"There wasn't time." Rurik gripped her elbow more tightly. "By now your uncle has received news of my return from the guards who met the ship. He is expecting us . . . that is, expecting me. You, Princess, will be a surprise."
A surprise for you, too, Lord High-and-Mighty, Zora fumed, wondering what Rurik would think when he discovered he had escorted a mere bastard daughter almost the length of Rus.
"Can't we slow down just a bit?" She shot him an angry sidelong glance. "You'd think we were running a race—"
"I caution you to curb your temper," Rurik said, maintaining his pace. By Thor, he would carry her kicking and screaming into Yaroslav's hall if need be, he was so anxious to be rid of her! "You're a prisoner, remember? Despite your blood relation to the grand prince, he will not appreciate your insolence. He can be very quick to anger."
"I could care a whit about what my uncle thinks," came her blatantly defiant reply. "Or you, for that matter! You can save your advice."
Frowning, Rurik was tempted to throw her over his shoulder and give her bottom a good whack, if only to teach her a lesson, but he decided not to let her goad him, which she seemed bent upon doing. Her truculent behavior was certainly a change from the uneasy calm of the last few days, but he couldn't say that he had missed it.
"Suit yourself, Princess, but don't say that you weren't forewarned."
"That's it? No threat?" Gaining courage from his surprisingly cool response, Zora wished she had more time to tell him exactly what she thought of him and the past two weeks of enduring his company, but they had reached the entrance to the massive stone palace. The fierce-looking guards bowed their heads respectfully and stepped aside so that she and Rurik might pass through the heavy double doors.
Her ruthless captor scarcely deserved such homage, Zora fumed. But she was soon distracted by her surroundings. She could tell at once that her father's palace, although sumptuous, was not nearly so large as this one.
Many polished weapons hung from the high, three-story walls, their brilliant pattern broken at intervals by colorful tapestries depicting hunting expeditions and victorious battle scenes. Tall, thick candles lit the cavernous space for there were no windows, while at the far end of the hall, logs the height of small trees burned brightly in an immense fireplace. Although it had been sunny and warm outdoors, spring fading into more summerlike weather, the air inside was chill.
Besides the guards standing at silent attention throughout the room, there was a group of men engaged in discourse near the roaring fire. Zora recognized her uncle at once among the somber quartet whom she imagined must be some of his advisers.
Dark of hair and barrel-chested, with large eyes and a ruddy complexion, Yaroslav resembled her father in all ways save for his height. The grand prince was a short man, standing perhaps a few inches higher than herself. Unkindly, Zora reasoned that he had surrounded himself with such a lofty palace to compensate for his lack of stature.
"So you have safely returned, Rurik Sigurdson!" the grand prince said in a great booming voice, startling Zora when he broke away from the group and strode energetically toward them.
She stood uncomfortably to one side while the two men embraced heartily, confirming that Rurik held a very high place in the ruler's esteem. Then to her surprise they moved away, leaving her standing there alone as if she were invisible. She had never felt so insulted.
"I trust that we've much to discuss," Yaroslav began, his tone sobering as he gestured to the tall chairs placed in a semicircle before the fireplace. "Come, let us sit and—'
"Forgive my interruption, lord prince," Rurik broke in, feeling Zora's indignant gaze boring into his back. Despite the grave seriousness of this meeting, her reaction made him want to smile. Yaroslav's disinterest in her had obviously set her down a notch or two. "There is another matter that first demands our attention."
"Another matter? What could be more important . . . T' As Rurik gestured for Zora to come forward, Yaroslav focused upon her as if seeing her for the first time. Then he glanced questioningly at Rurik. "This grubby youth has some bearing upon our discussion? A messenger, perhaps?"
Seeing Zora stiffen, Rurik had to stifle again his urge to smile. "Not a youth, my lord" —he reached out and flipped Zora's thick braid over her shoulder— "but a wench and my prisoner for almost three weeks now. Your niece, Princess Zora of Tmutorokan."
Zora jerked away from him. She was not going to stand there while Rurik toyed with her person and talked over her head! Throwing aside all caution, she rounded upon her uncle.
