“I said I’d take you in the dirt, pretty bird, and I meant it. When you feel Halfdan’s Frey-wand deep inside you, you’ll wake soon enough and cry out for more.”
“By Thor’s hammer, enough! What kind of dog are you to rut on the ground with a woman who lies as if dead?”
All eyes turned to Rurik in astonishment. A charged hush filled the air. The Varangian trader did not rise, but his grin tightened perceptibly as he appraised Rurik.
“You addressed me, stranger?”
Rurik nodded, his hand moving to the bright silver hilt of his sword. Although acting upon impulse was foreign to him, he felt strangely glad.
“Get up. You heard the wench before you struck her down. She doesn’t want your attentions.”
“This slave’s wishes are none of my concern, nor are they yours, if you value your neck—”
“But they are mine!” A well-dressed Slav merchant pushed his way to the front of the silent onlookers, though he and the stout fellow who stood at his elbow remained a good distance from the kneeling Varangian. “That woman belongs to me and she is not for sale until we reach the markets of Constantinople.” He eyed Rurik shrewdly, then his gaze shifted back to Halfdan. “I offer ten gold grivna…no, twenty, to any man who will wrest her from this barbarian, Halfdan Snakeeye. He refuses to release her to me of his free will.”
As the Varangian trader cursed and rose to his feet, speculative conversation surged among the crowd but no other man stepped forward. Surprised that a merchant would pay gold for a slave’s behalf, even one as fine as this lithe, tawny-haired beauty, Rurik’s curiosity flared hotter. The man would hardly recoup such a sum once they reached Byzantium’s capital; the most sought-after slaves sold for much less, and usually in silver. This one woman was obviously valuable to him. Strange.
“My lord Rurik, surely you do not plan to fight this trader!” whispered the urgent voice of one of his men.
Leif Einarson’s ruddy face was flushed an even brighter shade of red, his light blue eyes wary. “The woman is beautiful but just look at her captor, my lord! Almost a head taller even than you and as big as an ox, no doubt with the strength to match.”
“The wits of an ox as well, Leif. The man is ruled by lust instead of brains.”
“True, but big, dumb, and well armed could prove a dangerous combination, and we have much at stake—”
“Is it two of you who conspire against me now?” Halfdan blustered. He swung his broadaxe menacingly in front of him. “Come on, you dung-sniffers, and let’s have done with it. When I’ve cut out your beating hearts” —he glanced fiercely at Gleb— “next there’ll be a merchant’s blood staining my blade.”
“Go back to the ship, Leif.” Rurik’s voice was grim as he kept his gaze trained on the Varangian. “If I don’t return shortly, you, Arne, and Kjell sail without me.”
No protest came. Rurik hadn’t expected one, for as their sworn lord, the right of command belonged to him. Yet he could sense that the seasoned warrior wished to remain by his side, ready to fight to the death for him if necessary.
“As you say, my lord.” Scowling at the huge trader, Leif stalked away.
“I accept your offer of twenty grivna,” Rurik announced, noticing the merchant’s look of relief. His instincts told him that the man had something more important at stake than simply regaining possession of a female slave, and he intended to find out what it was, if Odin the all-powerful deemed him the victor. Let the wily slaver think Rurik was fighting for gold. In truth, he wanted to know more about the woman, yet that was impossible until this belligerent Varangian was brought down.
“So your copper-haired friend is afraid to fight Halfdan,” the Norseman jeered, his extreme height enabling him to see above the crowd. “Look how he hastens toward the river with his tail dragging between his legs.”
“Hardly afraid.” Rurik stepped forward as he pulled his sword from the leather scabbard hanging from his belt. His lips curved into a taunting smile. “Why use two men where only one is required?”
His insult was met with a violent oath from his opponent, who suddenly rushed at him, moving amazingly swift for one so large. Halfdan wielded his heavy, long-handled broadaxe with both hands. Possessing no defensive shield, Rurik barely had time to raise his sword before Halfdan’s flaring blade, a full twelve inches across, came crashing down toward his chest.
