The Pagan's Prize (11 page)

"Come, Ilka," he said when he seemed
satisfied that the sash was tied tightly enough. Her breasts were all but
flattened, which was quite uncomfortable. "There's food in the other room."

Biting her tongue, Zora followed him from the
bedchamber. She made quick inventory of her new surroundings—two narrow windows
that she could easily squeeze through, another door leading outside, and best
of all no other Varangians in sight except the strapping Arne—while Rurik led
her to a bench where he gestured that she should sit. Arne was already seated
at the table, ale glistening in his beard as he thunked down his mug and wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Aye, she's got a vixen's gleam in her eye, just
like you said, my lord. But I'll watch her well, you can be sure."

Zora shot a glance at Rurik as he set bread, cheese,
and a mug of frothy ale in front of her. "You're leaving?"

He nodded. "I've a message to deliver to the
kreml
, remember?" He quaffed his
ale standing up as if soon to depart.

Zora's mind raced. Though her stomach grumbled noisily,
she gave no notice to the food beneath her nose. If the Varangian gave her name
as Ilka, then Ivan might not know it was her and think the message a ruse!

"Are you going to describe me in this message?"
she asked Rurik innocently. "I mean . . . it might be wise. Ivan is a
suspicious man. He might require some proof that you really hold me, especially
since he believes I am safe with the caravan—"

"I had already thought of that," Rurik
interrupted.

Before Zora could blink, he pulled a wicked-looking
knife from his belt and cut off a two-inch length of her braid. As Arne
bellowed with laughter, Rurik's lips curved into a half smile.

"Do you think this proof enough?"

Staring at him in shock, Zora could only nod. Now she
knew she was being held by ruthless cutthroats.

"Don't let her out of your sight," Rurik said
over her head to Arne, who waved his mug in assent, some of his ale splashing
onto the table. "I'll be back soon. If all goes well, we'll have our
ransom and the wench will be back in Lord Ivan's arms by sunset. You and I, my
friend, are going to leave this city as very rich men."

She'd be gone from here much sooner than that, accursed
Varangian! Zora vowed to herself, choking down her bread and cheese as Rurik
picked up a bundle of furs and strode from the shack. She tossed back a good
swallow of ale, hoping to fortify her courage.

"Aye, drink up, wench." Arne slammed his
empty mug upon the table so hard that she jumped. "It'll calm your nerves.
You look to be a skittish thing to me." He reached for Rurik's mug, which
was still half full, and noisily slurped the contents. "But don't be
thinking that I'll be less wary for the ale I've swallowed. Believe me, I'm
going to watch you as if I had three eyes in my head instead of two."

"Take that in your eyes!" cried Zora, dashing
her ale into Arne's flat-nosed face. As the Varangian sputtered and cursed, she
made a dash for the door, wild excitement filling her. Soon she would be free.
But her hand barely touched the latch when the door burst open and knocked her
backward onto the rush-strewn floor. She landed hard on her backside.

"I had an idea this would happen," Rurik said
dryly, ducking his head as he stepped over the threshold.

Forcing back frustrated tears, Zora spouted without
thinking, "You loutish pagan! I'll not stop trying to escape until I'm
free of you—" Too late, she clamped her mouth shut, but she knew the
damage was done when he hauled her roughly to her feet and half dragged her
back into the bedchamber.

"Here's some rope, my lord," Arne announced
behind them when she was thrown unceremoniously onto the bed. As she lay
facedown upon the furs, her arms were forced behind her and her wrists securely
tied. Then she was flipped over as if she weighed nothing at all. Tears blinded
her eyes as Rurik bound her ankles together.

"I didn't want to have to do this, wench, but you've
forced my hand," he said tightly, his expression hard. To complete her
humiliation, he tore a length of fabric from the hem of her tunic and used it
to gag her. "Nor can I have you shouting for help. Someone outside might
hear you."

Then he and Arne were gone, leaving her lying upon the
bed like a trussed bird. They had tricked her. As hot tears tumbled down her
flushed face, she heard Rurik slam the outer door and she silently heaped every
curse she knew upon his head . . . which in truth weren't very many and hardly
enough to do his crimes justice.