"Yes, I'm Princess Zora and I demand that you release me at once and return me to my father, Prince Mstislav!" she cried, her outraged voice echoing in the hall. "Such a gesture can only begin to compensate for the crimes that this brutal man has committed against me. Before abducting me from Chernigov, he vilely assaulted me and stole my honor, then threatened me at cost of life and limb if I dared to try and escape. He almost suffocated me on one occasion, nearly ravaged me again on another, and has forced me all along to wear this . . . this man's garb! I demand justice! I demand—"
"Silence!"
Her heart pounding, Zora clamped her mouth shut in surprise. She stared at her uncle, who appeared unaffected by her outburst despite his just having to shout to quiet her. Yet his eyes now held a cold glint of hardness.
"You will hold your tongue until I ask you to speak," Yaroslav warned in a low tone. "Do you understand?" Reluctantly, she nodded.
"Excellent." He turned to Rurik, whose expression had grown dark and angry. "I can well imagine why you thought it important to bring this woman to Novgorod, but first, before you respond to her many charges, I want to know how you came upon my brother's bastard daughter."
Now Rurik looked stunned. Zora felt smug satisfaction at his reaction and smiled tightly when he glanced at her, granting him a slight, mocking bow of her head.
"A bastard?"
Yaroslav uttered a short, humorless laugh. "Born of Velika, Mstislav's favorite concubine, some seventeen years ago. Am I not correct, young woman?"
Zora was not surprised he knew about her. She had expected as much. "Yes, my mother was Velika."
"Beautiful woman," the grand prince said almost to himself. "I met her once when Mstislav brought her with him to Kiev, our father having summoned us for a meeting of his council. We were rivals even then, long years before we would become the bitterest of enemies." His tone grown cold, he glanced at Zora. "I can see now that you favor your mother . . . perhaps even surpass her in beauty if you get rid of the dirt. Did you not allow her to bathe, Rurik?"
"She refused, my prince."
"Hmmm . . . stubborn and defiant, with a willful tongue to match," Yaroslav said, studying her so intently that Zora began to feel uncomfortable. "Not the wisest of traits for any captive." He turned abruptly to Rurik. "You captured her in Chernigov?"
"Not exactly, my lord, but it is a long story—"
"And one I am most eager to hear. Continue."
Wondering what Yaroslav had meant by his cryptic statement, Zora listened impatiently as Rurik recounted how he had found her in the trading camp, and to her surprise, she learned that the slave merchant Gleb had not been killed, as she had believed. Another lie Rurik had fed her! Then he repeated what little she had told him about Hermione, and at that point the grand prince gave another laugh as dry as the first.
"If this is true, it sounds as if young Hermione has taken on the traits of her Greek mother. I met Canace only once, a year later in Kiev at her wedding to my brother. As lovely to look upon as a vermilion rose, but possessing the prickliest of thorns. Too bad the woman Mstislav married was not the one he loved."
"My lord?" asked Rurik while Zora stood motionless, hearing a family history she knew only too well.
"He wanted to marry Velika, but our father Vladimir would not hear of it. Only a highborn bride who was cousin to Emperor Basil of Byzantium would do. How it must have vexed Canace to come into a household where a Slavic concubine held the stature
of wife." Yaroslav's gaze shifted to Zora. "Yet in time, your mother was banished from the palace, was she not?"
"Yes, shortly after my birth," Zora said softly, feeling Rurik's eyes upon her. "Lady Canace would no longer stand us under her roof. My father visited us in the country when he could, and six years later, when my mother died, he brought me back to Tmutorokan and accepted me publicly as his daughter despite his wife's protests." She raised her chin proudly. "So you see, I may be a bastard, but in my father's realm I am a princess."
"Indeed," was Yaroslav's terse reply. "Go on with your story, Rurik."
Already angered by her uncle's condescending tone, Zora felt her ire mounting as Rurik detailed their short stay in Chernigov and what had happened between them. Just in time Yaroslav threw her a sharp warning glance as if sensing her pique, and she bit back the invectives that had leapt to her tongue. Yet when Rurik finally concluded with their rainswept flight from her father's city, she felt that she would surely burst if she didn't give vent to her feelings.