Steel sang out against steel, Rurik’s sword deflecting the death blow as he dodged to the left and whirled, aiming a low, swinging stroke at the Varangian’s legs in hopes of severing a limb. But Halfdan must have anticipated the tactic for he leapt aside, the tapered end of Rurik’s blade barely scraping his knee.
As they circled each other, the clamoring crowd began to press closer, sputtering torches held high to illuminate the deadly contest. Fearing that the woman might be trampled, Rurik shot a glance in her direction to see that the merchant and his stocky companion were dragging her from harm’s way. Halfdan must have noticed, too, for he shouted, “You cannot hide her from me, you stinking Slav! The moment I find her will bring your death!”
Rurik took advantage of the Varangian trader’s fleeting inattention. With a bloodcurdling cry, he grasped his sword with both hands and swung the gleaming blade in a heavy blow across his opponent’s stomach. To his surprise, a loud thwack met his assault and not the sensation of polished steel slicing into flesh. Cursing, Rurik leapt backward just in time to elude a retaliatory strike, now aware that the Norseman wore a padded jerkin beneath his fur clothing.
“Reindeer hide and bone plaques,” Halfdan rasped through clenched teeth, the ferocity of Rurik’s blow nevertheless having doubled him over. “As good as any rich man’s mail-coat.” Glaring at Rurik, he drew himself to his full height. “It appears you and I are well matched, stranger. I would swear a hardened warrior hides beneath that merchant’s garb. Pity you are soon to be a corpse.”
The Varangian had hit perilously close to the mark, but Rurik had no time for concern over possible spies in the crowd. Halfdan charged at him, roaring in rage and swinging his broadaxe.
Ducking a blow aimed at his head that could have split his skull like an eggshell, Rurik twisted to get clear, but the Varangian’s raised knee caught him under the chin. Smashed backward, his sword knocked from his hand, Rurik sprawled in the dirt, stunned. In the next instant Halfdan landed on top of him and pinned him, his broadaxe hovering directly over Rurik’s heart.
“Pray to Christ or Odin, stranger, but pray quickly for now you die—”
The Varangian’s words were cut off by the zinging flash of a sword, his blond head severed from his body and sent flying into the crowd. As warm blood rained down upon Rurik, the broadaxe falling harmlessly from a lifeless hand to the ground, Halfdan’s twitching body was kicked unceremoniously to one side and Rurik hauled to his feet. Still slightly dazed, he stared into Arne Flat-Nose’s grinning face. Rurik was never more glad in his life to see the grizzled bear of a warrior.
“Must I forever rescue you from scraps, my lord? It’s a good thing your father granted me the right to disobey your orders if necessary, and aye, this occasion was surely one of them.”
“Forever rescuing me?” Rurik wiped the blood and sweat from his face with his sleeve. “A fine exaggeration. In all the years I’ve known you, Arne, I could count on two fingers—”
“Three now, my lord, and well timed, wouldn’t you say?”
At the glint of seriousness in Arne’s eyes, Rurik could only nod, all semblance of joking put aside.
“You have my thanks, friend.”
“That is all well and good” —Arne glanced pointedly at the curious onlookers and lowered his voice— “but the best thanks would be to walk with me to our boat and forsake any idea of rescuing some slave wench in distress. I’d say we’ve drawn more than ample attention to ourselves for one day. It’s time we sailed.”
“Not yet.” Rurik’s senses were now back in sharp focus. Ignoring Arne’s look of disapproval, he pi
cked up his sword and then scanned the surrounding faces for the Slav merchant, but the man had vanished. The cunning bastard! Doubtless he had no intention to pay the sum promised, not that Rurik cared for the gold. The merchant had probably used the fight as a screen to spirit away the woman.
“Where are you going?” Arne called out as Rurik stepped over the headless corpse and strode through the gradually thinning crowd, traders and buyers alike returning to their business now that the bloody spectacle was finished.
Rurik didn’t answer, his gaze sweeping from one end of the camp to the other. No sign of the merchant or the woman. He was about to begin a search of every tent when he spied a flash of purple silk near the well-lighted docks, and he began to run. Arne huffed not far behind him, grumbling loudly about the witchery of women.
