by Sandra Lake
“Save your worthless philosophy for your confessor,” Katia said. “Prince Andrei plots to take Sweden’s throne while the country’s houses are distracted by fighting over who they want to see as ruler. You knew this day would come—have you been plotting against us that long?”
“Your kinsmen have sunk just as many Slavic merchant ships as the Slavs have sunk Swedish.”
Lies, all lies, and grounds for treason toward the Swedish throne. Now Katia was really mad, “How convenient for you, to simply claim false friendship with everyone. This way you do not have to pick a side to fight on.” She shoved past him. He yanked her back, easily overpowering her with the strength of his one arm. He pressed his lean, warm body into her to keep her in place.
Searching her eyes, he spoke in a softer tone. “It is more complicated than you think.”
“Or perhaps, it is plain and simple,” she responded angrily. “Just over a month ago, a most trusted friend in Finland warned me that the Rus were coming after Sweden, making moves into the north of Finland. He told me that I must warn my father of their plans to first wipe out Norrland, crippling Sweden’s defense. Andrei wants all of the Baltic shore. All of it, Lothair. And he is going to try and use his influence with Rome to get what he wants. If Rome supports him, then he truly could take over the Baltics. Andrei has spread lies of Norrland aggression to undermine our support from the archbishop. If he weakens our support with the church, Norrland could—” She was out of breath, panicking for a moment at the thought. Her homeland, both of her homelands, would be embroiled in bloodshed and war by next spring.
“How do you know this?” His grip on her shoulders eased and his warm breath washed over her face. He was so close—his lips were just there, inches from hers. His chest pressed into hers. She swirled in a complex sea of fear, exhilaration, and reckless abandonment. It felt like tomorrow may never come, like they only had this moment.
Everything had changed since the last time she saw him, since the last time she had been kissed—the same rules no longer applied. If Tronscar fell, if her family was thrown into war with death and destruction to follow, then nothing held the same value as it once had before. She felt as if she was watching everything crumble away from a distance.
Could she sway him—turn him back to the side of justice and honor as he had spoken so passionately about years before? Did she dare to trust him?
“I have seen documents in the prince’s private chambers—charts, maps, correspondences. I know his plans. He will have troops north of Korski before the spring thaw. Korski, where my brother Urho lives,” she said, sounding shrill. “Andrei will then launch a full-scale attack on the southern lands of Sweden coming from the north. Don’t you see? They will never suspect him coming from that direction, Lothair. My father’s fleet will be in the south, protecting the capital. This is not complex, but black and white. Prince Andrei Bogolyubsky not only wants to take over Kiev and Rus territories—he wants it all. And by next spring, he will be in position to do it.” She shivered at the terrifying truth spoken out loud. “And if you think one crusading Holy Roman Emperor is bad, just wait until there are two of them.”
He did not seem impressed or moved by her speech. She let the silent void between them stand.
“We need to get you out of here. Tonight,” he said.
“No, not yet. I need proof. The archbishop and the kings of Denmark and Sweden will not align to stand against Prince Andrei without proof. They will not simply take the word of a maiden from Norrland.”
“If they catch you, they will kill you, Katia! And I won’t be able to stop them!”
“So what!” she yelled back. “So what if I die, Lothair? Go ahead, deny Andrei the pleasure and slit my throat right here.” She jerked her chin higher. “I am only one woman. I am no one’s mother or wife. I serve no purpose at court other than to decorate the king’s hall. What good is one frivolous life when thousands of good men could be saved in my place?” She shoved him harder this time. “If you have a scrap of honor still within you, I beg you help get Tosh to Tallinn, and ask for a fishermen named Otso. He can be trusted to see her safely home to Tronscar.” She spun around to flee but he grabbed hold of her.
As he looked her in the eyes, his expression softened. He looked almost pleading. “Your father and mother would argue that your life is worth a great deal. I witnessed Tronscar guardsmen prepared to raise arms over the slightest insult to your person. You greatly underestimate their power and ability to fight their own battles, Katia.”
“Perhaps, but why is my life worth more than one of theirs, more precious than my younger brothers? They will soon be old enough to fight alongside my father, protecting their home at any cost.” She sucked in a sharp breath at the overwhelming truth of the statement. “If I fail, then I fail. But if I succeed, then I . . . I give them all a better chance of surviving this war that is coming. If I help spare even one life, then my effort in coming here will not be in vain.
“Lothair, pick your side. War is coming. I am already too late to protect my half brother—” She commanded her eyes not to water. Fight now. Weep later. “I have picked my side,” she said. She watched her words affect him and his defenses fell.
He truly should learn to keep his guard up around her. She kneed him hard in the upper thigh, aiming for his man parts but missing slightly. She fled, running like a rabbit with a big, snarling wolf not far behind her.
Halfway down the dark, empty passageway, she slipped into a small alcove, dropped to the ground, and rolled under a bench. She stayed well hidden until she heard Lothair run past. Then she stayed, lying on the cold stone floor, for a few minutes more, allowing herself one minute to weep, one minute to pray, and one minute to plan.
Chapter 6
“Where are you off to, my zolotaya?”
