The Pagan's Prize (6 page)

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." Rurik 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.

"Ali, 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!"

"I'm not keeping this wench for myself, Arne."

The warrior glanced at him in astonishment. "No?"

Shaking his head, Rurik felt keen regret.

"Come," he said, shrugging off the strange
feeling. "We will talk once we set sail. Kjell and Leif must also know my
plans."

Chapter 4

"So you think whoever owns this wench might be
willing to part with military information for her return?" Leif asked, his
hand firmly on the helm as he kept the thirty-foot riverboat straight upon its
course.

"There's a good chance of it." Rurik's gaze
shifted from the red-bearded Leif to Arne and then to the youngest warrior,
Kjell Thordarson. Each face, illuminated in the pale light of the waning moon,
was somber yet thoughtful, each man weighing for himself the decision Rurik had
already made. "Once she wakens, we'll find out the name of her master,
then when we reach Chernigov, we'll send a message to the man with our demands.
Either he gives us what we want, or his favorite concubine will disappear
forever."

"You don't mean to kill her!" came Kjell's
incredulous response. "I've never seen a prettier—"

"Are you going daft, man?" Arne interjected,
exasperated. "We're not blasted murderers!" Softening his tone, he
leaned over and elbowed the nineteen-year-old Varangian sharply in the ribs. "I'm
sure Lord Rurik will find some use for the wench if Mstislav's man doesn't want
her, never you fear."

Rurik made no comment, thinking as his gaze strayed
again to the makeshift tent they had erected near the mast that he would decide
that issue later. For now, he waited to see that first movement, or hear that
first moan, some sign that the woman was regaining her senses.

Other than some purplish bruises on her body, the worst
on her left cheek, she seemed whole. He had felt no broken bones. Yet an hour
into their journey her eyes still remained closed, her breathing slow as if she
was locked in deep slumber. Even when he had discarded the cloak in which she
had been wrapped and then exchanged her torn tunic for one of his own, the
garment engulfing her slender body, she had not stirred . . . although he could
not say as much for himself.

He had seen perfection in women before, but never a
form that seemed to tempt his very soul: honeyed limbs of delicate yet shapely proportion,
a trim waist so narrow and hips so beautifully curved that he ached to caress
them, a taut abdomen with the gentlest rounding, and ripe, upturned breasts he
defied the gods to describe. The swiftness of his arousal had stunned him, its
near painful intensity disgusting him. Was he no better than that swine Halfdan
Snakeeye to lust after an unconscious woman?

Covering her with a blanket, he had quickly left the
tent, but his lingering erection had been a powerful reminder that few had so
fired his blood. Thank Odin the work of setting sail had finally fixed his mind
on other matters.

"I've a demand to add to that message," said
Leif, drawing Rurik's attention back to his men. "Now that we know the
Severians have been swayed by Prince Mstislav's promises of sharing the spoils
of victory, we should ask this boyar how many other Slavic tribes have sworn
their allegiance to the usurper."

"None, I hope. Mstislav's armed strength is mighty
enough with the Khazar and Kosogian warriors he brought with him from
Tmutorokan. The bastard must be gloating to have wooed those Slays to his
banner." After a moment's grim silence, Rurik nodded at Leif. "Your
demand is a good one, especially since we cannot traverse the entire southern
realm and spy upon each tribe. Not if we're to be back in Novgorod by June,
three weeks hence."

As Arne leaned forward and rested his thick forearms on
his legs, the narrow rowing bench squeaked beneath his weight.

"Mstislav's battle plans might be in our grasp now
as well, my lord!" he said, his voice tinged with excitement. "That
would be a fine coup for Grand Prince Yaroslav, and all because some jealous
she-bitch hated the sight of her husband's concubine."

"My lord, look to the prow!" Leif cried
suddenly. "The wench has climbed onto the railing!"

"What . . . ?"

Rurik was on his feet in an instant. The damned wench
must have evaded them by crawling under the back of the tent. He raced to the
front of the boat, but he had barely ducked beneath the sail when he heard a
loud splash near the starboard side. Throwing off his fur mantle, he shouted, "Bring
the boat hard about!" then he vaulted over the railing, the frigid
ink-black water of the Desna River closing over his head.

He gasped as he resurfaced, the water's chill so
intense it had sapped the breath from his lungs. He looked around him, but he
did not immediately spy the woman. Thor help him, if she had gone under he
would never find her, not with these demon currents!

Clenching his teeth against the cold, Rurik swam with
long, powerful strokes into the boat's wake, his gaze cutting to the right and
left. Only then did he see two slim arms flailing wildly some twenty feet away,
and he swam as he never had before in his twenty-eight years.

It was not fast enough. When he drew within four
strokes of catching her, she went under, her hands eerily clawlike as she
disappeared beneath the waves.

"No, damn you . . . you will not have her!"
Rurik shouted, spitting water as he cursed the evil river spirits who were
dragging her down to her death.

Sucking in a great breath, he dived, his lungs aching
as he descended into the midnight depths and groped for an arm, a leg . . .
anything. His chest was ready to explode when he suddenly felt something curl
around his hand. He clutched at it, realizing he had caught her by the hair.

Rurik yanked the woman up until he held her beneath the
arms, then he kicked furiously to the surface, his chest on fire as they burst
above the waves. Dragging in huge lungfuls of air, he could not remember a time
when it had smelled or tasted so sweet.

"Leif! Arne! Over here!" he shouted hoarsely.
Relief flooded him as the woman suddenly coughed and sputtered in his arms, her
ragged gasps for breath assuring him that she was alive. Though she clung to
him limply, she began to kick her legs. He was astounded that she still had the
strength to swim.

"Let me go . . . must escape!" she gasped,
trying weakly to push away from him. "Halfdan . . . must escape . . ."

Rurik had no time to reply for the boat was coming
alongside them, the woman soon hauled aboard, followed by himself. As Arne
released him, he leaned heavily against the railing, fighting to catch his
breath.

"By the gods, Lord Rurik, you've turned my beard a
lighter shade of gray twice this day! When I saw you dive for the wench—"

"Surely you didn't think you'd seen the last of
me." Rurik wiped the moisture from his eyes and gave Arne a wry half
smile. "You were the one who taught me to swim, remember?"

"Aye, thank Odin, like a dolphin." The burly
warrior jerked his head toward Kjell, who stood in a widening puddle of water,
the dripping, exhausted woman in his arms. "Mayhap we should tie the wench
to the mast for the rest of the journey, what do you think? She's proving as
much trouble as she's worth."

"I'll take her," was Rurik's only reply, sobering
as Kjell brought the woman to him. By the light of an oil lamp set upon a
nearby rowing bench, he noted with concern that her face was ashen, her teeth
chattering, her lips and closed eyelids tinged with blue. If she wasn't warmed
and soon, they still might lose her . . . and their best chance to gain some
information.

"Set her down, but hold her so she doesn't fall,"
Rurik ordered. Without ceremony he drew the sodden tunic over her head and
threw it on the deck. Ignoring his men's sidelong glances, he lifted her into
his arms, grabbed the lamp, and strode with his nude charge to the tent,
ducking inside.