“Hold!” Rurik shouted, not surprised to see the merchant and his burly companion, the woman slung over his shoulder, increase their pace as they headed toward a large river ship that was already loaded with slaves and other retainers. “Hold, I tell you!” When Rurik was almost upon them, the merchant turned back and hastened to meet him while the other man hurried on with his precious load.
“Ah, forgive me, good sir…how forgetful of me! Your gold is right here.” Smiling tightly, the merchant held out a small leather pouch. “Count it if you must, it’s all there. Twenty grivna, the least I could pay for such skill and bravery, such honor—”
“I don’t want your gold.” Rurik’s gaze burned into the man’s eyes. “Tell your fat companion to bring the woman here, now, or I will not hesitate to slit your treacherous throat.”
“Treachery! What treachery—”
Rurik grabbed the older man and spun him so that he faced the river, his sword resting ominously against the merchant’s scrawny neck. “Tell him!”
“As you wish, as you wish! Urho! Bring the slave to me at once!”
“Now talk and quickly, but keep your voice low,” Rurik commanded, aware that they were eliciting much observation from curious passersby. “Where did you get that woman?”
“Her parents sold her to me…they were poor, needed the silver—”
“You lie! Before that Varangian trader struck her down, she promised me a reward if I helped her. No peasant’s daughter would swear such a thing, and no peasant wench would speak with such refinement. Where did you find her?”
“Please, I cannot say or my life may be forfeit!”
“Speak or your life is forfeit.” Rurik turned his weapon so that the razor-sharp blade rested upon the man’s bobbing Adam’s apple.
“Very well, I will tell you! Stay your sword! My men abducted her from a wealthy river caravan a day’s eastward journey from this camp.”
“A caravan?”
“Traveling from Tmutorokan to Chernigov.”
Rurik tensed, his instincts alert. Such a caravan might be somehow connected with Prince Mstislav…
“How could your men have gotten so close without an alarm being raised?” he demanded. “Surely there were guards—”
“Yes, but what few we found near the girl’s tent were slain. It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. Everything was arranged in advance.”
“By whom?”
“The eunuch of the woman who wished to rid herself of her husband’s favorite concubine. The half man paid me much gold to see that the girl’s tongue be cut out and she be sold in Constantinople. He said that if his mistress’s orders were not followed, she would not rest until I was found and punished.”
So the wench was a concubine. Rurik watched as the man called Urho drew near with the limp woman. She was wrapped in a dark cloak with only her head visible, her long sandy-colored hair, more blond than brown, tumbling down Urho’s back. Rurik found himself wondering what it might feel like to touch that golden tousled mass, to bury his fingers in it…
Rurik snorted. From his own reaction, he was not surprised that she was a favored one.
Her status would explain her graceful speech. She must have been granted an education with the finest tutors by her wealthy master—whom Rurik suspected was a member of Mstislav’s senior druzhina to afford such a luxury—no doubt fueling the jealousy that had brought her to this trading camp. The woman who had sold her into slavery must have hated her, which meant her master must love her. The hapless wench had promised him a reward, hadn’t she? She probably knew that her master would pay well to get her back.
“How much were you paid?” Rurik asked, again pressing his sword against the merchant’s stubbled throat. “It must have been a great sum for you to put your own life in jeopardy.”
“Two hundred gold grivna.”
“A woman’s cunning knows no bounds,” Rurik muttered, disgusted. This concubine’s nemesis obviously wanted her to suffer, otherwise she would have had her killed. To cut out her tongue and sell her to some foreign buyer? He wondered what the witch would think when her beautiful rival turned up once more upon her doorstep, but with a tale of treachery to condemn her before her husband…for Rurik had a bold plan formulating in his mind.
“Arne, go to the ship and bring me the money chest,” he called to his friend who was standing close by, sword drawn.
The warrior’s bushy black brows knit together. “My lord?”
“Just do as I say.”
Shaking his shaggy head, Arne sheathed his sword and lumbered away, grumbling to himself.
