He inhaled sharply, his hand releasing Sanchia's wrist.
"You keep telling me what a bull you are. Now show me your coglios." Maria backed away teasingly.
"Wait here." Rodrigo tossed over his shoulder as he quickly moved after Maria. "Later I'll have..." The rest of the sentence was lost as he followed Maria back into the maze.
Sanchia ran!
The cool wind whipped at her face as she fled across the grass, her lips forming prayers of thankfulness. Only a few yards more.
Lion was opening the gate, his gaze searching her face. Then she was outside the gates, thrusting the key into Lion's hand. "Here," she gasped. "Here is what you wanted."
"No trouble?" Marco asked.
Sanchia drew her cloak more closely around her to hide her torn gown. "No trouble."
Lion's gaze mercilessly raked her features until she felt he must see the imprint of the foul violation she still felt on her flesh. Then, to her relief, he turned away and strode toward the grove where Lorenzo was guarding the horses. "Let's get back to the farmhouse."
During the journey back to the farmhouse, Marco was jubilant and Lorenzo his usual mocking and remote self.
Only Lion was grimly silent.
He knew, Sanchia thought miserably. Somehow he knew she had broken her promise and let herself be touched by another man. She could see it in the way he looked at her, in the tension of his hand grasping the reins, in the tightness of his lips.
When they reached the barnyard Lion dismounted, came around and lifted Sanchia from her horse. His gaze held her own with compelling force. "Who?" he asked softly.
She felt the panic rise within her. "Rodrigo. I couldn't help--"
He was turning away, his hand grasping her wrist with bruising force as he pulled her toward the barn. "Leave the horses in the barnyard," he said in a fierce rasp over his shoulder to Lorenzo and Marco. "I'll tend to them later."
The interior of the barn was dark and frighteningly alive with strange, scurrying sounds. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.
His powerful body was silhouetted for an instant against the paler darkness of the night sky before he shut the doors. Then there was only blackness.
"Rodrigo?" The harshness of his voice vibrated in the silence. "No other men?"
"No one else." She rushed on frantically, "I couldn't help it. I had to get the keys back and Maria wasn't there and there was no other way to--"
"So you spread your legs and took him into you." His hands fell heavily on her shoulders and he shook her hard. "You let him mount you and--"
"No, he only touched me with his mouth and his hands. He didn't--Maria came and he let me go."
Lion went still. "You're telling me the truth?"
Sanchia nodded frantically, then realized he couldn't see her in the darkness. "I swear, my lord."
"Cristo! Then why in hell did you look so guilty?"
"I was guilty. You told me I was never to be touched. And he touched me." She shuddered. "I felt befouled. Unclean."
He was silent, his hands still heavy on her shoulders. Abruptly he released her and she heard him moving away.
"My lord?"
"I'm lighting the lantern."
The candle suddenly flared, revealing the grim harshness of his features. He set the lantern on the earthen floor. "Where did he touch you?"
She gestured to her breasts.
He crossed back to her and pushed back her cloak to reveal the ripped bodice of her gown. His face was hard. "Did he hurt you?"
"Only a little. I'm sorry, my lord."
"My God, why should you beg my pardon? It was by my will you went where that whoreson could get to you." He glanced up and smiled crookedly. "Why are you so surprised? I have my rare moments of fairness. Unfortunately, since I've made your acquaintance my sense of justice appears to have been obscured by my appetites." His palms gently cupped her breasts. "Poor Sanchia, you haven't had an easy time of it since you left Giovanni, have you?"
His voice was almost tender. She held her breath, waiting for more.
There was no more. His hands dropped away from her and he stepped back. "You're not unclean," he said quietly. "You're a clear, sweet river wandering through very muddy banks. But you've reached the sea now and that mud will never touch you again." He gazed gravely into her eyes. "Just as danger will never touch you again. You've done your part to help us and done it well. I'll not ask you to do more."
"You're not angry with me any longer?"
