Betrothed to the Barbarian

by Carol Townend

  Her skin prickled. Holy Mother, is that Boda?

  Martina! A swift glance should have reassured her—Martina lay among the nursemaids, sleepily chewing a fist. A pulse throbbed in Theodora’s temple.

  If that man were not so far away, she might be able to see his face. If only he were not wearing that helmet...

  The peacock had been chased away. As in a dream, Theodora heard a horn signal the beginning of the game. The ball was thrown into the field. Horses thundered on to the turf, clods of earth shot skywards. White and red clashed, they separated and clashed again, they became a blur. There were whistles and catcalls; there was stamping and applause.

  Theodora was blind and deaf to it all—she was fixed on the man on the grey. Could it be Boda? What reason would a player, a genuine player, have to skirt the field in so furtive a manner? The helmeted head turned, he was searching the crowd. Theodora’s heart stopped as his gaze appeared to rest briefly on her before moving on to the children islanded on the rug. For one chilling moment Theodora was certain, certain, he focused on Martina.

  Theodora thought the man smiled, but that, of course, was her imagination—she could not see that far. She did see the flash of spurs as he dug them into the grey’s flanks. The horse surged forward and everything became a whirl of speed and confusion.

  Someone yelled. ‘Watch your backs!’

  ‘What the hell are you doing, man?’

  Grey horse and rider pounded on to the eastern end of the field, which was clear of play. Athanatoi and Varangians were fighting it out at the western end. The grey ripped across the empty grass, heading straight as an arrow to the children’s rug. Someone barked an order and a couple of Palace Guards ran on to the field. Foot soldiers could not hope to catch a man on a horse, the grey raced on.

  Theodora jumped to her feet.

  Lady Verina touched her arm. ‘My dear, you are chalk-white—are you ill?’

  Terror was a stone in Theodora’s throat—she could not speak, she could not move.

  The polo field and the stands snapped into a focus that was agonisingly sharp. Never had the double-headed eagle on the Imperial standard looked so fierce, never had the Imperial purple seemed so bright, or the golden pennants so brash. The smoke hanging over the Imperial box was black as soot, and sounds hit like hammer blows—the thundering of hoofs, the hooting, the cries.

  She heard herself screaming. She couldn’t help herself. ‘Nikolaos! Niko!’

  * * *

  The players were dangerously bunched together, sticks flailing as they jostled to get the ball. Nikolaos’s heart thudded. He lost sight of the ball, glimpsed it again amidst a tangled blur of horses’ legs, lunged with his mallet and managed to get a passing shot through to an Immortal on the fringe of the mêlée.

  In one of the boxes, someone was screaming.

  Eyes glued to the ball, Nikolaos watched with satisfaction as his team-mate passed the ball between the legs of a Varangian’s mount and one of his Immortals struck it. The ball flew on and, as if by magic, the knot of horses fell apart. Giving Hermes his head, Nikolaos galloped down the field towards the eastern end.

  That woman’s scream—Lord!—it cut like a knife. Nikolaos rarely lost his concentration, but something impelled him to look in the direction the scream was coming from.

  Theodora! She was gripping the handrail of one of the stands and everyone was staring at her. Theodora? Screaming? What in Hades?

  There was an interloper on the polo ground. A man on a grey was hurtling straight for her stand. Hauling on the reins, Nikolaos brought Hermes to a standstill. Team-mates and opponents rushed past him, leaving him behind as the mêlée swirled round the interloper, moving inexorably past him towards the goal.

  ‘Nikolaos, help! Please!’ Theodora waved wildly at a rug laid out on the grass next to her box. Nikolaos glimpsed nursemaids, babies...

  The interloper whipped the grey into a gallop. An uncanny quiet held the crowd. Smoke! Smoke was gushing out from behind the Imperial box...

  ‘Fire!’ The attention shifted from Theodora, and in an instant chaos descended on the polo ground. ‘Fire!’ Servants rushed this way and that. The Emperor’s Guard moved smartly to surround Emperor Alexios, leading him and his Empress quickly out of their box. Sergeants were bellowing orders. ‘Bring water! We need a bucket chain. Move!’

  ‘Niko!’ Theodora’s scream cut through the uproar. Her eyes were wide, her skin was pale, never had he seen her so discomposed. Vaguely, he noticed his mother standing at her side.

