The Pagan's Prize

by Miriam Minger

  Entranced by the graceful way she moved, Rurik drank in the sight of her. Despite his determined resolve to consider her only as a pawn, he was relieved she was wearing baggy male garb. If she could look this fetching in ill-fitting rags, he could well imagine how she might appear in a luxurious full-length silk tunic cut to fit her temptress's form.

  Apparently Kjell had noticed as well. The warrior was fairly gaping. Rurik threw the younger man a stern warning glance, though he could hardly blame him. Princess Zora seemed fashioned to turn any man's head.

  "There's plenty of food so take as much as you want." Zora merely glared at him.

  Undaunted, Rurik added, "I suggest you take an extra portion of boiled beef. You slept through supper last night, so it's cold. But it tastes good, and we won't have fresh meat again for days."

  She gave no reply, but quickly filled a wooden platter. Then she turned away, and determinedly kept from looking at them while she proceeded to the prow where she perched upon a water cask with her back to them.

  "Uppity little thing." Arne tore off another generous chunk of rye bread. "Why don't you tell her something of yourself, my lord? I don't see any harm in it. Mstislav's troops will never catch us now. You said she already knows you're a spy, and if she knows your high rank as well, maybe she'll feel herself in better company."

  "I doubt anything I have to say will appease her," Rurik muttered, ignoring the sidelong glances his men cast each other.

  He only hoped he could appease her uncle. He could imagine the heated accusations that would fly when they reached Novgorod and he presented his indignant captive to the grand prince. Yet he doubted Yaroslav would fault his actions. Rurik trusted that the grand prince would understand his motives, which had been fueled by Zora's misrepresented identity. In time of war, such an excuse should suffice, even though Rurik knew it wasn't the entire truth. Lust had played a part as well.

  Since leaving Chernigov, the journey had become a Hel for him. He kept recalling the sleek softness of her skin and the firm rounded beauty of her breasts, the seductive way she had parted her lips to him and the sweet, intoxicating taste of her mouth . . . the way she had moaned in ecstasy beneath him. He had been tempted to caress her cheek last night when he had gone to check on her, and only her sudden waking had sent him quickly from the tent.

  "Women," Rurik said under his breath, rising.

  "Aye, they're the plague of the world," Arne answered with a grunt as Leif and Kjell looked on in silence. "You're going to speak with her, then?"

  Nodding, Rurik filled a wooden cup with honey mead. After studying the distant shoreline for a moment and glancing upriver, he ordered his men, "Keep alert for any trouble." Then he walked toward her. If Zora heard him approaching, she gave no hint of it, not even deigning to look in his direction, which irritated him further.

  By Thor, he couldn't wait until they arrived in Novgorod, where he could relinquish his charge of her to Grand Prince Yaroslav! Surely having his six beautiful concubines around him again would chase this all too bewitching woman from his mind!

  "I brought you something to drink," he said, holding out the brimming cup.

  Flustered by how close he was standing, Zora shifted to the very edge of the cask. "What is it?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Mead. Have you ever tasted it before? We Varangians highly favor it—"

  "I don't want any," she cut him off, although in truth she would have enjoyed the heady drink. But she refused to partake of anything this man said he enjoyed. Her eyes returned to her meal.

  Rurik sighed but he didn't leave. To Zora's annoyance, he sat down on an opposite cask, facing her.

  "It's not poisoned, Zora, or drugged, if that's what you're thinking."

  Swallowing a bit of beef and feeling that she was fast losing her appetite, Zora met his gaze. It unnerved her to hear him utter her name with such intimate familiarity. At least he could continue to address her properly as "Princess Zora" or "my lady," but she doubted he would even if she demanded it.

  "What's on my mind is none of your concern—"

  "It is my concern," he interrupted stiffly as if bridling his temper. "You may be my prisoner, Zora, but you don't have to fear for your life or your person. Contrary to what you probably believe, my men and I do not prey upon women."

  "Oh, no? After what I experienced at your hands, Lord Rurik, I would have to disagree. If rape isn't preying upon women, then I must be misinformed."

