Set title

by O’Donnell, Laurel

  Gianluca made a big pretence of trying to ascertain who was whistling, then walked towards the Ragusa.

  “What’s happening?” Zara asked.

  “Looks like Drosik is boasting of his cargo.”

  Zara smiled. “Gianluca will pretend not to be interested.”

  “It’s exactly what he’s doing. Walking on. Drosik is following him along the dock, waving his hands. The lads are playing their part too, trying to shove him away from Gianluca.”

  Kon’s apprehension subsided a little. “Mayhap this ruse will work.”

  Despite his new confidence, his gut tightened again when Gianluca and his compatriots went aboard the Ragusa.

  The men walked back and forth, huddled, then broke apart. Voices were raised, hands thrust in the air. The scene repeated itself again and again, the voices getting louder each time. He caught an occasional glimpse of Gianluca’s peculiar green hat and the gaudy red shirt he’d come to hate the sight of.

  Then suddenly there was silence. “I can’t see anybody.”

  “Where have they gone?” Zara whispered.

  Kon gritted his teeth. “I don’t…Hold on…Gianluca is leaving the Ragusa. But where’s his hat?”

  Lupomari chuckled. “He’s traded it.”

  “For what?” Zara muttered.

  Kon had to smile. “I’d say for the sack of salt one of the lads is carrying on his shoulder.”

  Zara tried to get to her feet. “But the salt belongs to me. It’s worth more than a stupid hat.”

  Kon put a hand on her arm. “Not to Drosik. He looks pleased with the deal. It’s a good thing he has big ears, otherwise the hat would be over his eyes.”

  “Madonna,” Zara exclaimed. “When I get my hands on him…”

  “Patience,” Kon urged. “His time will come. We’ll wait a bit, then follow Gianluca.”

  Drosik strutted on his cog, shouting orders to his crew for what seemed to Zara like an eternity. “What is he doing?” she asked again, frustrated they couldn’t leave to seek out Gianluca.

  Kon had been hunkered down in the forecastle for too long. He’d given up and now sat beside her, rubbing his knees. He reached for her hand, but his frown was troubling. “I’m guessing he doesn’t intend to leave the ship and his cargo. Mayhap the episode with Gianluca roused his suspicions.”

  Her dismay was tempered by the startling arrival of Rospo crawling up the steps.

  “Boat,” the steersman croaked, barely opening his mouth.

  It was both amusing and a mite worrisome. After five years she understood his meaning. “He’s brought a boat alongside,” she explained to Kon.

  Bent double to avoid detection, they made their way down from the forecastle to the opposite side of the cog. Rospo kept a lookout as they slipped over the side and descended the rope ladder he’d secured.

  “Resourceful fellow,” Kon remarked, taking up the oars of the rowboat.

  Zara looked up at the frog-like face peering at them from the cog. “He’s a strange little man but it’s not the first time I’ve depended on his loyalty.”

  She pushed off against the Nunziata while Kon pulled on the oars. “It’s as I said before,” he reminded her, “you can’t judge a person from outward appearances.”

  Then he chuckled.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I sound like my father.”

  DEBTS

  As they moved further away from the Ragusa, Kon had to concentrate on guiding the rowboat in and out between cogs and fishing vessels moored in the bustling port. Rowing on the Elbe didn’t involve dodging other vessels and they experienced a few collisions.

  He pondered his own words. He’d spent months wandering across Europe trying to rediscover who he was when the truth was obvious. He was Dieter von Wolfenberg’s son, in fact as well as in name. He had inherited his father’s compassion and consideration of others. If only he had the same patience and could learn to control his volatile impetuosity.

  Once out of the port, he rowed with more confidence towards the beach, aided by an onshore wind. “During the invasion, we pitched camp along this stretch,” he told Zara. “Brandt’s lieutenant, Vidar, recommended we move away from the beach into the dunes. It proved to be good advice when the tide washed out some of the tents pitched in the shadow of the castle wall. Seems like only yesterday.”