"Whether I submitted to him willingly or not, this man must pay for what he did to me!" She glared at Rurik, so furious that she stamped her foot. "He has ruined me! Lord Ivan may not even want to marry me now when I return to Chernigov—"
"Who said a word about your return?"
Zora gaped at Yaroslav, wondering if she had been wrong about her value to him. Holy Mother of Christ, why had she let her pride get the better of her? She shouldn't have made so much about her father naming her a princess.
"I—I thought you might send me back . . . surely a bastard can be of little use—"
"Bastard or not," Yaroslav cut her off, clearly irritated that she had abandoned her agreement to hold her tongue, "your father offering a reward of one thousand gold grivna proves your worth to him, and can only mean that he must love you dearly. As Velika's only child, I am not surprised . . ."
The grand prince began to pace before them, his face somber as if deep in thought. Fearing that he might be planning to use her as a political pawn after all, Zora shot a nervous glance at Rurik only to find him staring straight ahead, his handsome features grim.
Dear God, he would not look so serious if some cold, calculating pronouncement wasn't soon to fall upon her head! She began to tremble for the terrible suspense, and when Yaroslav abruptly came to a halt in front of Rurik, she felt her knees growing weak as jelly.
"I give her to you, Rurik of Novgorod."
Zora exhaled sharply, staring at Yaroslav in confusion. Rurik seemed just as confounded.
"If it is your wish that I guard her until you decide what you will do—"
"No, I give her to you as your bride."
Rurik hoped he had heard incorrectly.
Zora felt as if the earth had suddenly been swept from beneath her feet. She was speechless. Surely her uncle must have lost his reason!
"Princess Zora may be my brother's daughter, but she's of no use to me," Yaroslav continued, ignoring her as he addressed Rurik. "Mstislav would never give up his reckless plan of conquest no matter how much he loves her, and I doubt he could offer more than one thousand grivna to ransom her. His coffers must surely be strained to the limit as he prepares for war."
"But, my lord, couldn't you find use for such a sum?" Rurik asked, his voice coming out hoarse.
"Gold is always needed, but I've no time to deal with the details that such a transaction would require. Besides, when the victory falls to me, everything that belongs to my brother will become mine to do with as I like. I give the princess to you for your many years of loyal service." Yaroslav clasped Rurik's arm. "Few have been as faithful as you, Rurik Sigurdson, and you are yet unmarried. Look at her as a well-earned prize captured in time of war but with the blood of my father, Vladimir the Great, in her veins. Someday, that same royal blood will flow through your sons."
Rurik took a deep breath to steady his racing pulse, noting out of the corner of his eye the ashen pallor of Zora's face. He had never seen her so pale, and strangely it cut him deep that she would find the grand prince's proposal so abhorrent. Angrily he shrugged off the odd feeling, and thinking she must be too stunned to make any protest, he decided to spare her any more suffering. He chose his next words carefully so as not to insult his liege lord.
"My prince, you honor me with such an offer, but I must refuse. You know that I have sworn never to marry."
"Why?" Yaroslav dismissed Rurik's words with a brusque wave of his hand. "Because some fickle wench married your older brother instead of you? We have all suffered a woman's deceit at some time or another, Rurik. You are no different from other men. I say it is time you think of heirs for the wealthy estate you have built in Rus!"
"I already have children—"
"You cannot bequeath your entire estate to the bastards you have sired. You may have recognized your illegitimate spawn as your own, but the law limits their inheritance. Will you see much of what you have gained passed back to the state?"
When Rurik did not readily answer, Yaroslav heaved a sigh of frustration. "You were always a stubborn one, Rurik. Very well, if you won't take the wench for your bride, perhaps Lord Boris might want her. Since his second wife died of sickness a few months ago, he's been looking for another. I'll send him a message this very hour—"
"Stop! I'll endure this no longer!" Zora blurted out, finding her voice at last. Her numb astonishment had become blinding outrage. She was so furious that her uncle had so carelessly offered her to Rurik that she was shaking from head to toe. And her pride had suffered no small offense that the brutish pagan had flatly spurned her! "How dare the two of you speak of me in so callous a manner, as if I weren't even here . . . as if I have no say in whom I shall marry? I would rather die than wed some idol-worshiper, and that goes for your Lord Boris as well!"