It was some comfort to imagine the day of his
execution. A hanging? No, too kind. An arrow through the heart? No, too swift.
A tumble into a pit filled with wild dogs? Yes, now that would suit him! She
only hoped her father would allow her to give the signal that would bring about
his much-deserved death.

Rurik strode through the crowded market, an odd
tenseness dogging him.

He knew he had been too rough on the wench, but she had
pushed him. It had been clear from the mutinous expression in those lovely blue
eyes that she planned to escape. After all, she'd tried last night. It was
necessary to leave Arne there to watch her.

Foolish little spitfire! She had looked almost comical
sitting there on her bottom, her mouth agape in surprise until her chin had
jutted at him defiantly, yet laughter had been the last thing on his mind. He
should have known she wouldn't cooperate.

That Slav merchant Gleb had been right about the wench.
She was nothing but trouble! She didn't have a docile bone in her body. Instead
she was the most spoiled, disobedient, insolent, and excessively imperious
concubine he had ever seen. If one of his women even dared to go so far, he
would break her of her bad habits soon enough. Even Semirah, his passionate
desert beauty, knew when to silence her tongue.

Lord Ivan was welcome to this woman, Rurik thought
irritably. Such impudent wenches served only to ruin a man's existence, and if
there was one thing he demanded in his home, it was harmony. To think that he
had momentarily believed he wanted to keep her . . .

Cursing his folly, Rurik shifted the bundle of furs
upon his shoulder and scanned the variety of colorful stalls for the scribners'
section of the market.

He needed to buy paper, pen, and ink to write his
message to Lord Ivan. He planned to arrange a secret meeting to discuss his
demands, allowing the boyar the knowledge that to thwart him would mean Ilka's
death. It was a dangerous scheme, but carefully weighed, and Rurik thrived upon
taking such risks. If not, he would never have achieved his esteemed status
under Yaroslav, and would still be a lowly member of the grand prince's junior
druzhina
.

Spying at last a stall displaying a wide array of
quills, Rurik made his way through a noisy, bustling throng of merchants and
eager buyers. The air was filled with spirited haggling in a dozen languages
and when he reached the stall, he found the scribe engaged in a heated debate
with a foreign customer over the price of some pens.

Impatiently awaiting his turn, Rurik leaned against the
booth. His gaze swept a busy market scene that was no different from a hundred
others . . . save for the large number of guards who moved through the crowd.
At first he wasn't troubled by their presence. Chernigov was a newly conquered
city whose occupants had once been loyal to Yaroslav. But then he spied two
different sets of guards, four men in each group, moving from stall to stall
obviously questioning each trader. Rurik tensed.

"What's the trouble?" he queried the merchant
who had finally waved off his previous stubborn customer in disgust, having
failed to settle upon a price. Rurik inclined his head toward the nearest group
of guards. "You'd think some valuable prisoners might have escaped from
the
kreml
for the armed men in this
market."

The sallow-faced trader, his skin deeply pitted from the
pox, warily appraised Rurik. "You traveling through?"

Rurik nodded, lowering his furs to the counter. "Four-day
trading pass."

"Well, you can expect to be answering to the
bastards soon enough," said the trader, his gruff tone indicating that he
didn't look too highly upon the city's newest citizens. "They were just
here, slinging their questions so fast as if to confuse a man. I suspect they'll
harry us until they find the wench, be she alive or dead."

Rurik held his voice steady. "Wench?"

"Aye, Prince Mstislav's youngest daughter,"
the trader spat. His gaze narrowed at the distant
kreml
that loomed on a hill above the city. "Word came just
this morning that she was abducted from a caravan bringing her to Chernigov.
The guards are ordering everyone to watch for any sign of her. Troops have been
sent to search every trading camp along the Desna." Lowering his voice,
the merchant leaned toward Rurik. "The prince has offered quite a reward
for her safe return . . . one thousand gold grivna! Any chance you've seen a
wench with hair the color of a lion's mane, golden skin, and blue-green eyes?
At least that's how they described her. Sounds like a real beauty."

Rurik shook his head, hoping he didn't appear stunned.
Loki take him. Ilka, his captive concubine, now bound hand and foot with two
inches of her braid hacked off . . . Prince Mstislav's daughter?