  His eyes took on a dark stormy hue as he leaned toward her. "It was no rape, and this is the last time I will tell you! How can you say that when you have no recollection of what happened? You weren't yourself, woman! And you were not unwilling. I believed that you were a boyar's concubine, familiar with the ways of men and women and experienced in lovemaking," he stressed pointedly. "I took you to my bed hoping you would call out your master's name in your pleasure, then I could return you to the man—"

  "In exchange for military information, am I not right?" Zora's cheeks were ablaze from even hearing him talk of bedding her. It did not matter what he said, she would never believe him. How could she have given him so easily what she had wanted to preserve until her marriage to Ivan? She was no wanton!

  After a long moment, Rurik finally nodded, his expression grave. "You are as perceptive as I had thought. Yes, I knew when I learned of your value from the Slav merchant that my mission could profit from assisting you."

  "I could expect no more from my father's enemy," Zora spat.

  "Aptly put, Princess. Enemies, with opposing allegiances. Yours rests with your father and mine with Grand Prince Yaroslav. Eight years ago, I pledged my loyalty to him and for my service, he rewarded me with an honored position in his senior druzhina. So you see, you're not in the hands of some ruthless mercenary. And although we're enemies, it is my duty to protect you until we reach Novgorod. I'll honor that pledge with my life if need be."

  Despair swept Zora. Since Rurik was talking so freely of his power and position, he must feel confident that her father's troops would never rescue her. Clearly she would be on her own and with no hope of aid if the chance to escape ever arose.

  "Tell me something, Zora," he said, interrupting her desperate musing.

  She stared into his eyes, noticing the crinkles at the corners and the light brown of his lashes for the first time.

  "How did you come to be in that trading camp? The slave merchant told me it was because you had fallen into disfavor with your master's wife, but as you're no concubine, that cannot be true."

  "My sister sold me into the slaver's hands," she replied tightly. "Hermione."

  "Your own sister betrayed you?" Rurik's blond brows knit into a frown. "Why?"

  His question shattered the self-pitying reverie that gripped her, and Zora tensed. She couldn't reveal to him the true story behind her abduction! Then he would know she was a bastard daughter and maybe withdraw his promise of protection.

  "She hated me," Zora said bluntly, planning to quickly skirt the topic. "She was jealous of me. It's as simple as that."

  "Jealousy? Hatred? Those are not simple emotions. There had to be a cause."

  "Hermione believed I held more than my share of our father's affection and favor." Growing more agitated, Zora blurted, "I don't want to talk about it anymore!" She raised her chin defiantly. "Now I have a question for you, Lord Rurik. What made you help me in the trading camp? You couldn't have known when Halfdan struck me down that I was worth anything to your mission—"

  "You asked me to help you."

  Shocked, she stared at him. "That couldn't be true."

  "You did," he replied, his voice grown somber. "You were fleeing from Halfdan and you stumbled into me as I walked from a tent. Don't you remember? I caught you from falling, and you begged me to help you. You even promised a reward."

  "A reward . . . ?" Suddenly Zora did remember him, not so much his face but the vivid blue of his eyes.

  "Yes," he continued. "But when you looked up at me,
you cried out and pushed yourself away."

  "All I saw was another Varangian trader . . . another Halfdan." She shivered. "It was all so horrible . . . his laughter, the stench of him, those awful serpent tattoos . . ."

  "It's in the past," came Rurik's firm reply. "As I told you, Halfdan is dead. I only wish I had been the one to kill him."

  "You didn't kill Halfdan?" Zora asked, startled. "If not your sword, then whose?"

  "Arne's. He saved my life. I underestimated Halfdan's skill and when he caught me under the chin with his knee, I went down." Rurik shook his head, as if still angry at himself that the other Varangian had bested him. "Arne was there, disobeying my orders, and thank Odin he did that day." His expression grew hard as he regarded her, his eyes angry. "If he hadn't, then you would have been justified to cry 'rape,' Princess. Without Arne's help, I would have been dead and you. . .

