Kassandra leaned away from the window, settling on her haunches. She smiled, recalling the feeling of the wind in her hair that afternoon, her face lifted to the warm sun. She had closed her eyes, for a moment nursing the illusion that she was free, free of Frederick, free of the boat and its leering crew, free of what lay ahead for her, free of everything. But her reverie had been shattered at the sound of Frederick's hated voice, telling her it was time to return to her cabin.
Kassandra shifted her legs and settled into the corner, drawing her knees up under her chin and arranging her plain cotton gown about her slippered feet. She rested her forehead on her arms, Frederick's words coming back to haunt her like unbidden ghosts.
They were never far from her mind. She had gone over and over them, analyzing, debating, wondering, hoping to gain some spark of insight into her predicament. Frederick had said little else to her since that first day, only inquiring after her health, so she had no new information to go on. It seemed he purposefully avoided her, except for escorting her to and from the deck, which was fine with her. She wanted as little to do with him as possible.
She knew now they were traveling south along the Danube, passing through Hungary. Simple geography had told her that. As to their destination, she still had no clue. She had also decided the strange series of accidents that had plagued her in Vienna must somehow have been related. She could not forget the image of the dwarf's face, staring out at her from the carriage, and the blurred visage looking down at her after she fell from her mare. Were they one and same? Yet when she tried to imagine who might be at the center of this plot, she always drew a blank, the same questions tormenting her. Who could hate her so that they would wish her dead? Who?
She had wracked her mind anxiously, sorting through every memory for any slight she might have committed, any inadvertent insult. But there were none. Her lips drew into a faint smile. The only person she had insulted time and again was Stefan. And to reward her, he had given her his love!
"Stefan . . ." she murmured, closing her eyes tightly, conjuring a vision of him in her mind. She shivered, remembering his touch, his kiss, the stirring sensation of his piercing eyes upon her, his rugged features, his body so gloriously male . . . Sweet Lord, she could not bear the thought that she might never see him again.
"If only I could escape," she murmured, lifting her head. But her door was constantly locked, the window totally impenetrable. Frederick had taken the precaution of boarding it up still further on the outside, in case she might manage to break through the slats. And whenever she was escorted from the cabin to the deck, she not only had him by her side, but two sailors as well, one posted in front of her and one following behind. She had no more chance of escape than a nightingale in a cage.
Kassandra grimaced. Her only other recourse, her plan to make her captivity as difficult as possible for him, had gone awry on the second day. She had refused her meals, railing and cursing at whoever entered her room to deliver them, on one occasion even dumping the disgusting contents of her bowl on the sailor's head.
Her belligerent behavior had brought Frederick's wrath down upon her more quickly than she had imagined. He had threatened to suspend her meals entirely for several days, which hardly caused her to blink, but then warned her he would tie her hands and feet to her bed for the duration of the journey, to lie in her own filth if need be, if she did not curb her actions at once. His threat had been so coldly uttered, she did not doubt for a moment he would act on his word. She had immediately relented rather than face such degrading humiliation.
A key suddenly grated in the lock, startling her. She slid to the edge of the mattress and leaned against the window, as far away from the door as she could possibly be within the confines of her cabin. She held her breath as the scrawny sailor she had nicknamed Jack stepped through the door, bearing her supper tray. He nodded to her, throwing her his usual crooked grin that reminded her more of a grimace, then turned his back to her while he set the tray on top of the armoire.
Kassandra's gaze darted to the open doorway, the key still in the lock and no other guards in sight. Seizing the unexpected opportunity, she sprang from the bed and rushed to the door, slamming it shut behind her and turning the key. She barely heard the sailor's startled cries of alarm as she raced down the empty hallway, blood pounding in her ears, and up the wooden stairs leading to the deck.