  ‘Niko!’

  The nursemaids scattered, squealing as though the man on the grey was their nemesis. As well he might be. Nikolaos could not believe his eyes when the man spurred on, towards them. Damn it all, there were children. Babies.

  Babies. Time froze. Babies.

  The horseman seemed to have picked out one nursemaid in particular, the child in her arms was swathed in something wine-coloured. The girl backed frantically. Nikolaos did not miss the desperate, revealing glance she flung at Theodora.

  The skin on Theodora’s face was stretched tight. Nikolaos had seen that look many times on the battlefield. Total fear. Blank terror. The truth flashed in on him with blinding, lightning force.

  That baby is hers! There was no doubt in his mind. That baby is Theodora’s.

  How odd, he felt nothing. Not anger, not disappointment...nothing. There was no time for thought. Even as Nikolaos gave Hermes his head, the man on the grey reached the nursemaid. Nikolaos could only watch as he leaned out of the saddle, snatched the baby from the girl’s arms, and swept on and away.

  ‘Niko!’

  With Theodora’s cry ringing in his ears, Nikolaos turned Hermes on to the path and spurred after the grey.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Black clouds gusted from the back of the Imperial box, dense drifts obscured the paths and courtyards. A diversion. In front of Nikolaos, the grey horse and rider took on a ghostly appearance before the smoke swallowed them.

  Riding blind, Nikolaos urged Hermes on, down the path to where the smoke was at its thickest. He was determined not to lose his bearings. This path leads directly to the Palace Gate. His eyes were stinging. Somewhere ahead was the man on the grey and he strained to pin down the precise direction. Beneath him he could feel his horse’s unease—Hermes was responsive to commands, but if the smoke did not clear soon, that was likely to change. Horses feared fire.

  Servants loomed out of the smoke, heaving pails of water. ‘Which way, General?’

  Pulling Hermes aside to avoid running them down, Nikolaos gestured behind him. ‘The back of the Imperial stand is alight. Form a chain.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ The servants plunged into the smoke.

  Nikolaos urged Hermes on. There were hoofbeats ahead, he was gaining. Instinct told him they had almost reached the Palace Gate.

  Stray thoughts intruded, interfering with his focus. The baby had to be Theodora’s! It would explain so much. Theodora was not a threat to the Empire—she had been hiding an illegitimate child. Several incidents shot through his mind—at the time they had not made sense, now they did. The image of Theodora sitting on the bench in Katerina’s garden was clearest of all. Theodora had looked so at peace in that courtyard. She had been holding the child so lovingly but had almost jumped out of her skin when she had noticed him. A horrified reaction that had led him to fear that she misliked him. His spirits rose. That might not be the case. Theodora was terrified that I would discover her secret, she was afraid I would reject her child.

  Then there had been that coral teething-ring in their bedchamber. A gift for Katerina’s baby, she had said. A gift for her own baby, more like. Theodora has a child, an illegitimate child.

  Nikolaos did not care that the child was illegitimate—who was he to cavil at that? Rather, he was determined to remove any obstacle that might come between them. I want Theodora’s goodwill. I want our marriage to be based on truth. It was a fierce desire and, until this moment, he had do
ubted he was going to achieve it—Theodora’s evasiveness had not boded well. Thankfully, her reaction at the polo ground explained everything. At last he had the truth. He would save her child, he would prove worthy of her trust, and in time Theodora must see that he was as deserving of her love as Prince Peter had been.

  I want her love. I love her. God help me, I love her. Nikolaos had not expected to find love in his marriage, love complicated everything. He felt relief—Theodora was no threat to the Empire; he felt anxiety—the infant must be saved; oddly he felt no surprise. However, this was no time for analysis.

  The smoke was thinning. The rump of the grey horse came into focus first, then the arch of the gate. Startled sentries looked his way.

  ‘Stop that man!’ Nikolaos cried. The sentries braced their spears.

  Hoofs struck sparks as the grey shuddered to a standstill. The rider turned; one arm lifted as he held aloft a squirming bundle in a wine-coloured shawl. A tiny hand clutched the air.

