Thoroughly stunned, Zora stared at her half sister. Did Hermione really believe that years of insults and unkindnesses could be so easily forgiven and forgotten? It had been Hermione’s bitter resentment that had first driven the ugly wedge between them.
As the silence lengthened, Hermione arched a slim dark brow. “Have you nothing to say? I hoped my words would have pleased you.”
“Pleased me?” Zora asked, finding her voice at last. “No, I’m merely puzzled. You speak of reconciliation, yet my tent remains on the outskirts of camp almost to the forest—”
“The slave manager’s oversight, I can only suppose through force of habit,” Hermione broke in, dismissing the comment with a wave of her hand. “But it won’t happen again, I promise you. Tomorrow night your tent will be pitched next to mine.” She lifted her goblet in salute. “I drink to your coming marriage, my sister. Receiving news of your betrothal to Lord Ivan must have brought you great joy. He’s handsome, wealthy, a landed boyar, and a member of Father’s senior druzhina. Fortune has indeed smiled upon you.”
Although highly skeptical of her half sister’s sincerity, Zora joined in the toast. She was content with Prince Mstislav’s choice for her husband.
True, she didn’t love Ivan—and his arrogant, imperious ways sometimes grated upon her—but she had agreed to the match knowing it would please her father. She could do no less for the honored place he had given her within his household, even though she was born out of Christian wedlock to a Slavic concubine.
Yet it was strange that she would be the first to wed, Zora thought, licking the tangy wine from her lips as she lowered her goblet. Lady Canace, Hermione’s Greek mother, would never have allowed such a thing if she were still alive. After all, Hermione was older by a few months and a trueborn princess. Zora imagined that Prince Mstislav must have someone else in mind for his eldest daughter, most likely some foreign monarch’s son who would befit her status.
“And now for my gift.” Hermione’s eyes were curiously alight as she again clapped her hands. Two slave women hastened to a great carved chest and while one held open the lid, the other withdrew a large oblong bundle wrapped in gray linen.
Despite herself, Zora felt excitement flare as the slave knelt before her and placed the heavy bundle in her lap. She glanced up at Hermione, whose smile seemed fixed upon her face.
“Open it, dear sister.”
Taking a small knife from the table, Zora slit the twine binding the linen and hastily unwrapped her present. Her breath caught as a bolt of iridescent cream silk was revealed, the thin, tissuelike material striated with sparkling threads of gold.
“It—it’s beautiful,” she murmured, astonished that Hermione would give her anything, especially a gift so fine.
“For your wedding gown. Do you remember those Byzantine fabric merchants who visited our camp last week?”
Zora nodded. She draped a glittering length over her arm, the fabric feeling wonderfully cool against her skin.
“I bought the entire bolt for you. I knew the moment I saw it that the color would accent your tawny hair and golden skin to perfection.”
For the first time since Hermione had said she wanted to make amends, Zora dared to believe that she might have meant it. She met her half sister’s gaze, and although it felt strange to do so, she smiled at her, her gratitude heartfelt.
“Thank you, Hermione. I’ll wear it proudly.”
“I know you will.” Hermione took a long sip of wine, then set her goblet upon the table. Delicately dipping her spoon into a silver bowl filled with glistening black salmon roe, she added, “The food grows cold. Dine with me.”
“If you don’t mind, I still wish to retire,” Zora murmured, rewrapping the bolt of silk. Indeed, she did feel tired, her eyelids strangely heavy. “As you said, this has come as a great surprise. I need time to think—”
“I understand,” Hermione interrupted, wiping her full, red mouth with an embroidered napkin. She rose with Zora, calling, “Phineas?”
The eunuch must have been waiting in the antechamber, for he appeared as if in an instant.
“Princess Zora would like to return to her tent. Will you escort her?”
“Of course, mistress, the litter is waiting outside.”
“I’d rather walk.” Zora wondered why her legs felt so sluggish as her taller half sister led Zora to the entrance. She hadn’t drunk much wine, but her weariness seemed to have quickened its effect.
“Walking will not be possible, fair one,” said Phineas. He cast a covert glance over her head at Hermione. “The rain has begun again.”
“Yes, you wouldn’t want that lovely silk to be ruined, Zora, and you do look exhausted. Please take my litter.”
“Very well,” she said, suddenly feeling disinclined to argue. Clasping her gift to her breasts, she turned to Hermione. “Good night…and thank you.”
Hermione’s tight smile did not reach her eyes. “Good night, dearest sister.”
As Zora entered the antechamber, she stumbled, but Phineas caught her arm, preventing her fall.
“I don’t know why I’m so tired,” she said as he helped her into the litter that was drawn right up to the tent.
“The journey from Tmutorokan has been a long and taxing one, Princess,” he said smoothly, closing the heavy curtains to leave her in darkness. “Do not trouble yourself. Rest.”
Zora obliged him by sinking gratefully against the plush cushions, but when the litter was hoisted into the air she was assailed by a wave of nauseating dizziness.
“Phineas?”
Her weak cry went unanswered. Outside she heard the bearers’ sandals squelching in the mud and rain beating upon the litter’s canvas roof, but not a sound from the chief eunuch.
Mother of Christ, what could be wrong with her? she wondered dazedly. Every pitch and sway of the litter heightened her sense of lightheadedness. Her tongue felt thick and as dry as wool, and try as she might, she could barely open her eyes.
Overwhelmed by a terrible drowning sensation as her body sank deeper into the cushions, Zora could swear that they should have arrived at her tent by now, but the slaves kept on walking. Where were they taking her? Was it possible she had lost track of time and they had not yet reached the camp’s outskirts?
Suddenly the litter pitched to one side as if a slave had tripped and lost his footing, then it felt like the world dropped from beneath her. The conveyance hit the ground with a jarring thud. Through the cold numbness enveloping her body she heard sounds of struggle—and muted screams?—then Phineas’s ragged whisper.
“Grab her and be gone! And I warn you, tell your master Gleb not to forget his sworn agreement. This concubine’s tongue is to be cut out, and she’s not to be sold until you reach Constantinople! My mistress has paid much gold to ensure that her wishes are met. Tell Gleb if they are not, she will gladly spend a thousand times more to have him found and punished.”
Zora moaned in horrified disbelief. She’d been caught in a treacherous web! She gasped as the curtains were torn aside and rough hands wrenched her from the litter. But it was so dark she could not see her assailants’ faces. Nor could she move her limbs to escape them.
“No, please…my wedding gown,” she whimpered almost incoherently, glimpsing the cream silk lying like a bright beacon upon the muddy ground.
In the next instant a dank, fetid cloth was stuffed in her mouth, and limp as a rag, she was flung over a broad shoulder, the wind knocked painfully from her lungs. She felt her captor running, his breathing hard and labored, and when he abruptly stopped, she heard as if from a great distance the rush of water and oars scraping. Then all consciousness receded and pitch-blackness engulfed her.
***
Hermione waited several hours—enjoying a leisurely bath and the ministrations of her slave women as they massaged her with fragrant oils and dressed her for bed—before she sent all of her attendants away and summoned a rain-soaked guard. Reclining comfortably upon a divan, she didn’t
deign to look at him, but toyed with a filigree gold and glass perfume bottle.
“Go to Phineas’s tent and wake him. I wish to speak with him at once.”
As she expected, the guard returned to inform her that Phineas had not yet been to his quarters.
“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.
The Pagan's Prize (Captive Brides Collection) Page 2