  Grateful when Rurik didn't finish, Zora could hardly believe everything that he had just told her. She hadn't considered how Halfdan had met his end, yet now that she knew, the facts were astonishing. Rurik had risked his life for her when he hadn't even known who she was. Or that he could profit from rescuing her. Why, he could have been killed! Aiding an unknown slave woman!

  Yet she remained wary. Perhaps he had sensed even then that she was more than a common slave. Perhaps something cued him, her manner of speech, her promise of a reward, anything! To think that he might have felt compassion for her was more than she could stomach.

  "If you don't mind, Lord Rurik, I would rather not discuss what happened to me at that trading camp anymore," she said. "Now I'd like to finish my meal before the bread becomes stale and the cheese moldier."

  Noting the stubborn set of her chin, Rurik knew the matter was already closed.

  "Very well, then. I'll leave you." He rose, setting the cup of mead near her bare feet in case she decided to drink after all. He couldn't quite tell her mood, but it was clear she still did not trust him. He felt he should offer a stern warning.

  "If you haven't already realized it, screaming is useless. Unlike yesterday when it might have saved you but thankfully didn't. And if you're considering any more escape attempts, Princess, I caution you against late night swimming. You were lucky that night you plunged into the river, but the Dnieper's currents are far more treacherous than the Desna's. And deadly to all but the best of swimmers."

  "You're clearly lying again," she retorted. "I would never have jumped from any ship. I can't swim."

  Rurik studied her, amazed. She must have been fearful indeed to dive over the side with no skills to help keep her afloat.

  "You did jump overboard, Zora, whether you believe it or not. We were on our way to Chernigov, and this time I was the one who saved you . . . from drowning." Rurik smiled, but he felt no amusement. "You see? There is much you don't remember."

  She didn't reply, nor had he expected her to. Her tightlipped, rebellious expression was answer enough. Thor, but she was obstinate! She had obviously decided to reject much of what he said.

  "I almost forgot," he continued. "I bought you some things in Liubech before we sailed." He indicated with a quick nod a brass-bound sea chest. "You'll find some clean garments more to your size, trousers, a tunic, and another sash. I want you to dress like a male slave until we reach Novgorod. The last thing we need is for your beauty to attract any undue attention."

  In response, she glared at him surlily.

  Rurik sighed with exasperation and turned to go, then added as an afterthought, "I also purchased a brush for your hair and some soap in case you'd like to bathe. As you cannot swim, my men will have leave to draw water for you when you have need of it. But ask them for nothing else."

  Astonished that he would have given any consideration to her personal needs, Zora watched as Rurik walked back to his men.

  Soap? A brush? She toyed with her disheveled braid, then raised her hand to her cheek, wondering if her skin was smudged and dirty. Had he thought her in need of a bath? She supposed she did look a sight after not washing her hair for days, and she had hardly been able to bathe herself properly without soap—

  Stop! she scolded herself, angry that she would care even for an instant about her appearance. The last thing she wanted was for that pagan to find her attractive, and if she was freshly bathed, combed, and wearing more fitted clothes . . . for all his pretty words, he might very well forget himself.

  Setting her wooden plate with a clatter upon the deck, Zora knew exactly what to do. She went directly to the chest and, throwing open the lid, gathered up all the items Rurik had mentioned.

  She knew that he was watching her. She could feel it, like a strange heat upon her skin. And she knew he'd be furious, but she didn't care. Stifling a tiny glimmer of fear and any regrets about how lovely it would have felt to wash with real soap again, she went to the side and tossed everything overboard.

  "Woman! By all the gods . . . !"

  Ignoring his roar of outrage, Zora retook her seat upon the cask and calmly resumed her meal. So what if she looked like a rumpled, smudge-nosed witch and stank to high heaven? If it would keep Rurik away from her, she could bear it gladly!

  Chapter 10

  An uneasy stalemate reigned aboard the riverboat for the next few days, Zora attempting to avoid Rurik, which proved difficult in such limited space. Yet somehow she managed. She kept to her tent much of the time, and when she could no longer stand the boredom and needed fresh air, she ventured outside and moved to whatever part of the small vessel where Rurik was not.