  Nikolaos saw the cold glitter of steel and his stomach cramped. The devil, to threaten a baby. He must be one of Prince Djuradj’s men—Theodora had mentioned a name. Boda. Boda.

  The guards formed a barricade under the arch, their spears formed a fan. The grey side-stepped; Boda was controlling it with his knees, making stabbing motions at the child. The threat was clear—he would kill the baby to ensure his escape.

  Nikolaos gritted his teeth, almost floored by the cowardice that would lead a man to use an infant as a shield. He made a chopping motion with his hand. ‘Guards, stand aside!’ The fan of spears lifted as sentries scrambled out of the way. The man on the grey lowered his arms, looped the ends of the shawl around his pommel and gave his horse its head. The animal leaped forward, clattering into the city with a wine-coloured bundle swinging precariously from the saddle.

  Nikolaos was halfway through the gate when he heard more hoofbeats.

  ‘Niko!’ Theodora materialised through the smoke. She was astride one of the spare horses and was charging at the gate like a Fury, hair flying.

  Focus, Niko. The grey was careering round a corner, entering the Augustaion.

  ‘Sergeant!’ Niko yelled. ‘Send for Captain Markos.’ Markos might already be following, but reinforcements would be needed. He dug in his heels and shot after the grey. Moments later, he was on its tail in the square.

  Sunlight bounced off Boda’s steel helmet. The wine-coloured bundle bounced at the horse’s shoulder, a baby’s wail cut off sharply. Was it a girl? A boy? It was irrelevant—all that mattered was that the child must be saved. Nikolaos thundered on at a teeth-rattling gallop. Into one alley, down another. Through a market where astonished citizens dived this way and that like a shoal of fish before sharks. A stall tottered, a pile of clay cooking pots wobbled and crashed on to the paving.

  Theodora galloped after him. Nikolaos spurred Hermes on, he would save her child. The poor mite was being jounced about with reckless disregard for its welfare. Why should Prince Djuradj go out of his way to snatch Prince Peter’s illegitimate child? The illegitimate child of a prince had little political value. The chilling thought would not leave him. Boda is only hanging on to the child for protection. I must take great care, one false step and the child is dead.

  Boda was quite the rider, urging the grey on, not sparing the whip. Bowing low over the saddle, Nikolaos refused to contemplate losing Theodora’s baby. When a thin, terrified cry reached him, he felt as though a cold spear had turned in his guts.

  Was Boda intending to kill the child? Had that been the plan from the beginning? Why kill an innocent child? Nikolaos was grappling with one chilling thought after another, none of them made sense. Ransom was a possibility, but it beggared belief that Župan Djuradj would send a man to Constantinople to kidnap a baby. Besides, if Boda wanted to ransom the child, if he wanted coin for its safe return, he would surely consider the child’s welfare. Dead children won no ransoms. No, the child was never intended to be ransomed; it was in the hands of a murderer.

  Think, Niko, think. Boda has an escape route planned—where is he going? The layout of the City was as clear as a map in his mind. They had pounded down the length of a street to the east of the Mese and were approaching

  Valens Aqueduct...

  The aqueduct!

  Clever. Nikolaos felt a sense of grudging respect. The aqueduct brought fresh water into Constantinople; to all intents and purposes it was a man-made river, a waterway carried by row on row of tall Roman arches. For those with a head for heights, steps led up to the flowing channel at the top. He plans to abandon the horse and escape over our heads. He will come down wherever he thinks it safest. Clever.

  * * *

  In front of Theodora, Nikolaos was riding fast as the wind, his horse had wings. Twice, she almost lost him. When Theodora lost sight of him a third time, sheer desperation drove her on.

  The aqueduct lay ahead, past a grove of cypress trees and myrtle bushes. Theodora’s lungs burned, her heart thudded. Spots were dancing in front of her eyes, she blinked in a vain effort to clear them. Both Nikolaos and Boda had vanished.

  The aqueduct towered over her, tier upon tier of arches, diminishing as they ran into the distance. Drawing rein, Theodora took great gulps of air and shielded her eyes against the sinking sun. Where are they? I cannot have lost them, I cannot!

  The aqueduct cast a dark, distorted shadow on to the street. A child was sitting on the steps of a tenement house, a dog was gnawing on a bone in the gutter. A horse whinnied.