"No." He gazed at her a moment unsmilingly before turning away. "I'm not angry with you." He opened the doors of the barn. "I must get back to the house. Now that we have the key, plans must be made for tomorrow night." He frowned. "I'll have to study the map again. Vittorio's scrawling gave me no idea of the size of the maze. There may be problems." He stepped out into the barnyard. "Tidy yourself and then come to the house. I have no desire to have Marco and Lorenzo gasping at those pretty breasts."
"Lorenzo has seen me unclothed before."
"That's no reason he should do so again. He gets enough enjoyment from tormenting me without your giving him any additional rewards. Things are going to be different."
"Different?"
But he was gone, striding swiftly across the barnyard toward the house.
Sanchia made a futile attempt to adjust the torn gown before finally giving up and drawing her cloak over it. She could do nothing to mend the rip since neither needle nor thread was at hand. Perhaps she could find both when she returned to the farmhouse. Her gaze fixed dreamily on the glowing windows of the house. Different. What had he meant by saying things would be different? Nothing could be more different from her previous life than the hours and days since Lion had purchased her. Yet he must mean there would be still other changes on the horizon.
She had never been afraid of changes before, but now she felt a queer stirring within her that could be fear... or the first fragile beginnings of hope.
"Is all well with you?"
Sanchia turned to see Marco standing a few feet away from the door of the barn. "Did Lord Andreas send you to fetch me? There was no need. I was just coming."
Marco shook his head. "Lion is studying the map of the maze. I thought to seize this opportunity to--" He broke off and then added, "I knew he was angry with you."
"No more."
He looked relieved. "I wasn't sure. I cannot always read Lion."
So Marco had come out to the barn to make sure she had met with no harm, Sanchia thought with a rush of warm gratitude. "Yet it's obvious there is a deep affection between you."
"We are brothers." He smiled and shook his head. "No, it's more than that. We don't think alike and seldom act for the same reasons, but the bond is still there."
"It doesn't surprise me that he mystifies you at times. I have no understanding of the way he thinks," Sanchia said. "He has so much. Why should he risk his life for a statue? He says the Wind Dancer is of his family but I cannot see how anyone can think of a piece of metal as if it were flesh and blood." Her gaze lifted to meet his. "As if it were alive."
"But then you've never seen the Wind Dancer," Marco said softly. "The first time I saw it when I was a child I thought it was alive. It took away my breath and filled me with wonder." He bent and picked up the lantern from the earthen floor. "Come, we will go back to the house. Lion may need me."
"What does it look like?"
"The Wind Dancer?" Marco took Sanchia's elbow and steered her through the doorway of the barn. "It's not easy to describe it. Let's see, it's a bejeweled golden statue of Pegasus, the winged horse of the gods. It stands only eighteen inches high and is no more than fourteen inches in width. And the wings... " His slender left hand made a graceful motion as if caressing the statue. "The clouds on which the Pegasus is running are--"
"Running, not flying?"
Marco nodded. "The horse is running, his wings folded back against his body, the wind braiding his mane. His lips are slightly part
ed and his eyes are huge almond shaped emeralds. Only his left hind hoof is touching the cloud on the base of the statue so that, unless you look closely, it appears the Wind Dancer is truly sailing through the air."
"It sounds very beautiful."
"Too beautiful. It hurts to look at it."
That was a strange thing to say, and the sadness in his expression was even more strange. "Lion said the statue was very ancient and that there were many legends told of it. How old is it?"
Marco shrugged. "Who knows?"
"Well, how long has your family possessed it?"
The sadness was suddenly gone from Marco's expression and his hazel eyes twinkled with amusement. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. We're a very old family."
Sanchia chuckled. "You go back to Adam and Eve in the garden?"
"Don't we all?"
"No, tell me. You must have some idea when--"
"Back to the ancients of Greece, near the beginning of time. Have you heard of Troy?"