  Thankfully, he seemed just as disinclined to encounter her. Zora wasn't surprised.

  He had been beyond anger. Even furious hadn't done his foul mood justice. Although he had said nothing more to her after his initial outburst, she had seen his temper raging in the way he glared at her when she went to get a second helping of food. His eyes were filled with a cold fury.

  Abandoning any thought of continuing her meal, she had fled to the solitude of her tent, where she had remained for most of the day. Her frustration had grown hourly.

  How she longed to be free of this accursed vessel and her captors! To be so confined, without any real privacy or the amenities to which she was accustomed—a decent chamber pot, for God's sake—was simply too much!

  With her humiliation fueling her, she had created a new plan. She would covertly observe the Varangians and hopefully discover each man's weakness. Such knowledge could then be used against them when an opportunity for escape arose.

  Yet much to her disappointment, she had found over the following two days that the ruddy-faced helmsman called Leif had no discernible weaknesses. He possessed both brawn and brains, his skill at steering the boat evidencing sharp instincts. He also obeyed unquestionably everything Rurik said, so there was no help there. As for Arne, he was another of whom to be wary. For all of his grumbling and coarse bravado, she sensed that he had a keen mind, his suspicion easily aroused.

  Arne's close relationship with Rurik bordered upon that between father and son. If the story about him saving Rurik's life in the trading camp was true, Zora imagined that Arne had made it his task to watch out for Rurik, his loyalty fierce and as unquestioning as Leif's.

  Kjell was the only one who didn't seem to fit into the group. Physically a warrior and appearing more than strong enough to do battle, it nonetheless seemed that his heart was not in his duties. Kjell rarely joined in the laughter after one of Arne's vulgar boasts about his exploits with lusty, big-breasted women, or how much ale the crusty Varangian could consume at one sitting. Sometimes Kjell seemed so detached, Zora wondered how he had been included on what she assumed had been a very important mission.

  Kjell seemed most enlivened late in the evening when he recited poetry for his compatriots' entertainment. He told strange mythic tales of long ago battles and heroic deeds that Rurik and the others obviously enjoyed. Kjell's impassioned voice would carry to her inside the tent where she lay abed, and to her amazement, Rurik occasionally joi
ned him, reciting verses commemorating a danger or triumph in battle.

  Once, Rurik's eight-line stanza had been a lamentation for a slain friend, Sveinald, who had lost his life because of his love for a woman. The haunting words had moved her more than she wished to admit and shown her a heretofore unknown side of him . . . a sensitive, personal side upon which she had no desire to dwell.

  But even though Kjell lacked enthusiasm, she had not discovered his weaknesses, at least until the following evening when she spied him staring at her quite openly. His platter of salted fish and black bread sat in his lap, untouched. Rurik's response was swift and harsh.

  "Look to your food, man, and quit gaping at the wench like a besotted pup!"

  After that, Zora noticed a dark scowl thrown in Kjell's direction whenever Rurik caught him watching her, and she realized that he must resent the young warrior's obvious infatuation. Was it simply because Kjell seemed more inclined to staring at her then going about his duties? Such disregard for orders would certainly anger any commander. Or did Rurik's reaction have something to do with his promise to protect her? Did he think Kjell might overstep his bounds?

  Well, whatever the insufferable lout's reasons, Zora had found her chance. She even went as far as to hope that any discord she fomented between the two men might somehow aid her escape. She couldn't wait to put her latest scheme to the test!

  The next morning dawned beautiful and sunny, which lightened her mood all the more. Taking care to avoid Rurik, whom she spared no more than a casual glance when she left the tent, she gave Kjell a surreptitious smile. To her delight, he beamed back at her. He must be attracted to her, she realized. She tried to quell a flash of guilt over using the young man. After all, she was a prisoner. Exchanging such smiles the rest of the day convinced her to step up her plan. It would mean forgoing her vow not to wash, but the more appealing the young Varangian found her, the better.