His ruddy face growing mottled with anger, Yaroslav's voice was deadly quiet. "Lord Rurik is no pagan. Like my father who ruled before me, I demand that every man sworn to serve under my banner is baptized into the Christian faith."
Spurred on by her boiling indignation, Zora challenged him. "If that is true, why does Lord Rurik call so often upon his pagan gods? I've heard him do so countless times, especially when he's angry, and his own sword bears the heathen name of Branch-of-Odin—"
"Old beliefs die hard," Rurik interjected, his resentment at her false charge more than overshadowed by the jealousy ripping him apart. The thought of Boris, a vile, disgusting pig of a man, even casting a sideways glance at Zora was enough to sour his stomach. "If I called upon the gods when angered, it was only because you tried me so sorely, Princess."
"So you thought I should bear my captivity meekly, is that it?" Zora scoffed. "You are more than a fool, Lord Rurik, if you believed I would not try and thwart you—"
"Cease!" roared Yaroslav. "I will take no more time with this! You" —he jabbed a stubby finger at Zora— "will marry whom I choose and believe me, young woman, you have no leave to say otherwise. And if you don't submit to my choice for your husband, you may easily find yourself given as a whore to my entire junior druzhina for the insolence you have shown me today. Perhaps that might sway you!"
Zora could only stare at him, wholly astounded by his threat. She couldn't believe that her uncle would really do such a thing to her, but she'd be insane to tempt him. She had heard enough times from her father that Yaroslav was a hard, ruthless man. Now she was convinced of it.
"Good. It seems you have wisely decided to curb your sharp tongue. Since Rurik doesn't want you, and God knows I can see why, I'm certain Lord Boris will be more than happy to accept you as his new bride—"
"I will marry her."
Rurik's firm pronouncement rang in the hall, the words out before he had made a conscious decision to say them. But now that they were uttered, he meant them.
Yaroslav snorted in disbelief. "Are you sure, Rurik? From the ill temper she has displayed, perhaps she is no prize but a bane to any man who accepts her."
"A bane only unt
il she is tamed, my lord. It is a challenge that I see now I can no longer refuse."
She would learn her place within his life soon enough, Rurik vowed grimly as Zora's cheeks flushed pink with indignation, her beautiful eyes filled with dismay. She would serve his needs and bear his children, but she would mean no more to him than any of his concubines, wife or not. That would be the first thing he would make sure that she understood. In time, he was certain that his overwhelming desire for her would diminish and so, too, would her hold upon him. No doubt it had been his lust consuming him all along.
"Do I hear any objections?" Yaroslav demanded from Zora like a taunt.
Objections? she thought bitterly, refusing to meet Rurik's gaze. She could raise the roof of this hall with her opposition to this unthinkable match! But with the grand prince's cruel threat ringing in her mind, she said not a word. For now, she would simply have to endure the outrage that was being forced upon her.
"So be it, then." Yaroslav signaled for two strapping Varangian guards to come forward and flank Zora. "Escort the princess to the woman's terem and explain to my wife Ingigerd what you have heard. Tell her to prepare my niece for her wedding. After Lord Rurik and I have finished our business, I will send word to you when I want her brought to the cathedral. Now go, and take special care that she doesn't elude you."
Nudged by one of the guards into motion, Zora held her head high as she left the hall. She could feel Rurik watching her, and she wished fervently that he could read her thoughts. If any man's life was soon to become a living hell, it was his. She would see to it.
Chapter 13
Zora sighed with pleasure as gently heated water was poured over her head, rinsing the rose-scented suds from her hair.
"One more time, Marta. We want to make sure all the soap is out before she leaves the tub."
While the slave woman went to refill the bucket, Zora wiped the moisture from her eyes and looked up through spiky lashes at the willowy blond who had just reentered the room. Perhaps ten years older than herself, Lady Ingigerd regarded her with such cool inquisitiveness that Zora decided the haughty Norse beauty was a good match for her ogre of an uncle. She felt like she was being inspected, the woman was staring at her so.
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