Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances

by Claire Delacroix

  The woman’s smile broadened. “And recently arrived?” she prompted.

  “Aye,” Kira admitted. She had no interest in sharing her entire sordid tale with this stranger.

  The woman waited expectantly, but Kira ignored her and returned studiously to her labor. “Ha! I was right on both counts, then.” The woman picked up her own work with satisfaction, but Kira let the remark pass without comment.

  The silence between them was an uneasy one and Kira fancied the other woman was waiting for a confession of sorts. Kira scrubbed the dirty cloth determinedly, well aware that the old woman on the riverbank was missing no detail of this exchange.

  “I was Persian once, as well,” the woman continued, though that was evident already.

  Kira gritted her teeth and regretted her confession. She had more pressing matters to consider on this morning. Where had her warrior gone? Had he abandoned her for good or simply for the day? When would he return?

  What would she do if he did not return? He had not cast a backward glance in her direction when he had left her with the old one. Though it should not have surprised Kira, his indifference bothered her more than she thought it should have. She was uncertain amidst these people, much more uncertain than she had already become in his presence. The only change was the warrior’s absence, but Kira had to acknowledge that she already relied upon his protectiveness. It might be only for the sake of the pearl, but it was better than being without a defender of any kind in this camp.

  “Is that the kalat of your man?” the persistent Persian woman inquired. Kira looked at her uncomprehendingly, not knowing the term. “His tunic,” she whispered in explanation. Kira glanced down to realize that the blue garment in her hands was similar to the one her warrior wore. Indeed, she had not taken the trouble to study the garment she worked on.

  Her warrior.

  Her man.

  “Nay,” she said, surprised when the woman exhaled with a hiss. Her friendly manner disappeared so abruptly and completely that Kira could only watch the transformation in astonishment. What had she said to so dismay the woman?

  “And you would wash the kalat of another so openly?” the woman whispered in obvious shock.

  Kira gestured with one hand to the old woman who had given her the work. “She bade me wash it,” she explained. And Kira had little choice in the matter.

  The Persian woman took a small step away from Kira’s side as though fearing to associate with her. “Then Black Wind is not your man?” Her voice was sharper, indicating that Kira’s reply was of import.

  Unfortunately, she did not understand. Her lack of comprehension must have shown, because the other woman shook her head. “The tall one who brought you here,” she murmured. “He is called Black Wind.”

  Kira could not help but wonder at the import of his name.

  “Is he not your man?” the woman hissed.

  Kira shook her head.

  The woman glanced from side to side before she leaned closer to whisper. “Have you not a man?” she demanded.

  Kira could only shake her head again.

  The woman looked surprised, then her eyes narrowed dangerously. “How dare you speak to me without telling me first of your status.”

  “’Twas you who spoke to me,” Kira observed but the woman turned away, apparently insulted. Clearly, the woman was mad. Kira plunged the garment into the brown water swirling around her knees to rinse it out.

  “No matter who began the talk, ’twas your place to tell me your lowly status,” the woman insisted with heat.

  Kira’s interest was piqued by the reference. Lowly?

  “I am claimed by one of the keshik,” she continued in a lofty tone. “And thus of considerably higher rank than a common whore like yourself.”

  Whore? Kira dropped the garment into the water in her indignation. “I am no whore!”

  The woman laughed. “There are no secrets between we women,” she said with a malicious smile. “All within the camp know there are but three kinds of women here.”

  “Three?”

  The woman held up a finger. “There are openly claimed women like myself.” She held up a second finger. “And there are whores who welcome any man between their thighs.”

  Kira drew herself up taller. “I am chaste,” she insisted. “Clearly that makes me of the third type.”

  To her surprise, the other woman laughed once more. “Aye, perhaps it does, though you may well regret your status soon enough.”

  “What do you mean?” Kira demanded.

  The woman returned to her work, her attitude smug. “The third type are war fodder,” she supplied with satisfaction. “Like children and prisoners of war, women like you lead the army into battle.”

