Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “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.

  They soon reached a gate leading west out of the city, and Rurik was relieved to see that the driving rain had chased many of the guards indoors, only a half dozen remaining. Still, if something went wrong now, they would have to fight their way out of Chernigov.

  “Remember, wench,” he warned in a low, harsh voice. “Keep still and silent or you will not see Lord Ivan again.”

  “Hold!” came a command from the leader of the guards.

  Rurik reined in his horse some ten feet from the gate, his men following his example. Slipping the four-day pass from beneath the edge of the saddle, he held it out to the drenched man who squinted to better see him in the stinging rain.

  “We’ve finished our trading,” he informed the leader as the pass was snatched from his hand. Suddenly a huge thunderclap rent the air, and Rurik winced inwardly when the woman jerked against him. Quickly twisting in the saddle to camouflage her movement, he gestured with a nod to his three stone-faced men. “You see, we have nothing left and in only one morning at the market. Our furs have been sold.”

  “Where are you bound?” the leader demanded, eyeing them suspiciously yet stamping his muddy feet as if eager to escape the storm.

  “South to Kiev, to fetch more furs. The trading here is the best I’ve ever seen.”

  “Move on with you, then, you’re blocking the way!” announced the leader, obviously noticing no more than Rurik had wanted him to see…four empty-handed, rain-soaked merchants leaving the city. As the man hurried for shelter, he waved for his guards to open the timbered gate.

  Sending a fervent prayer of thanks to the new God, whom he called upon in times of greatest need, Rurik urged his mount onward, and riding two abreast, he and his men passed safely from Chernigov.

  Outside the gate that slammed shut behind them with a heavy thunk, they set off at a hard gallop to the southwest. The journey ahead was dangerous. Doubtless Mstislav’s troops surrounded the outskirts of the city, but if the rain held, they might keep to their tents and not stop them to ask questions.

  It was only a thirty-mile ride to Liubech, their true destination: a northern trading town along the Dnieper River that, as far as Rurik knew, still lay in Grand Prince Yaroslav’s hands. As soon as they were well out of sight of the city walls they would veer north. Once in Liubech, they would buy a swift riverboat and sail for Novgorod.

  He did regret leaving Chernigov before he had gleaned much military information. Yet he believed Yaroslav would be well satisfied with what they had discovered, and now he and his men possessed an even more valuable prize. The grand prince’s own niece, Prince Mstislav’s daughter…Zora.

  The usurper had offered one thousand gold grivna for her return, Rurik marveled. An unheard-of sum! She was obviously beloved. Mstislav might be willing to concede much to his elder brother now that Yaroslav held such a beautiful pawn.

  The grand prince didn’t have her yet, Rurik reminded himself. His captive had grown very still in his arms although her limbs still gripped him. He hoped that she had enough air to breathe beneath the blanket.

  “Are you all right, wench?”

  Dazedly feeling Rurik shake her, Zora would have screamed if not for the sodden gag in her mouth. Holy Mother of Christ, he had to be a fool not to know that she was close to suffocating beneath these heavy coverings!

  Her face burning and her lungs on fire, she felt him shake her again, this time not so gently. His voice held unmistakable concern as she heard the blanket ripping.

  “Look at me, wench! Lift your head!”

  Realizing that he must have torn a wider hole for her, Zora obliged him and gasped with relief as he yanked the disgusting gag from her mouth. She paid no heed to the cold r
ain pelting her upturned face or Rurik’s anxious expression as she drew in huge lungfuls of fresh air.

  “You…you lout!” she rasped, glaring up at him. “Are you trying to kill me?” Surprised by his look of amused relief, she wondered if it was possible that he might actually have been worried about her. But she shrugged off the thought, swearing to herself again that when she was safe in Ivan’s arms, somehow this accursed Varangian would pay for his foul treatment of her.

  “How much farther are we going to ride?” she added hoarsely when Rurik gave her no reply. “I’ll be nothing but bruises—”

  “Relax,” came his mild answer, although his expression had tightened.

  “Relax?” she echoed incredulously. “With this constant jarring and jostling?”

  Infuriated when he ignored her, Zora thought back to what she had heard before she had grown so dizzy from struggling to breathe…something about them traveling to Kiev, and Rurik fetching more furs, then another male voice yelling for them to move on. Strange talk. Yet she supposed it made sense that they might have passed through one of the city’s gates. Perhaps that had been part of Rurik’s arrangements with Ivan…they would journey for a short way beyond the city to gain a head start and then release her.

  Her impatience mounting, Zora blinked against the moisture clinging to her lashes.

  “Surely we’re almost there,” she said with exasperation, but she fell silent when a deep frown marred Rurik’s all too handsome features. Odd. He should be elated that he had won his ransom, shouldn’t he?

  “Soon, wench. I told you to relax. Sleep if you can.”

  Sleep? Was he mad? The last thing she wanted to do was rest at a time like this, when she was so close to freedom. Yet the moments dragged on and Rurik’s furious pace never slackened.

  Her limbs growing numb, Zora finally released her hold upon him. The warmth of his massive body pressed so intimately to hers combined with the stifling weight of the blanket was making her sweat in a most unladylike fashion. She could feel moisture trickling between her breasts and down her back, and it wasn’t rainwater! The downpour had slowed to a drizzle. Yet despite her attempt to shift away from him, he held her tightly against his chest with one powerful arm wrapped around her waist.