to the silent merchant.
“My man comes with the money. I offer you two hundred gold grivna to match the payment already made to you, good for evil. All I ask is that you do not make me wrest the woman from you by force.”
“Keep your gold,” the merchant said quietly, his shrewd eyes fixed upon Rurik’s face. “But when I return from selling my slaves in Constantinople, I will hold you to your promise. All I ask is that you tell the girl when she wakes that you had to kill me to win her. Perhaps that will be enough to throw that rich she-hound from my scent…if it is in your mind to send this concubine back to whence she came.”
“Done.”
As they grasped each other’s wrists in agreement, the merchant asked, “Do you have a name, stranger? I must know where to seek you in Novgorod.”
“None that I can give you now, nor is it safe for me to know yours.” Rurik unfastened his cloak-pin, a broad silver ring engraved with a snarling beast, from the right shoulder of his bloodstained cloak. “When you arrive in the city, go to the kreml and speak to the master of the guard. Tell him you wish to return this brooch to its rightful owner. It will be e
nough.”
The merchant took the brooch, then motioned for Urho to hand his limp bundle to Rurik. “The woman is yours. You are welcome to her. In truth, she has caused me nothing but trouble.”
As Rurik sheathed his sword and took the woman in his arms, the lush feel of her body aroused in him an overwhelming sense of possession, but he quickly stifled his reaction. This beauty belonged to another man, an enemy. He intended to make her a pawn: a fact he would do well to remember.
“Be warned, stranger,” the merchant added, his gravelly voice low. “Guards may be looking for the wench, though the caravan is yet a day’s journey from here. You would be wise to travel swiftly and keep to the west.”
Rurik gave a short nod, noting the miniature cross dangling from the older man’s neck. “May Christ keep you on your journey to Constantinople.”
“And you.”
“I take it, then, that the money is no longer required,” Arne said dryly behind them.
Rurik turned around as the merchant hurried away. “No, my friend, it is not.”
Sighing resignedly, the warrior hoisted the heavy chest upon his shoulder and fell into step with Rurik as they strode alongside the busy docks to their ship.
“Ah, well, you already have six concubines at home. What hurt will one more do? There are seven nights in a week. If you could survive the tantrums when you brought back that Khazarian she-cat, I imagine you’ll weather the uproar this golden-haired temptress will surely cause.” He laughed heartily. “Your good looks are your curse, Lord Rurik. If you were ugly and squat, or flat-nosed like me, your women would not mind so much that you had found another to warm your bed!”
“I’m not keeping this wench for myself, Arne.”
The warrior glanced at him in astonishment. “No?”
Shaking his head, Rurik felt keen regret.
“Come,” he said, shrugging off the strange feeling. “We will talk once we set sail. Kjell and Leif must also know my plans.”
Chapter 4
“So you think whoever owns this wench might be willing to part with military information for her return?” Leif asked, his hand firmly on the helm as he kept the thirty-foot riverboat straight upon its course.
“There’s a good chance of it.” Rurik’s gaze shifted from the red-bearded Leif to Arne and then to the youngest warrior, Kjell Thordarson. Each face, illuminated in the pale light of the waning moon, was somber yet thoughtful, each man weighing for himself the decision Rurik had already made. “Once she wakens, we’ll find out the name of her master, then when we reach Chernigov, we’ll send a message to the man with our demands. Either he gives us what we want, or his favorite concubine will disappear forever.”
“You don’t mean to kill her!” came Kjell’s incredulous response. “I’ve never seen a prettier—”
“Are you going daft, man?” Arne interjected, exasperated. “We’re not blasted murderers!” Softening his tone, he leaned over and elbowed the nineteen-year-old Varangian sharply in the ribs. “I’m sure Lord Rurik will find some use for the wench if Mstislav’s man doesn’t want her, never you fear.”
Rurik made no comment, thinking as his gaze strayed again to the makeshift tent they had erected near the mast that he would decide that issue later. For now, he waited to see that first movement, or hear that first moan, some sign that the woman was regaining her senses.
Other than some purplish bruises on her body, the worst on her left cheek, she seemed whole. He had felt no broken bones. Yet an hour into their journey her eyes still remained closed, her breathing slow as if she was locked in deep slumber. Even when he had discarded the cloak in which she had been wrapped and then exchanged her torn tunic for one of his own, the garment engulfing her slender body, she had not stirred…although he could not say as much for himself.
He had seen perfection in women before, but never a form that seemed to tempt his very soul: honeyed limbs of delicate yet shapely proportion, a trim waist so narrow and hips so beautifully curved that he ached to caress them, a taut abdomen with the gentlest rounding, and ripe, upturned breasts he defied the gods to describe. The swiftness of his arousal had stunned him, its near painful intensity disgusting him. Was he no better than that swine Halfdan Snakeeye to lust after an unconscious woman?
Covering her with a blanket, he had quickly left the tent, but his lingering erection had been a powerful reminder that few had so fired his blood. Thank Odin the work of setting sail had finally fixed his mind on other matters.