Darkness had fallen. The deck was lit by oil lanterns set here and there. Several sailors were standing nearby, engrossed in low conversation, their backs to her, and she held her breath as she crept stealthily to the side of the boat. She knew it would be only a matter of moments before Jack's disappearance would arouse suspicion, if his howls for help hadn't already.
She ducked her head, dodging rigging, and jumped over coiled ropes and piles of netting as she made her way quickly to the stern. All the while her lips moved in fervent prayer, hoping against hope she had not been seen. She was almost to the stern when she heard her name called out, Frederick's commanding voice carrying over the water.
Kassandra's heart skipped, but she paid him no heed, hoisting herself up on the railing and swinging her legs over the side. She hesitated for an instant, staring down into the black river. She knew it would be a long swim, but she had to chance it. The alternative was too frightening to contemplate.
"Before you jump, Kassandra, you might consider what you'll find upon reaching the shore. We are passing the homeland of the Tartars, have been all day."
Kassandra froze at Frederick's words. Tartars! She had heard stories of these wild tribesmen from Stefan. They fought alongside the Turks and were known for their ferocity and cruel bloodlust, rumored even to feast on raw horsemeat. She gripped the railing, indecision wracking her.
Frederick inched closer. "If you manage to reach the shore, Kassandra, without drowning from the undertow for which this river is legendary, let me tell you what will happen to you," he murmured quietly, not taking his eyes from her. "You may manage to evade them for a day, maybe longer, but eventually they will find you. They ride like centaurs, hardly a match for a young woman struggling through unknown terrain on foot."
His voice grew to just above a whisper. "And when they find you, Kassandra, despite your rare beauty, every man of that particular band will rape you, to sample the wares for which he will bid. If you survive such handling by ten or fifteen strong men, they will cast lots to possess you. You will become a slave, Kassandra, to be brutalized at whim, worked or ridden to death before you see the year's end." He stopped just a few feet from her, sensing her fright and uncertainty, a palpable presence between them. "Jump . . . if you dare."
Kassandra's blood froze in her veins at his taunt, and she quickly made up her mind. Bastard. She would take the risk! Nothing could be worse than the fate he most likely planned for her! She closed her eyes and pushed off from the railing, screaming painfully as Frederick caught her by the hair and one shoulder, hoisting her back up and over the side of the boat.
She struggled and kicked, tears blurring her eyes as she flailed at him, striking him furiously with her fists, but to no avail. He lifted her easily and threw her over his shoulder, ignoring her cries and curses as he carried her back along the deck and down the wooden ladder to the cabins below. He grunted in pain, one of her fists finding its mark along his ribs, but kept going, striding into her cabin and tossing her onto her bed. Then he kicked the door shut and whirled to face her, his fair features twisted in rage.
Fear swelled within her and she edged away from him until she could go no farther, her back up against the wall. He merely grabbed the hem of her skirt and dragged her toward him, catching her about her narrow waist. He brought her up against him so hard that the breath was wrenched from her body, and she gaped at him in stunned surprise.
"You have tried me sorely this night, Kassandra, he said, his ice-blue eyes searing into her widened gaze. "I tell you, I will not have it." Suddenly his mouth crushed down on hers, his tongue forcing entry b
etween her bruised lips. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast, his hands cruelly gripping her face.
Kassandra began choking, cries of protest caught in her throat. She writhed against him, his tongue filling her mouth, her body awash in fear and loathing. With all of her strength she brought up her hands and violently pulled his blond hair, then she raked her nails down his face.
Frederick sucked in his breath at the stinging sensation, tearing his lips away. He swiped his hand across his cheek, his eyes widening at the vivid blood staining his fingers. "Bitch!" he yelled, striking her across the jaw. She fell onto the bed with a moan, her head reeling from the shock of his blow. But she forced back the blackness that was threatening to overwhelm her and leaned up on her elbows, her breasts heaving against her bodice, her violet eyes ablaze.
"If you come near me again, Count Frederick, I swear I will kill myself," she whispered vehemently. "Then you will have nothing to show for your pains."