  “I do not understand,” Kira said although she feared that she did.

  “They are slaughtered first by the opposing army.” The woman enjoyed telling Kira this horrifying detail, a telltale sign of her true nature. “Aye, there is more than one way to rid an army of extra and useless mouths.” She examined a tear in the garment she washed as though they discussed nothing more alarming than the weather. “Perhaps if you had a whit of sense, you would part your thighs.”

  “You said yourself that there is no honor in that life,” Kira snapped.

  “At least ’tis a life,” the woman observed. “And if you fail to quickly, the value of yours ’twill be of little import at all.” The woman’s eyes narrowed and she leaned closer to Kira to continue in a confidential tone that Kira did not trust. “Perhaps there are but two kinds of women in the Mongol camp,” she murmured. “Those who choose to live, and those who die.”

  Kira exhaled her breath slowly, feeling her stomach churn as she looked in the direction her warrior had disappeared.

  “Did they not ride to battle this day?” she asked and her companion nodded.

  “Aye, that they did and a big battle ’twas to be indeed.” The woman glanced up with bright eyes, smiling she surveyed Kira. “And yet you are here, not before the troops,” she noted. “You are a pretty enough creature—perhaps Black Wind has hopes for you yet.”

  Nay, it could not be so. The warrior wanted only the pearl.

  And the pearl had saved her from marching to her death before the army. Suddenly Kira was grateful for her impulse to keep the gem and she fought the urge to finger it where ’twas secreted within her pocket.

  She retrieved the garment from the muddy water and began to scrub once more, wondering how this woman’s tidings could help her to choose life after her warrior reclaimed the pearl.

  The field was empty.

  Birds wheeled overhead and called to each other, the dried grass of summer past waved in the wind and made a slight whispering noise as the wind slipped through it. The sky was a flawless cerulean blue and there was a faint hint of spring in the morning air.

  The pastoral scene was markedly different than the one Thierry had expected. He halted his horse in disbelief and eyed the view. He squinted at the distant smudge of horizon but he could not discern a hint of the Golden Horde’s presence.

  There was no enemy to engage.

  “Where is Berke? Where are his troops?” Nogai demanded impatiently as he pulled up alongside Thierry. Thierry could only shake his head.

  “I do not know,” Thierry admitted.

  Nogai snorted and surveyed the empty field before them with open disgust. “But our spies said they were here just two nights ago,” he protested. “With no less than two tümen of men. There was promise of a great battle. Where could they have gone?”

  That Nogai was disappointed, there was little doubt. Far to his left, Thierry spotted a movement, but did not bother to look closely. ’Twas the other flank, the left wing of Abaqa’s own troops. He scanned the horizon yet again.

  Nothing.

  “Perhaps ’tis a trap,” he suggested, unable to conceive how Berke could have concealed his men in the dead grass. There was no valley where Abaqa’s troops could be drawn unsuspectingly and e
ncircled. No hills, no river gully, no trees. Nothing but flat, unrippled plain confronted him as far as the eye could see.

  “One could only hope,” Nogai commented in a disgruntled tone. “I never expected that we would lack an opponent this morn.”

  Thierry glanced to his old friend in surprise. “It seems that you are disappointed.”

  Nogai grinned outright. “I had thought to collect Abaqa’s new chalice,” he confessed wickedly. “’Tis unfair of Berke to deprive us of the game, especially when I have oft heard how skilled the Golden Horde is in battle. I had been looking forward to the chance to empty my quiver into the ranks of a worthy opponent.”

  Thierry shook his head and frowned at the empty plain once again. “’Tis most odd that they should be gone,” he mused. “It must be a trap of some design I cannot discern.” He looked to Nogai to find his own speculative thoughts reflected there. “Could your bloodthirstiness be sated by pursuit?”

  Nogai laughed. “There is only one way to discover the truth,” he said and gave Thierry a bold wink before he spurred his horse. “And perhaps there is still a chalice to be retrieved this day. If not, one might hope for some game, at least.”