The trader grunted his disappointment. "Too bad,
my friend. Leading Prince Mstislav's men to his daughter Zora could have made
you a wealthy man."

Zora?

Rurik's attention was suddenly drawn to a commotion at
one end of the market square, the pounding of hooves growing louder. Shoppers,
merchants, and guards alike scattered as thirty mounted guards thundered past
the stalls, led by a dark-haired warrior whose countenance was as black as the
rumbling storm clouds gathering to the west.

"Lord Ivan, the girl's betrothed!" the trader
shouted above the din. "It's rumored that he was to marry her shortly
after her arrival." The man coughed on the dust billowing around them. "The
guards said a search of all ships was to begin at once, Lord Ivan to lead it. I'd
hate to be questioned at that one's hands! He's said to be as cruel as he is
arrogant, the
kreml
prison filled
with wretches he's marked to die."

Rurik didn't need to hear more; a new plan formed. Yet
he took a moment, despite the fierce impatience gnawing at his gut, to buy a
quill from the trader so as not to arouse suspicion. Then he left the market by
a narrow side street, taking a different route than the mounted warriors. One
he prayed would lead him faster to the wharf as he cut between frame houses and
down winding alleyways.

He had to get Leif and Kjell off the ship before Ivan
reached them. He trusted their loyalty, but torture could drive the truth from
the strongest warriors and that would surely be their fate if the enraged boyar
found their answers suspect.

Somehow Rurik, his men . . . and his lying little
princess had to escape from the city while confusion still reigned.

How swiftly her royal blood had changed their
circumstances.

Chapter 8

As thunder crashed overhead, Rurik burst in the door of
the shack.

Arne lurched from the bench. "My lord, you're back
sooner than I—"

"Leave everything here, Arne, we've no time to
pack!" he shouted, wiping the rain from his face. Soaked to the skin, he
left a trail of water as he strode to the bedchamber.

"By Thor, what's happened?"

"I'll explain later. Kjell and Leif are waiting
outside with the horses. Now go!"

"Horses? What of the ship?"

Ignoring him, Rurik pushed open the door to the
bedchamber to find the room in darkness. Cursing the unlit lamp, he went to the
bed and gathered his captive in his arms. Unable to see her face, he felt her
slender body tense. She tried to say something to him, but her words were
muffled by the gag.

"Easy, wench, it's me," he said to reassure
her, although he imagined that she was less than thrilled to find herself in his
embrace. Carrying her into the other room, he was glad to see that Arne had
already gone outside. He unceremoniously set the woman down, and severed the
rope binding her wrists and ankles.

"The arrangements have been made," he lied,
sheathing the weapon as she gasped. He swept her again into his arms. "The
ransom has been delivered. We're taking you to where your Lord Ivan will find
you."

Rurik could feel her staring at him in astonishment,
but he did not meet her eyes as he moved to the open doorway. After glancing up
and down the deserted alley, he carried her outside into the pouring rain and
handed her to Leif, who was waiting beside a restless roan stallion.

"Lift her up," he commanded after mounting,
having already instructed his warrior to do so in such a manner that the woman
was seated facing him, a leg on each side and her bottom between his thighs. "Wrap
your arms and legs around me," he told her gruffly, not surprised when she
didn't respond. Meeting her wide confused gaze, he grated, "Do you want to
see your Lord Ivan or not?"

Immediately she hugged his torso and her legs wound
tightly around his hips, crossing at the ankles. Pushing her head down low
against his left shoulder, he signaled to Kjell, who threw him a large sodden
blanket with a ragged hole cut from the middle.

Settling it over his head, Rurik was pleased to see
that the woman was completely covered beneath the blanket's voluminous folds.
Next came a dripping wet fur mantle over his shoulders that when pulled around
to the front further hid the woman from view. Nestled as she was so snugly
against him, he only hoped that she could breathe.

"Keep very still," he ordered, bracing his
upper arms around her. "Whatever you do, don't raise your head. I promise
you, wench, if you thwart me now, you will pay!" With that, he kicked his
mount and they set off, his men silent and riding close behind him.