Frederick pretended he had not heard her threat. "For this, you will remain in this cabin until we reach Belgrade," he spat angrily. He turned abruptly, wiping his hand on his breeches, leaving bloody fingerprints, and stormed from the cabin. He ground the key into the lock with a vengeance.
Kassandra dropped back onto the bed, staring blindly at the planked ceiling and the lamp, swinging back and forth, back and forth. She could have cried, but she had already spent her tears. There was nothing inside her but a desolate emptiness, and one word searing into her mind.
Belgrade. So at last she had learned her destination. And she knew her fate was sealed. Belgrade was in the hands of the Turks. God only knew what Frederick was planning to do with her there.
Chapter 37
Belgrade, Serbia
Frederick's eyes narrowed as a gilt and painted carriage, covered with scarlet cloth fitted over a frame and harnessed to a matched set of silver-gray oxen, came to a halt along the teeming riverfront wharf, not far from where the fishing boat had docked only an hour before. The carriage was flanked by a motley group of twenty Janissary soldiers on foot, ten on each side, a tiny fraction of the large garrison assigned to protect the city. Yet they looked more like outlaws in their mismatched uniforms, the white cotton turbans on their heads the only item that distinguished them as members of the Sultan's elite corps of infantry soldiers.
And, indeed, they were outlaws. Renegades, protecting a distant military outpost far from the control of Sultan Achmet. Hasan had told him how they had murdered the last pasha of Belgrade, cutting him into small pieces with their scimitars for no reason other than that he restrained them from plundering the surrounding countryside.
Now Mustapha Pasha was general here, commanded by his own Janissaries. He had not dared to punish them for his predecessor's murder, for fear of his own life. On the contrary, he had applauded their action, showering them with gold and blessing their fierce raids into Hungary, where they raped and pillaged, burning everything in their destructive wake.
It was to this man, a ruthless coward, that Frederick was entrusting Kassandra's care and protection while he traveled on to meet the grand vizier.
Frederick shrugged. He had no choice but to leave her here in Belgrade. There was simply too much at stake to do otherwise. He could not have her slowing him down on his journey toward Constantinople, a journey that would be treacherous enough for him and his Janissary escort.
Frederick's lips thinned into a tight line. He only hoped Mustapha nursed a healthy fear of his powerful cousin, Halil, as well, and would think twice before touching Kassandra while she was in his safekeeping. He would have to make it very clear she was destined as a gift to the man who was second in command only to the Sultan himself . . . a man who could end his life, cousin or no, with the flick of his hand or a simple nod if Mustapha sampled what did not belong to him.
Frederick watched silently as the driver of the carriage and the accompanying servant jumped from their high seats to the ground. The driver flung open a corner of the rich cloth to reveal the silken interior, while the servant rushed along the length of the boat. When he spied Frederick standing near the prow he stopped abruptly, raising his voice as he bowed numerous times.
"His Grace, Mustapha Pasha, welcomes you to Belgrade, Count Althann." He bowed again, sweeping his arm toward the carriage. "Please, His Grace awaits you anxiously at the fortress."
Frederick's expression remained impassive as he bowed his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment of the well-dressed slave. He turned to the two sailors standing just behind him, and spoke to them in Serbo-Croatian, their native language.
"Fetch the woman. But first see that her hands are tied and she is blindfolded."
They nodded, ducking their heads as they clattered down the wooden steps into the hold. A few moments later they returned, a subdued Kassandra stumbling between them.
Frederick could not suppress a wry smile, noting they had also gagged her. He had not heard her this quiet since they left Vienna. But his smile quickly faded as he studied her more closely. This was the first time he had seen her since the night she had tried to escape.
Her cheeks were very pale, her hair unwashed and stringy, her cotton gown hopelessly wrinkled. He had held good to his threat, and she had spent the last week below deck, confined to her cabin. Obviously the lack of sunshine and fresh air had dampened her spirits, though it had done little to mar her beauty. She was as lovely as ever.