  “Then we ride in pursuit.” Thierry raised one hand to his troops and beckoned them onward with a shout as he spurred his horse. A glance to his left confirmed that the commander of that tümen had made much the same conclusion as Thierry, for those troops were also thundering onto the plain.

  Thierry’s lips thinned with determination. Even should Berke be laying a trap, he would be hard-pressed to deal with the full press of Abaqa’s forces. Though if Berke truly traveled with two tümen, the match might be closer than Thierry would have liked.

  The stakes were high. The two hordes battled for dominion over these very grasslands, extensive and fertile lands imperative to the grazing needs of both nomadic groups. Without these lands, the sheep and horse stocks would have to diminish and Abaqa’s tribe would suffer less wealthy circumstances, if not outright hardship.

  Abaqa’s sire had held these plains long, but his demise had opened the question again for his rival, Berke, who wished to expand. ’Twas Abaqa’s first test as khan and one that he could not afford to lose.

  And should matters go awry, Thierry well knew that the field commanders would pay the price for that loss.

  He had no doubt that Berke’s logic was much the same, and he puzzled anew over the Golden Horde’s absence. They could not have simply ridden away from a battle of import like this. Indeed, if Berke bested Abaqa here, he might well be able to absorb all of Abaqa’s dominion by continuing to sweep south. A new khan was at his most vulnerable in the first year of his dominion.

  It made no sense. Thierry’s scowl deepened and he decided that Berke must have set a trap. A particularly devious trap that Thierry had best discern before ’twas too late. Indeed, he saw in this moment the fullness of the risk he had taken in assuming the command of the right wing. Much was at stake. Too much, perhaps.

  Perhaps Nogai would see enough battle this day to satisfy even his taste.

  Far behind the departing troops the shaman sat motionless on his white horse and watched the dust rise in the riders’ wake. He felt the wind and listened to the voices of the spirits whispering in his ears, trying to discern more than they chose to tell him this day.

  There was death in the air, for that pervasive scent that tickled his nostrils could be nothing else. The shaman knew that ’twas no normal smell he caught in the wind, but a precognitive one that he alone of the tribe could discern.

  But ’twas there nonetheless, even if only to him, and the shaman knew not its source or meaning. He frowned and asked the elusive spirits, but they confided nothing new to him. Their whispers assured him only that Death had passed and done his work already.

  At least the Dark One did not come for him this time.

  Which gave the shaman pause to think. His eyes narrowed as Qaraq-Böke’s horse was lost in the distance, and he tapped his staff thoughtfully. The Dark One evidently had not come for that warrior, either.

  Unfortunately. Life would be far easier without the threat of a nonbeliever becoming khan, even in the distant future. Despite the shaman’s efforts to undermine him, Qaraq-Böke continued to prove himself an able warrior. Indeed, should all continue as it had thus far, the shaman might well lose credibility with Abaqa, who was a believer. Abaqa had been only too willing to believe his rival a poor warrior at first, but a few well-won battles might easily sway his judgement.

  The shaman would have to ensure that he was not on the losing edge of such a change. He clicked his tongue against his teeth with dissatisfaction, wishing the spirits would be more forthcoming on this day. Something had gone amiss, for Berke’s troops were inexplicably gone. And should there be no battle, Qaraq-Böke could not be “accidentally” lost in the fray.

  The shaman pursed his lips and hoped the men he had commissioned had more sense than he expected they did.

  He recalled Abaqa’s unruly drinking and frowned. Unless he missed his guess, made even without the sheep bones, Abaqa would not boast the longevity of his sire. Nay, something had to be done about Qaraq-Böke before ’twas too late. ’Twas irksome that the man possessed no weakness that might be used against him, or one that the shaman might turn to his own advantage.