  The grey! It was trotting past the cypresses, reins trailing. Two boys, arms outstretched, were herding it towards a third boy, hoping to catch it. She saw no sign of Nikolaos or his horse.

  ‘Where’s the rider?’ she asked.

  The boys stared.

  ‘Man in a helmet, where did he go?’

  The larger of the boys pointed towards the aqueduct. ‘Up there—they went up the steps.’

  They?

  Skin icing over, Theodora tipped her head back and looked up. Boda had reached the halfway mark, a wine-coloured bundle dangled from one hand. Nikolaos was not far behind him.

  Boda turned and gave the bundle a careless wave. ‘Take care, General. I might lose my grip.’

  Theodora felt faint. Black mist swirled at the edge of her vision, the world had narrowed down to the wine-coloured shawl that contained her baby.

  ‘Martina!’ She did not realise that she had cried out until Boda’s gaze shifted in her direction. Then she could only watch in horror as he opened his hand and released the bundle.

  * * *

  He’s dropped the baby!

  Theodora’s child seemed to fall for ever. The shawl was unravelling, the world was unravelling. It wasn’t Nikolaos thinking these thoughts, he couldn’t be, he was too busy preparing to hurl himself off the steps and into the air, wishing he had wings, wishing he could catch Theodora’s child and place it safely in her arms.

  Like a madman, he leaped sideways, snatched at the bundle and folded himself about it. Trees rushed to meet him.

  Icarus, he thought, as he fell. He, too, was a fool. Then everything exploded and went black.

  * * *

  Nikolaos lay curled on the ground on his side, the myrtle bush that had broken his fall crushed flat beneath him. He did not move. Frozen by a numbing mixture of dread and shock, Theodora could only stare as his helmet rolled in an arc across the ground, coming to a stop at the foot of another myrtle. The neck strap had snapped.

  Martina’s whimper broke the spell. Clumsy with fear, Theodora scrambled off the horse.

  He caught her! He saved her!

  Snatching Martina out of his arms, feverishly pushing the shawl aside, Theodora checked her, feeling every limb. No broken bones. Save for some minor scratches on her forehead and cheek, her daughter seemed miraculously unharmed. Yelling her head off, as usual.

  Ignoring Martina’s fury, Theodora laid her gently on the ground.

  ‘Nikolaos?’ Lightly, she touched
his chest and prayed for a second miracle. He was breathing, thank God, and his colour was blessedly normal. ‘Nikolaos?’

  He did not look as though he had broken anything. Those strong limbs lay naturally, they were not bent at sickening angles. To be certain, she ran her hands over his arms and legs. Nothing seemed out of place. Another miracle. She breathed again. God be praised.

  ‘Nikolaos?’

  He coughed and groaned. Dark eyelashes lifted. ‘The baby?’

  ‘Safe.’ Her eyes burned, blindly she found his hand and kissed it. ‘Thank you, thank you!’

  With a grunt, he shifted. The myrtle rustled as he rolled off it.

  ‘Niko, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. The gambeson saved me.’

  ‘And that poor myrtle.’

  ‘Yes.’ He coughed and flinched, rubbing the side of his chest. ‘Might have bruised a rib or two.’ He gave her an abstracted smile and squinted up at the top of the aqueduct. Boda had gone. ‘Take the child back to the apartment. I’ll see you later.’

  And then, to Theodora’s astonishment, he sprinted to the steps at the bottom of the aqueduct and began to climb.

  ‘Niko, your ribs! Be careful.’

  ‘Later.’

  * * *

  In the reception chamber in the Boukoleon Palace, reflections from the wall lamps flickered on the polished marble floor, and the purple curtains wafted softly in the evening breeze. Theodora had taken a seat close to the gentle heat of the brazier and Martina was snug in her arms, sucking her thumb. As Theodora stroked her daughter’s cheek, the fringe of her shawl stirred and her bracelets jingled. Jelena was humming in the small bedchamber, where she was unpacking the cradle and rearranging Martina’s linens.

  Martina had emerged unscathed from her afternoon’s adventure—well, almost unscathed. Courtesy of the myrtle bush, there were those scratches. Gently, Theodora touched the thin line on her daughter’s forehead. She had anointed the scratches with salve, they would fade. Martina gurgled and waved her hand.