  “It was before you were sent to Bari,” Zara remarked, banishing the amusing memory of irate soldiers scrambling out of wet tents.

  Wood scraping bottom echoed the emptiness in his gut. They jumped out of the boat and dragged it up on the deserted sands.

  “Yes,” he managed. “Lute and Brandt remained here. Johann and I went south.”

  They stowed the oars in the boat and began the long walk into the town.

  “Now you are struggling to reconcile the proud Saxon who left Termoli with the man who lost himself in the slave market in Bari.”

  He took her hand. “You’re too perceptive, Signorina Polani. I was, but you’ve helped me in my search. You’ve seen things in me I’d lost sight of.”

  “Your true nature shines through, Kon Wolf.”

  Her words warmed his heart, and though she didn’t speak of love, he was confident she cared for him.

  It became evident during the brisk walk into town that the folk they encountered were aware of Zara’s identity. They bowed deferentially, the name Polani uttered loudly as they passed.

  Kon smiled. “Judging by the wide-eyed shock at your attire, they don’t approve, but your reputation keeps them silent.”

  “It’s surprising. Our ships rarely dock in Termoli, yet they are aware of our fleet.”

  “I’d wager Gianluca hasn’t kept his mouth shut about our presence here. Or mayhap his retinue of youths.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than they were surrounded by those same young men, all talking at once, gesturing wildly.

  “They’re speaking too fast for me,” Kon complained.

  A worry gnawed at Zara. “They say the slaves weren’t aboard the Ragusa.”

  He came to an abrupt halt, his weather-bronzed face ashen. “What?”

  She pushed through the excited throng. “We must wait to hear what Gianluca has to say.”

  Zitella’s father came to the door and ushered them within, insisting the youths remain outside. The only change in the miserable place seemed to be the sack of salt stashed in one dark corner.

  “You’ve heard? Definitely no captives aboard, unless he has them hidden under the thwarts. Impossible. You couldn’t hide a dog in such a confined space.”

  “Surely he hasn’t sold them already?” Kon asked, scratching his head.

  A certainty crept into Zara’s heart. “He’s put them ashore somewhere, under guard. Probably less risky than bringing them into port.”

  Gianluca nodded. “There did seem to be few crewmen aboard.”

  Zara pointed to the sack of salt. “Speaking of cargo, that belongs to me.”

  The Termolian shrugged. “It’s mine now. I traded for it.”

  Zara clenched her fists at her sides. They were dependent on this man’s goodwill, but business was business. “A hat!”

  “You claimed you would do anything in gratitude for Zitella’s happiness,” Kon reminded him.

  “But my debt is to your family, young man, not to Signorina Polani. In Venezia she is mistress. Termoli is my domain.”

  She recognised it was useless to argue. Better to play a waiting game. “Well then, great trader of Termoli, where has he put the captives ashore?”

  “There are many places he may have chosen,” Gianluca replied, brandishing an impatient fist when one of the lads poked his head in the door. “Be gone, Pio!”

  “There is a man here,” Pio explained nervously, clutching the battered door. “He claims to know where the slaves are.”

  Kon’s first instinct was to dismiss the notion. Probably some local who’d heard of the situation and sought to take advantage.

>   But his father’s face loomed in his mind’s eye. Dieter von Wolfenberg was always ready to hear what everyone had to say before rushing to judgement. “Bring him in,” he said, overruling Gianluca’s sputtered objections.

  The bald man who stooped to enter the meagre dwelling wasn’t what he expected. “You’re not a fisherman,” he charged.

  The stern-faced stranger bowed to Zara, then stretched out both arms. “I suppose my splendid attire gave me away.”

  “Your manner of speech tells me you’re not Italian either,” Kon said.

  “He’s not from around here,” Gianluca confirmed.

  “Yet there’s something familiar about you,” Kon said, searching his memory.

  A trace of a wry smile tugged at the corners of the man’s mouth. “We have met before, but I wasn’t as well dressed then.”

  Kon studied him. The shirt and leggings, though of fine quality, were a mite snug on the tall man’s frame. “And these are not your garments.”