Katia was getting tired of Andrei’s guard calling her “my golden.” She had had about enough of all Rus men and their pet names for her. Not one had ever even bothered to ask her name. How did any of these men ever attract a wife?
The guard stepped into her path, blocking her way.
Remembering that she was naught but a servant, she lowered her eyes, looking down at her leather-soled riding boots. They were much too costly for a lowly serf to wear, she realized belatedly. It was a mistake to draw attention to them. Feigning timidity, she looked up at the guard and smiled. She held up her tray of wine and fresh fruit, gesturing that she was to take it inside the chamber.
“The prince is keeping company with his lady wife. Best you come back in a few hours. He will be needing a pretty face to look upon after he completes him husbandly duty.”
Katia already knew the prince was occupied with the domestic chore of producing an heir. His wife had her own private chambers on the opposite end of the palace and that was precisely why Katia had arrived when she did. “My mistress says . . . stay . . . to make ready,” she said in broken Slav. She bit her bottom lip while looking up at the strapping warrior from under her eyelashes, batting them an extra few times.
“Best see to your duties, little one.” He opened the door.
Katia hurried inside and placed the tray on the table across from a canopied bed. Moving swiftly and with a steady hand, she lit the brazier and scanned the chamber, trying to remember where she’d last seen the maps. She rummaged through a stack of scrolls. Praise the stars! She had found the one she needed. She folded it several times into a small square and tucked it into her bodice, lodging it between her breasts.
She scrambled to collect mugs and plates of leftover food on her tray and hurried toward the door with full arms.
And then slowly, as if in a nightmare, the door creaked open.
Prince Andrei entered, his black curly chest hairs poking out of his partially open robe, the long, black hair on his head an even greasier mess than it had been earlier in the day.
Curling the tray closer into h
er chest, she lowered her eyes and curtsied. Without returning her eyes to the prince, she moved to the door.
“Wait.”
She came to such an abrupt halt that the contents on her tray teetered.
He held out a platter of bird bones. “Take this.”
With relief washing over her, Katia approached him, head bent down, and meekly reached for the plate, placing it on top of the pile.
“You are not a very good chambermaid, are you?” His breath stank of sour ale. “But you were not sent here to be my housekeeper, were you?” He raised her chin. “No, Helga does not select her wenches for their ability to clean.” His sausage fingers clamped around her chin, his pungent body odor stabbing her nostrils—sweat, sheep grease, and a fishy scent that the port thralls in Turku usually carried.
Katia closed her eyes. She said she would lay her life down for her family, for her country, but could she lay down her virtue willingly? What good is virtue if you are dead? Why was that thought somehow more paralyzing, more petrifying, than the thought of death? If she did not surrender her body willingly to the prince, he would know she was not a serving wench—what would happen to Tosha then? She was responsible for Tosha’s safety. For her friend, she must bear the vile act.
“You are new?” he asked. She drew the courage to open her eyes. “Fresh, from the look of you. Helga kept you unspoiled for me?” He was asking questions that needed no reply. He leaned in and smelled her hair, touching it. “Do not be scared, my tender girl. You please me, I will take you from the kitchen.” He moved around her and examined her from all sides. “What do they call you?”
“I no speak Rus,” Katia whispered.
“Ah, Finnish girl, aye. They are fresh and sweet, the Finnish girls.” In Finnish he asked, “What is your name?” He ran his thumb across her bottom lip, soiling it with a foul, fishy odor.
Don’t look into his eyes. He will read your heart. She bit the inside of her cheek, fearing the bile and the curse words that would escape if she were to open her mouth and answer. “Ulla,” she finally squeaked.
He gestured his instruction, speaking louder in Rus as if that would somehow magically make her understand. “Put the tray down outside the door. The guard will take it.”
Her tray rattled, nausea and terror gripping Katia more with each step toward the door. The guard smirked at her as she bent over to place the tray on the floor. A few items toppled over with her jerky movements, spilling across the floor. She hurried to collect them, her hands shaking.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something . . . someone, moving in the shadows across the corridor. Katia’s legs ached to run toward the shadow with the slightest hope of rescue. She was already outside the door. She could be down the stairs and out the kitchen back door in minutes—but what of Tosha? She could not just run into the night and leave her friend behind.
“Ulla! Come now,” the prince called from the open chamber door. Crouching over the tray, she swallowed hard, snatched a bird bone from the floor, and shoved it in her mouth. Without a moment’s hesitation, she crunched up the bone and swallowed half. She swished the other half of sharp bone around her mouth, deliberately slashing the soft tissue until she could taste the steady flow of iron. She waited a moment before swallowing some of the blood. She gagged, clamped her hands around her own throat. With watering eyes, she stumbled into the chamber.
“What is wrong with you?” Andrei asked with disgust ripe in his tone.
She shook her head. He grabbed hold of her shoulders to shake her and she coughed in his face, spattering him with her blood, allowing bloody spit to pour from her mouth. She coughed again, spraying blood onto her hands, in a fake attempting to cover her mouth.
“Wretched creature. Guard! Uric!”
“My prince!” The guard burst through the door.
“She is ill. See her down to Helga. Have Helga send me another.” He shoved her toward the guard.