She frowned. "Oh, yes. From a storyteller in the piazza... and once in a manuscript brought to Giov--" She stopped. He could have no interest in her former life. "Troy?"
Marco smiled down at her. "According to the stories passed down from generation to generation in my family, it was in Troy where Andros was first given the Wind Dancer."
"Andros." Sanchia repeated thoughtfully. "Andreas."
"Names change through the centuries. We're not sure whether Andros was our ancestor's true name. It is said he was of the Shardana and consequently very tight-lipped about himself."
"I've never heard of a people called the Shardana." She gazed at him uncertainly. "You're jesting with me, are you not? Is this a story you've concocted to punish me for being too curious?"
He shook his head. "I only tell you what I've been told."
"Troy never existed. I have heard of the Iliad, but thought it was a myth, a fiction."
"Alexander the Great thought Troy existed, and so did Julius Caesar. Many scholars believe Homer merely repeated what centuries of storytellers before him had handed down through the ages."
"You think the Iliadis true?"
"I have no idea. Stories, like names, become twisted through the centuries. The tale I was told certainly didn't agree with Homer's."
"What story were you told?"
"You won't believe that either." He turned to gaze out over the mirrored stillness of the lake. "But I'll tell you anyway, if you like. Andros was a Shardana, one of the sea people. They were great raiders and warriors and very secretive about where they came from. They had reason to be discreet. For centuries they had raided the cities of Greece, Persia, and Egypt, and there had sprung up tales of the splendid city which had been founded from the wealth of their raids. All the cities of that time raided and pillaged but the Shardana were the most successful."
"Corsairs."
Marco nodded. "Andros's ship was storm-wrecked on an island off the coast of Troy, and Andros and his crew were captured. His crew was sacrificed to the god Poseidon, but the Trojans saved Andros to be tortured to try to get him to reveal the location of his homeland." Marco grimaced. "Evidently Troy was quite a raiding power itself and wished to bring home even more treasure and slaves. Andros refused to reveal the location of his city and would have died under the lash if Agamemnon hadn't chosen that time to launch his attack on Troy. The Trojans became distracted."
She frowned. "But the Trojan war went on for years and years, didn't it?"
"That is Homer's story. Our version has it that less than a year passed until Troy fell. Andros was given to Paradignes, the king's brother, to recover his strength until they could once more direct their full attention toward getting the information they wanted from him. The two men became friends over the months of the siege and after Traynor opened the gates they--"
"Wait." Sanchia held up her hand. "Who's Traynor and why would he open the gates?"
"Traynor was a Trojan warrior, and he opened the gates for the oldest reason in the world. He was bribed. He was captured outside the gates in a foray and kept in the Greek encampment for over a week before he supposedly escaped and returned to Troy.
"One night, a few days after he returned, he opened the west gate and the Greeks rushed into the city. They were finally beaten back, but the Trojans lost many warriors and the Greeks managed to set fire to the gate as they left Troy. Traynor had been seen opening the gates and the king ordered that he be hacked to pieces, his remains burned in the square of the city." He paused. "In Traynor's lodgings the king's guards found the Wind Dancer."
"The bribe."
Marco nodded. "The king gave the statue to Paradignes and ordered him to burn it until there was nothing left of the Wind Dancer but molten rubble."
"But he didn't do it."
"He was a lover of beauty and couldn't bring himself to destroy the statue. He didn't want the Greeks to have it either and knew it was only a matter of time until they conquered the city." He smiled at Sanchia. "Can you guess what he did?"
"He gave the statue to Andros?"
"And showed him a way to get out of the city. It seems Troy had been destroyed and rebuilt many times and there was an underground passage that led to a hill far beyond the city. Paradignes showed Andros the entrance to the tunnel and wished both him and Jacinthe well before--"
"Jacinthe?"
"One of the conditions of Andros's release was that he take not only the Wind Dancer but a woman from Troy. Paradignes didn't want the Greeks to have her either."
"Was the woman Paradignes' wife?"
"He had no wife."