  Even the shaman’s threats and premonitions of the previous night had apparently not affected the impassive warrior. And they had been genuine, as well. The shaman shook his head, disliking even further that Qaraq-Böke did not listen to the warnings of the spirits.’Twas one thing to be a nonbeliever who would take little guidance from a shaman; ’twas quite another to be a fool.

  Aye, Qaraq-Böke could not be khan, under any circumstances. And since the shaman alone saw the threat, then he alone must correct the situation.

  If only there was some weakness he could exploit.

  But of course. The shaman’s gaze drifted down the river to where the women were washing clothes. But of course. Qaraq-Böke had been too quick to deny his interest in the Persian woman he had captured. That he had even bothered to abduct her was of note in itself, when the man had not been known to ever take a woman.

  He could have sliced her from gullet to groin and reclaimed the pearl.

  That Qaraq-Böke had not was a detail of great import.

  The shaman smiled to himself. For who, other than a shaman, could coax a reluctant pearl from the woman’s gullet without causing her harm?

  The old crone who guarded the women would not dare to defy him.

  And he would destroy the threat of Qaraq-Böke before the day was through.

  Kira neither liked nor trusted the change in her situation.

  The white-cloaked man had come to claim her at the river and the old harridan had made no protest. That would have troubled Kira enough. She had not imagined that woman feared anyone but something had flashed in her eyes at his appearance.

  He dressed differently than any of the others she had seen in the camp, and she wondered why. Who was he? He was with the Mongols but not one of them. That was worrisome, as well.

  Now he hauled her through the deserted camp, dodging between rows of tents with unexpected agility. His carved staff pounded regularly into the dirt as he walked, his other hand latched around her wrist with a will that brooked no argument. His long nails bit into her skin and Kira cringed at their yellow color, but made not a sound.

  She particularly disliked that her warrior was not present to witness these events.

  Did he even know?

  Had he passed her to another? Kira did not know and her heart pounded as her thoughts filled with ugly possibilities. That this man was not a warrior was evident by his dress, and his staff made Kara wonder if he was some sort of religious man. The top was carved in the shape of a horse’s head and it had an actual hoof on the base of it. A trio of white animal tails dangled where the horse’s mane might have been. It was a fearsome staff and just the sight of it added
to Kira’s concern.

  He moved toward a tent that was white, not dark like the others, and impatiently tugged Kira inside. Her mouth went dry as she did his bidding, thinking it would accomplish little to annoy him. She scanned the interior, seeking a means of escape.

  ’Twas shadowed inside despite the light-colored fleece and her eyes took a moment to adjust from the bright sunlight, though her companion did not hesitate. He lashed her wrists to the central pole with frightening speed, much as the warrior had done the night before, but this time the rope gnawed into Kira’s skin. She did not dare protest, but eyed him warily, wondering what lay in store for her.

  The man pushed back his hood and smiled. It was not a friendly expression.

  Kira could not fathom a guess as to his age. Though his darkly tanned skin was smooth as a child’s, something lurked in his eyes that spoke of knowledge beyond what could be gleaned in one lifetime alone. His smile was toothless; the braid of his gray hair was thick and luxuriantly long. His hands were as strong as a young warrior’s, as she had already experienced, yet his nails were as yellowed and long as those of a hermit. A drum hung from one side of his belt.

  His smile made everything within her go cold.

  He said something in that vulgar guttural language they all used. Kira did not understand, but she held his gaze in her determination to hide her fear. He spoke again, and though she could have been mistaken, Kira fancied that the language he used had changed. Still she did not comprehend the words, however.

  “I know that you possess one of the khan’s pearls,” he said next, his Persian so impeccable that Kira was taken completely by surprise.

  She answered before she thought to do otherwise.

  “Aye,” she admitted. The man’s eyes gleamed and Kira cursed her own stupidity. A plague on herself for not being more circumspect!

  “Aye,” he repeated, clearly pleased with her response. “Then you should know that I have been charged with its retrieval.”

  “By whom?” Kira demanded as though she had every right to ask. If her warrior had abandoned her, then she would know the truth of it.