He had taken her impassioned oath to heart as well. It had shaken him deeply. Never before had a woman vowed to take her life if he so much as touched her. And that was one thing he did not want to have on his conscience. It was bad enough he couldn't sleep at night, thinking about the fate that soon would be hers. Yet it was not enough to sway him. He was as much of a coward as Mustapha, fearful of his own wretched life above all else . . .
Damn Sophia to hell! he raged, his fists clenching as he willed the disturbing thoughts from his mind. One day he would repay her for what he had been forced to do to this innocent girl!
"Take her to the carriage," he said gruffly, following the two sailors as they hurried down the plank and onto the wharf, carrying Kassandra between them.
Like a lamb to the slaughter, Frederick could not help thinking, climbing into the silken interior of the carriage and settling himself on the plush cushions piled upon the lacquered floor. He watched grimly as Kassandra was propped up beside him, then the scarlet curtain was closed.
But this lamb would know her fate, he decided suddenly, and who had so drastically altered the course of her life. At least he could give her that. Perhaps her hate for him, for Sophia, would give her courage to face what was to come.
The carriage jerked into motion, the sound of the Janissaries' boots striking up a measured cadence as they began the long ascent up the rocky hill to the massive fortress overlooking the city.
***
"Welcome, Count Althann," Mustapha Pasha exclaimed, clapping his pudgy hands, his gold rings, encrusted with precious jewels, glittering from every finger. "Your reputation of excellent service to Our Most Supreme Sovereign, the Sultan Achmet, precedes you."
His wide smile suddenly faded and he clucked his tongue in agitation. "Hasan Aziz was here only six days past, with such news, such news. The Imperialist dogs! He is well on his way to Constantinople by now, to alert the Sultan . . ." He paused, waving away the unsettling news as if he were swatting a pestering fly. "Ah, but we can talk of this later. You are most welcome."
He stepped closer, his slippered feet making no sound on the polished marble floor that shone like glass. "But who is this?" he asked softly, studying with veiled curiosity the gagged and blindfolded woman kneeling beside Frederick.
"She is a gift for His Grace, Halil Pasha, upon his arrival in Belgrade," Frederick replied pointedly, stressing the grand vizier's name. "I have brought her to you for safekeeping, until she may be presented to him. Her name is Kassandra."
"Ah . . ." Mustapha breathed, his hands forming a
triangle as he rested his index fingers on his broad lips. Frederick watched as he walked around both of them very slowly, his gown of purple silk stretching taut over his vast stomach and falling into swirling folds around his short legs, the ermine hem of his white pelisse brushing along the floor.
Kassandra started at the sound of her name. Once again she did not understand the language being spoken, but she knew it was Turkish. As she now knew Frederick was a spy for the Turks.
And that it was Archduchess Sophia von Starenberg who had brought such wretched injustice upon her . . .
She winced, shifting uncomfortably, her knees aching from the cold, hard floor. Yet she was grateful for the pain. It was the only thing that made her feel half-alive, the numbing shock of everything Frederick had told her during the carriage ride to the fortress becoming stark reality in her mind.
It had spilled from him like a flood, like a wild confession—Sophia discovering he was a spy through her dwarf, Adolph, who was probably the same little man she had seen at the theater, in the carriage, and after her fall; Sophia's demand that Kassandra be killed if Frederick wanted to preserve his secret; the drowning hoax; on and on. And now she knew her life had been spared for a fate perhaps crueler than death. She was to remain in Belgrade under constant guard until she was presented to the grand vizier as a slave for his harem!
Frederick had told her about everything, his cowardice, his greed, as if he believed she would never be able to use such knowledge against him. As if she were to disappear from the face of the earth. The only thing he hadn't told her was why Sophia had done this to her . . . why?
Stolen Splendor Page 28