Sanchia's eyes widened. "Helen... " she whispered.
"There was no mention of a woman called Helen, only Jacinthe." Marco smiled faintly. "But I find it significant that the word Jacinthe means 'the beautiful one.' "
"And they both left Troy that night with the Wind Dancer. Where did they go?"
"South. Toward Egypt. The legend says the two of them stood on a hill some distance away from the city and watched it burn."
"So that was the night the Trojans brought in the Greeks' wooden horse?"
Marco chuckled and shook his head. "That's Homer's tale again. There was no great wooden horse. There was only the Wind Dancer."
Only the Wind Dancer. A statue so beautiful that a man would betray his home and his people to possess it. A work of art so exquisite it would inspire tales that would endure for over a thousand years. "Do you believe what you've been told is true?"
"Sometimes. Is it not more reasonable that the gates of Troy would fall because of bribery and betrayal than such a stupid ploy as a wooden horse?"
"I suppose it is," Sanchia said slowly. "Where do you suppose the Greeks got the Wind Dancer?"
"Before he died Traynor said the Greeks told him two shepherds found it in the hills above Mycenae during a great storm and brought it to Agamemnon. They claimed it appeared in a flash of lightning."
"Nonsense."
"Legend. And not nearly as unreasonable as some of the other legends connected with the Wind Dancer through the centuries."
Sanchia was tempted to ask him to tell her those other legends, but suddenly she knew she didn't want to know more about the statue. The Wind Dancer was now looming in her imagination with an odd sentience, taking on a dimension and life of its own. She could almost see the golden statue shimmering in the darkness of the storehouse, waiting patiently for Lion to come for it, uncaring what danger he ran to free it from its prison.
Foolishness. She had never even seen the statue. Her nerves were merely on edge and crying out from the terror and strain she had undergone this evening.
She forced a smile as she turned away from him. "A fantastic tale, but certainly an entertaining one. You're a far better storyteller than Pico Fallone, who entertains in the piazza in Florence." She glanced back over her shoulder. "But, of course, I don't believe any part of it."
A gentle smile lent fresh beauty to Marco's fine features. "Of course no
t. You're clearly a very sensible woman. Why would you believe such a preposterous legend? I only told you the story because you asked."
"I was merely curious." Sanchia quickly opened the door and stepped inside. "But naturally I realize none of it actually happened."
"It's going to take longer than thirty minutes to make our way through the maze to the storehouse, find the Wind Dancer, and then travel back to the maze entrance again." Lion scowled down at the map. "There's no question that the watch will discover we've entered the maze and have guards waiting for us at both ends."
Marco bent closer. "Jesu, you're right. We'll have to stop every few turns and study the map." He made a face. "What a puzzle. That labyrinth looks like a passage through hell."
"Then Damari must feel completely at ease there," Lion said.
"I could go with you and wait in the shrubbery across from the maze to dispose of the watch," Lorenzo offered.
Lion weighed the suggestion. "I don't like having no one to watch the horses, and it would probably give us only another five or ten minutes before someone else was sent to see why the watch hadn't returned. I doubt if that would be long enough."
Lorenzo shrugged. "What other choice do we have?"
She wouldn't answer, Sanchia thought, looking down at her hands clenched tightly together in her lap. They weren't talking to her. She could sit on the stool by the fire and not say a word. Lion had told her she need do no more to reclaim the Wind Dancer. She would be foolish to go back to the palazzo when Lion said she did not have to help them.
"No choice," Lion said.
She would remain silent. Lion had said she need not endanger herself again.
But she had promised him loyalty as well as obedience. Was it loyal not to speak now?
"Then you and Marco go inside the maze and I stay outside and take care of the watch," Lorenzo said. "Marco can carry the lantern and you can try to read the map."
"And hope we don't lose our way among all those damned dashes," Marco said ruefully, "or we'll find ourselves hacking our way through those hedges with a broadsword."
The Wind Dancer Page 13