“I’ve a demand to add to that message,” said Leif, drawing Rurik’s attention back to his men. “Now that we know the Severians have been swayed by Prince Mstislav’s promises of sharing the spoils of victory, we should ask this boyar how many other Slavic tribes have sworn their allegiance to the usurper.”
“None, I hope. Mstislav’s armed strength is mighty enough with the Khazar and Kosogian warriors he brought with him from Tmutorokan. The bastard must be gloating to have wooed those Slavs to his banner.” After a moment’s grim silence, Rurik nodded at Leif. “Your demand is a good one, especially since we cannot traverse the entire southern realm and spy upon each tribe. Not if we’re to be back in Novgorod by June, three weeks hence.”
As Arne leaned forward and rested his thick forearms on his legs, the narrow rowing bench squeaked beneath his weight.
“Mstislav’s battle plans might be in our grasp now as well, my lord!” he said, his voice tinged with excitement. “That would be a fine coup for Grand Prince Yaroslav, and all because some jealous she-bitch hated the sight of her husband’s concubine.”
“My lord, look to the prow!” Leif cried suddenly. “The wench has climbed onto the railing!”
“What…?”
Rurik was on his feet in an instant. The damned wench must have evaded them by crawling under the back of the tent. He raced to the front of the boat, but he had barely ducked beneath the sail when he heard a loud splash near the starboard side. Throwing off his fur mantle, he shouted, “Bring the boat hard about!” then he vaulted over the railing, the frigid ink-black water of the Desna River closing over his head.
He gasped as he resurfaced, the water’s chill so intense it had sapped the breath from his lungs. He looked around him, but he did not immediately spy the woman. Thor help him, if she had gone under he would never find her, not with these demon currents!
Clenching his teeth against the cold, Rurik swam with long, powerful strokes into the boat’s wake, his gaze cutting to the right and left. Only then did he see two slim arms flailing wildly some twenty feet away, and he swam as he never had before in his twenty-eight years.
It was not fast enough. When he drew within four strokes of catching her, she went under, her hands eerily clawlike as she disappeared beneath the waves.
“No, damn you…you will not have her!” Rurik shouted, spitting water as he cursed the evil river spirits who were dragging her down to her death.
Sucking in a great breath, he dived, his lungs aching as he descended into the midnight depths and groped for an arm, a leg…anything. His chest was ready to explode when he suddenly felt something curl around his hand. He clutched at it, realizing he had caught her by the hair.
Rurik yanked the woman up until he held her beneath the arms, then he kicked furiously to the surface, his chest on fire as they burst above the waves. Dragging in huge lungfuls of air, he could not remember a time when it had smelled or tasted so sweet.
“Leif! Arne! Over here!” he shouted hoarsely. Relief flooded him as the woman suddenly coughed and sputtered in his arms, her ragged gasps for breath assuring him that she was alive. Though she clung to him limply, she began to kick her legs. He was astounded that she still had the strength to swim.
“Let me go…must escape!” she gasped, trying weakly to push away from him. “Halfdan…must escape…”
Rurik had no time to reply for the boat was coming alongside them, the woman soon hauled aboard, followed by himself. As Arne released him, he leaned heavily ag
ainst the railing, fighting to catch his breath.
“By the gods, Lord Rurik, you’ve turned my beard a lighter shade of gray twice this day! When I saw you dive for the wench—”
“Surely you didn’t think you’d seen the last of me.” Rurik wiped the moisture from his eyes and gave Arne a wry half smile. “You were the one who taught me to swim, remember?”
“Aye, thank Odin, like a dolphin.” The burly warrior jerked his head toward Kjell, who stood in a widening puddle of water, the dripping, exhausted woman in his arms. “Mayhap we should tie the wench to the mast for the rest of the journey, what do you think? She’s proving as much trouble as she’s worth.”
“I’ll take her,” was Rurik’s only reply, sobering as Kjell brought the woman to him. By the light of an oil lamp set upon a nearby rowing bench, he noted with concern that her face was ashen, her teeth chattering, her lips and closed eyelids tinged with blue. If she wasn’t warmed and soon, they still might lose her…and their best chance to gain some information.
“Set her down, but hold her so she doesn’t fall,” Rurik ordered. Without ceremony he drew the sodden tunic over her head and threw it on the deck. Ignoring his men’s sidelong glances, he lifted her into his arms, grabbed the lamp, and strode with his nude charge to the tent, ducking inside.
“No…Halfdan,” came a small whimper, the woman burying her face against Rurik’s chest as he placed the lamp near the tent’s back wall. “Must get away…please—”
“Halfdan is dead.” Rurik hoped the finality in his tone would reassure her. “He cannot hurt you anymore.”
Kneeling, he laid her upon the fur pallet, attempting to ignore her nakedness—impossible task! Hastily he brought the blanket up to her chin. To his surprise, she was looking at him, her eyes the most stunning shade of blue in a face hauntingly pale and marred only by the ugly bruise on her cheek.
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