  “You are right. I regret I had to steal them.”

  Gianluca scoffed. “A thief!”

  Zara folded her arms. “Enough of these riddles. Who are you?”

  Kon’s shoulders tensed when the fellow took hold of her hand and raised it to his lips.

  “Signorina Polani, permit me to introduce myself. I am Jakov, Count of Istria, but you know me as the man whose son you risked your life to save.”

  RESURRECTION

  Zara withdrew her hand. “The slave? But your hair was long.”

  Jakov grimaced. “Had to shave it. Lice, I’m afraid. One of the unfortunate consequences of confinement in appalling conditions.”

  Kon stepped forward, confusion evident on his face. “I saw you drown.”

  “Such was my intention,” Jakov admitted. “My son’s death destroyed any will I had left to survive. However, the water filling my lungs aroused anger in my heart. If I surrendered to despair, the other wretches captured with me, loyal men in my army, would have no chance of rescue. I kissed my child farewell and gave his body up to the sea.” He swallowed hard, plainly stricken by the cruel memory. “My desire for vengeance renewed my strength, though I barely made it to shore. I’m not ashamed to tell you I wept as I watched the pirate ship sail away.”

  “You mentioned an army?” Kon asked.

  “Istria is a beautiful part of Croatia, but it sits at the end of a peninsula that juts into the Adriatic. That makes our more remote villages prone to raids by slavers. I maintain a small army to protect my people, but they took us by surprise. I must admit I never thought they would dare to attack a town as large as Pula. Much less take me, and my son.” He turned to Zara. “They were Venetians, by the way, lovely lady.”

  She had to sit on the rough stool she’d avoided earlier before her trembling legs buckled. “It doesn’t make sense. You were brought aboard by Fatimids.”

  “Your compatriots sold us in Venezia at the first opportunity. Quick profit.”

  She was still fighting disbelief. “And how did you get from Scardovari to here?”

  Jakov sighed. “Alas, another theft. A horse. The pirate sailed close to shore. It was no great challenge to follow his progress. My spirits rose when I caught sight of your ship in pursuit.”

  Silence dominated the tiny dwelling.

  “But you were chained,” Kon said.

  Jakov shoved back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the ugly band of metal still clamped around his wrist. “I thank you for your bravery in trying to save the life of a stranger’s child. Vedran was my heir, but this manacle is his only legacy. I will wear it until the day every last one of my compatriots is free.”

  Kon grasped Jakov’s hand. “I am elated you are alive. My sole purpose in sailing on the Nunziata was to secure the freedom of the captives before the ship reached Bari. I’m only sorry we couldn’t save your child.”

  Jakov returned the handshake, but arched a brow. “I watched you during the voyage and I am more certain than ever you are no ordinary sailor.”

  “He’s the son of a Saxon count,” Zara replied with a smile and such obvious pride it made him want to puff out his chest.

  “Dieter von Wolfenberg,” Kon explained when Jakov frowned.

  “The diplomat?” the Croat asked. “The one who convinced the intractable Staufens to support Lothair’s invasion of Italy?”

  Kon supposed he shouldn’t be surprised his father’s stellar reputation as an imperial negotiator had reached as far as Croatia, but it filled him with a new sense of purpose. “He’s the one, though it’s a good while since I left Wolfenberg. He wasn’t well and may have died in my absence.”

  Jakov shook his head. “Last I heard two months ago from the imperial court he was still alive.”

  Kon meet Zara’s sympathetic gaze, and he sensed his eyes betrayed the longing to return home he’d refused to acknowledge.

  Gianluca coughed gruffly. “This resurrection is all well and good, but where are these confounded slaves?”

  “Up the coast,” Jakov declared. “Heavily guarded.”

  “Best we make haste,” Zara said. “Drosik will set sail to retrieve them if he cannot sell his wares here.”

  Gianluca chuckled as he produced another hat from a sack on the dirt floor. It was identical to the green one he’d traded to Drosik, except it was nigh on the same garish shade of red as the hideous shirt. “I can delay him a while longer,” he said.