Katia coughed louder, spattering blood onto the guard, exaggerating her ailment.
The guard swept her into his arms and quickly raced down to the kitchen. Helga was quite annoyed and ordered the guard place her in the women’s barracks before grumbling to Katia that she best not die before dawn. The palace was full this week and the housekeeper needed all the serving wenches they had.
Katia curled up on her straw pallet and stared at Tosha’s empty bed. She needed to get out of here. Now. Tonight. But she could never leave Tosh.
The damp, windowless chamber slept over twenty serving women. After waiting a few hours to make sure everyone was settled and asleep, Katia crept out in the direction of the outdoor lavatories. If questioned by a guard, she would say that she was ill and cough up more blood. She scratched the inside of her cheek to open up the fresh wound, just in case. She tiptoed out the back, praying Tosha would be hiding and waiting for her.
But before she could draw her first breath of the cool night air, an arm snaked around her waist and yanked her off her feet. A giant, callused hand covered her mouth. She struggled with all her strength, kicking her legs and jerking to be free, her feet dangling and flinging around in midair. Fight now. Weep later. She tried to reach for her dagger, but it was concealed under her skirt. Oh, God forgive her, she had failed and Tosha was going to pay the price along with her. She bit down hard on the palm covering her mouth, deciding to fight to the very end.
***
“Witch.” Lothair jerked his hand away and shook off the pain from the little viper. “Would you quit?” he whispered in her ear. She went instantly still in his arms. “I’m carrying you out of here. You’re a corpse, got it?”
“I can’t leave without Tosha.” Her eyes were big and wide, full of unshed tears.
“Stupid chit. Your friend clearly holds all the sense for the pair of you. She stayed put with Lars like she was told. They are waiting for us in the forest,” he whispered. “Now, shut up and die.”
Her tears instantly dried and she smiled up at him, winked, closed her eyes, and went limp in his arms. Her head flopped back, exposing her slender, delicate throat.
This girl was the worst thing that had ever happened to Lothair. His life was going along just fine until she showed up with her reckless plans and delusional expectations. She was a walking, talking disaster. If she were his sister, he would lock her up.
Despite it all, the weight of her was solid and satisfying. He carried her overheated, petite body high in his arms, stopping to adjust her head and cradle her tight to his chest. Around the side gate, Fist and Valen stood talking with the guard they had bribed. They had explained that their Saxon friend had had a problem in disciplining his disobedient wife, things had gotten out of hand, and she had hit her head. A few coins changed hands, and that was it; they were beyond the outer palace walls with very little effort.
For over a mile, Lothair marched in silence with his friends close beside him, prepared to cover his back if pursued. The farther they sank into the black forest, the more Lothair found he was able to breathe.
Katia hadn’t moved a muscle for some time, apparently having fallen asleep. His hand was flat against her back, and he could feel the small expansion from her every breath. She weighed naught more than a sleeping child being carried to bed. He took the rare opportunity to gaze without restraint upon her angelic features. She looked peaceful and warm tucked in against his arm and chest. Her lips opened a sliver. Even in her sleep they seemed to carry a soft smile. Her thick lashes fanned out, motionless, lying as butterfly wings against her flawless skin. In her sleep she could not bat and wink them at every passing fellow. For certain, it was the first time he had even seen her so serene and still. She was the most troublesome female that he knew. Still, as she lay here in his arms, he admitted with regret that being able to hold her so close made all the trouble worth it.
“Can I open my eyes yet?” she mumbled through her stiff lips. He w
anted her to have kept her mouth shut and not ruined this moment.
“No,” he hushed her, but caught her peeking anyway.
“Who’s that?” Her eyes closed again.
“Fist.”
“Oh. I thought I recognized him from Tronscar.” Her lips pouted. He continued to stare at them; remembering the taste of sweetness, remembering the feel of hunger her damnable lips could stir. “Why are you creepy men taking the dead girl so far into the forest?” she mumbled. He could see she was trying not to smirk. She failed. She was possibly the worst actress he had ever seen. How she had survived this long under the prince’s roof was a mystery.
“Lars and your handmaiden are waiting for us with horses. We do not need your scent to be tracked. Prince Andrei has a kennel of bloodhounds.” Lothair continued walking behind Valen and instructed himself to gaze on her beauty no longer. It would only lead to more trouble.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“I gather you made your difference?” he asked.
“Sort of. I got a map. I pray it’s enough.” She said no more, leading him to suspect her naïveté was lifting.
“Did the prince wound you badly? I saw your blood all over your hands and skirts.” He couldn’t shake his concern, nor his overwhelming hate for his former host.
“That was you in the shadows, wasn’t? I’m fine. It was only a bird bone.”
“What? He tortured you with a bird bone?” Lothair did not bother to hide his rage. Andrei was more sadistic than he feared.
“No, I cut myself,” she said calmly, with no victory in her tone. “I chewed and swallowed a bone to cut the inside of my mouth and throat.”
“He never touched you?”
She shook her head a little. “Well, some, but no more than the officer you stepped in front of earlier tonight.”
“You stupid little chit! You swallowed bones deliberately to get away? You could have choked to death!” He glared down at her.