“If you’re thinking to offer me money for the wench, I will not take it,” said the merchant stubbornly. “She is not for sale.”
“You took a rich woman’s gold readily enough—”
“Why not enrich my purse and steal away some boyar’s whore?” The man spoke vehemently, oblivious to the cold metal pressed against his flesh. “I’m no warrior. What better revenge could I seek against the scourge that has come upon our land? Those bloodthirsty hordes from Tmutorokan! I lost two sons to that usurper Mstislav’s men!”
Rurik turned the merchant so abruptly to face him that the older man almost lost his footing. “Is this true?”
Fear shone from the merchant’s eyes, but his expression remained hard. “I have said too much already. For all that I know, you could be one of them.”
“I am not,” Rurik replied, his voice almost a whisper. “But I can tell you no more. Now answer me.”
The merchant studied Rurik’s face for a long moment, then his bony shoulders seemed to drop. “I would not have sold my soul for coin. My sons’ faces haunt me in my dreams, their voices beg me for justice. If you take this woman from me, I will have lost everything, my vengeance and, one day I fear, my life.”
Rurik could see that the older man spoke the truth, and he chose his next words with care.
“Would you sell me the wench if I told you a greater vengeance could be yours? A battle will soon be fought, and your slave may be the bribe I need to sway the outcome to our favor. I can tell you little else, except that you and your remaining family would be safe in Novgorod, should you choose to seek refuge there. This I promise.”
Rurik glanced toward the docks, and spying Arne returning with the chest, he turned his gaze back to the silent merchant.
“My man comes with the money. I offer you two hundred gold grivna to match the payment already made to you, good for evil. All I ask is that you do not make me wrest the woman from you by force.”
“Keep your gold,” the merchant said quietly, his shrewd eyes fixed upon Rurik’s face. “But when I return from selling my slaves in Constantinople, I will hold you to your promise. All I ask is that you tell the girl when she wakes that you had to kill me to win her. Perhaps that will be enough to throw that rich she-hound from my scent…if it is in your mind to send this concubine back to whence she came.”
“Done.”
As they grasped each other’s wrists in agreement, the merchant asked, “Do you have a name, stranger? I must know where to seek you in Novgorod.”
“None that I can give you now, nor is it safe for me to know yours.” R
urik unfastened his cloak-pin, a broad silver ring engraved with a snarling beast, from the right shoulder of his bloodstained cloak. “When you arrive in the city, go to the kreml and speak to the master of the guard. Tell him you wish to return this brooch to its rightful owner. It will be enough.”
The merchant took the brooch, then motioned for Urho to hand his limp bundle to Rurik. “The woman is yours. You are welcome to her. In truth, she has caused me nothing but trouble.”
As Rurik sheathed his sword and took the woman in his arms, the lush feel of her body aroused in him an overwhelming sense of possession, but he quickly stifled his reaction. This beauty belonged to another man, an enemy. He intended to make her a pawn: a fact he would do well to remember.
“Be warned, stranger,” the merchant added, his gravelly voice low. “Guards may be looking for the wench, though the caravan is yet a day’s journey from here. You would be wise to travel swiftly and keep to the west.”
Rurik gave a short nod, noting the miniature cross dangling from the older man’s neck. “May Christ keep you on your journey to Constantinople.”
“And you.”
“I take it, then, that the money is no longer required,” Arne said dryly behind them.
Rurik turned around as the merchant hurried away. “No, my friend, it is not.”
Sighing resignedly, the warrior hoisted the heavy chest upon his shoulder and fell into step with Rurik as they strode alongside the busy docks to their ship.
“Ah, well, you already have six concubines at home. What hurt will one more do? There are seven nights in a week. If you could survive the tantrums when you brought back that Khazarian she-cat, I imagine you’ll weather the uproar this golden-haired temptress will surely cause.” He laughed heartily. “Your good looks are your curse, Lord Rurik. If you were ugly and squat, or flat-nosed like me, your women would not mind so much that you had found another to warm your bed!”
The Pagan's Prize (Captive Brides Collection) Page 4