  An hour later, picking slivers out of her woollen leggings, Zara reluctantly agreed the plan was sound.

  Gianluca would accompany her when she sought an audience with William of Loritello to formally complain that the Ragusa carried contraband stolen from the Nunziata. He was confident the reputation of the Polani fleet and his own influence would gain them a quick hearing.

  Accompanied by officials, Zara, her captain and some of her crew would then board the Ragusa and keep Drosik pinned down in the port while the cargo was reclaimed.

  Meanwhile Kon and Jakov would attack the guards holding the slaves a few leagues away.

  She and Kon were the last to leave Gianluca’s dwelling. He put his arms around her waist and kissed her tenderly. “All shall be well,” he reassured her. “You will get back your goods and the captives will be freed.”

  Foreboding tightened her throat. “I would prefer to come with you. I have a terrible feeling I’ll never see you again.”

  “Have faith,” he whispered.

  He kissed her again with deeper passion. She opened her mouth to allow his tongue entry, put her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his. She relished the brush of his soft beard on her face, savored his male taste, thrilled at the hard proof of his need.

  She was elated he was on the path to rediscovering his faith, but terrified by the seed of doubt that had taken root in her own heart.

  THE BEST LAID PLANS

  Zara, Rospo and Gianluca were ushered into the musty and sparsely decorated hall of Termoli castle. Kon had described William of Loritello as a corpulent individual. The sagging double chins were an indication the gaunt-looking man who greeted them had at one time carried extra weight.

  She supposed being stripped of a title by King Ruggero had been a harrowing experience, but at least the Sicilian hadn’t chopped off William’s head.

  She was out of practice and he was no longer a count, but she deemed it wise to curtsey respectfully. “Thank you for granting an audience, my lord,” she crooned.

  Sprawled in an elaborately carved chair, he raked his eyes over her attire. “It is indeed a pleasure to welcome a member of the Polani family to our humble port.”

  Zara had met many like William in her uncle’s far more opulent court in Venezia. Their cold words spoke one language, the heat in their gaze quite another. She was aware of his advances towards the woman who had eventually married Lute, but deemed it better not to mention the von Wolfenbergs.

  “You bring a complaint?” William asked Gianluca, evidently deciding to deal with one of the
males in the delegation.

  Determined to assert her position, Zara replied. “There is a cog in your harbor, the Ragusa. Its cargo was stolen from my ship several days ago by its captain, a man named Drosik. I’d like it back.”

  She bit her bottom lip when William turned again to Gianluca, “Is this true?”

  She gestured to Rospo. “This man will attest to what I say.”

  William steepled his fingers, tapped his chin and looked up into the rafters. “But he is in your employ, is he not? Why should we believe him?”

  The accusatory nature of his question confirmed her opinion. She was dealing with a man who wields no real power but who likes to believe he does. She beckoned Rospo, who sprang forward and bowed politely.

  “As a Polani,” she stressed, “I can vouch for Rospo. He is an honest man and I humbly beg you consider his testimony accordingly.”

  William’s glare faltered momentarily and she was satisfied the power of her family name had served its purpose. He addressed her for the first time. “He is called Rospo? Like the pond creature?”

  She resisted the urge to smile. “Yes, my lord.”

  William shifted his weight and spoke to Rospo. “Can you confirm this charge? Drosik carries contraband stolen from your mistress?”

  Rospo nodded. “Sì.”

  William drummed his fingers on the carved arms of his chair. “Where did the theft take place?”

  “Scardovari.”

  The puppet-ruler of Termoli clenched his jaw. “How did the alleged pirate manage to board your ship?”

  “Mist.”

  William stared at Rospo skeptically. “What was stolen?”

  “Salt.”

  The former count scoffed. “That’s it?”

  “Cloth.”

  Zara held her breath, hoping Rospo wouldn’t mention the slaves. It would complicate matters if none were found aboard the Ragusa.

  “Rope,” he added.

  William steepled his hands again and gnawed his fingernails. After an eternity he stood and announced, “We will deliver our decision in an hour.”