Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (31 page)

Catching herself, she began to straighten, then halted. A man knelt a short distance before her, his hands bound and outstretched in front of him upon a wooden block. Officials waited to the side, one presently signaling to someone who stood beyond her edge of vision.

All warmth drained from Ailinn’s face as a hooded axman stepped forward, spit to one side, then marking the man’s wrists, drew the blade up and sliced through the air, sweeping it down.

Ailinn screamed, the crowd roared, and the blade whirred home.

Ailinn swung around and battled with all her might through the wall of people. Driving and shoving and pushing her way through, she gained the outer perimeter of the crowd many long minutes later.

Nauseated, she broke into a run and headed toward the exit on the south side of the forum, where it rejoined the
Mesê. Escaping the forum, she spun around and threw her back up against its outer wall, bracing herself for support and heaving for breath. She could not dispel the sight of the man from her mind.

Ailinn remained panting several minutes longer. She became aware of a supplicating voice nearby. Dragging open her eyes, she found a beggar without eyes. Ailinn pressed away from the wall. More Byzantine justice? she wondered, distraught.

Composing her ragged nerves, Ailinn set out again on the Mesê. As the poundings of her heart began to slow, she realized, by the stalls and displays along the arcade, that she had entered the section of the goldmiths and silversmiths, the gem crafters and jewelers. But ‘twas not the finery they offered that captured her attention, but the men bent over the workbenches — iron bands around their neck, some with chains on their ankles. Slaves.

Ailinn
’s heart sank, the days of her own enslavement haunting her.

Progressing on, she came to another gathering, blocking a portion of the street directly ahead of her. Ailinn possessed no desire to see what fascinated the crowd, her curiosity slain. She began to skirt the body, but the spectators parted before she could draw her gaze away. At the center of their interest was a shaggy brown bear.

Ailinn viewed the animal from its back. At first the sight amazed her, for the bear stood upraised, shuffling on its hind legs for the crowd’s amusement. But as it turned, she saw the chain attached to a ring in its nose. The sight saddened Ailinn for the poor creature. Her thoughts went to Lyting, and she believed he would be saddened, also.

Lyting. She must find him.

She glanced briefly back along the boulevard and discovered that the aqueduct was no longer visible, the forum obstructing it from view. But she refused to enter it again without Lyting, and certainly not while public punishments were being meted out. Looking south again, to the far distance, she thought to see the end of the Mesê, marked by a gigantic bronze statue of a man on horseback. The Sacred Palace must lie beyond it, she reasoned.

With her new goal in sight, Ailinn set forth, ever searching the crowd for Lyting. Halfway down the avenue, she began to notice women,
their faces heavily painted with lip tints and eye darkener, and carrying stools. When she saw how they approached the men in the street, she realized they were prostitutes.

The clatter of wheels alerted Ailinn of a carriage. Tearing her gaze from the women, she stepped without looking from the street, directly into the sizable stomach of a man, standing just outside the arches. His hands caught her instantly and held her as he helped her regain her balance. Ailinn voiced her thanks, suddenly enveloped by an exotic, woody scent.

Lifting her gaze, she found the man to be like another she had seen earlier, his ebony beard and hair carefully curled and glistening with perfumed oil. He wore a black robe which parted over his protruding belly, showing a bright red sash.

He continued to hold her in his grasp, his dark eyes moving over her as he addressed her in his native tongue. Questions, she thought. Perhaps he only asked whether she was all right, or the whereabouts of her escort.

Ailinn relaxed somewhat when he released her. He remained courteous, smiling, evidently offering his aid. She sought to assure him she was all right and began to back away, but he caught her by the arm once more, then upheld a jeweled finger as though asking her to wait a moment.

Turning, he beckoned to another man, a servant, who stood before one of the stalls, collecting a parcel. The servant hastened to his master
’s side and held forth the bundle.

Ailinn watched as the man opened the cloth wrappings and drew out a stunning necklace of emeralds set in gold. He faced her and held the piece outstretched, against her hair, then nodded with great satisfaction. Lowering the necklace, he laid it across the base of her throat and left it there.

Astonished, Ailinn caught the piece before the precious jewels dropped to the ground. The man’s hand moved to touch her hair, captivated by its color, then came to rest on her shoulder. He spoke again, his voice honey-smooth, the beam burning in his eyes all too familiar.

Ailinn
’s throat turned to dust. Frantic, she twisted to scan the crowds for Lyting. The man’s grip tightened on her shoulder, and he snapped his fingers to a litter waiting nearby. Without delay the driver brought it forth, and the servant scuttled to bring out a cushioned stool and set it on the ground to aid his master’s climb.

Realizing the man
’s intent, Ailinn thrust the precious necklace back into his hands and shoved his hand from her shoulder.

Surprise, then anger,
flushed the man’s features as she rejected his generosity. Gripping her by the upper arm, he dragged her toward the litter. Ailinn fought his hold, striking out at his chest and demanding he release her. Her actions only angered him more.

Seizing her by the wrist, he twisted it
roughly and forced her onto the stool. Ailinn cried out, pain shooting through her arm. She tried to jerk free but managed only to step off the stool again. The man then barked orders to his servant, who promptly came forward to assist him.

Desperate, Ailinn screamed and kicked
out as they lifted her from her feet. Did no one hear? The people in the street merely looked on, but no one attempted to aid her. Did they think her to be one of the prostitutes and, therefore, unworthy of protection or without rights?

Ailinn felt suddenly weightless as the two men tossed her into the litter. She sprawled gracelessly onto the cushion-lined bench there. Shoving upward, she scrambled for the side, but the man climbed in after her and flung her back down onto the cushions.

In a pitch of emotion he snapped out orders. The driver cracked his small whip at the mules while the servant hastened ahead, clearing a path before them with a gilded stick.

As the litter lurched forward, the man turned to Ailinn and spread the necklace of emeralds across her neck. His lips spread with a smile, his teeth gleaming.
‘Twas as though he envisioned her in naught but the jewels.

Growling his approval, his hand moved to her thigh.

Koll was dead. The fifth of the “Dragons” had been removed from around the throne.

Lyting hardened his jaw as he left the palace grounds in the company of Thord, an officer of the Guard, and a troop of a half dozen Varangians.

Rurik had been right. The missive from Dyrrachium was a trick to lure him back. Now, only he remained of the original six. ‘Twas Rurik who had been the central figure, the key person, in foiling the plot against the emperor, Leo Sophos, the one the “spider” would want to entrap above all.

Lyting knew he must gain the Imperial ear and quickly. He
would need to couple the information Rurik had shared with him with what Koll might have imparted to the empress.

Following the enclosure wall that surrounded the palace, they entered the Augustaeum, the large public square that lay before the Sacred Palace. The Hagia Sophia rose off to his right,
massive in size. To his left, stood the famed Hippodrome. Lyting and the Varangians traversed the square, then proceeded past an enormous equestrian statue of the emperor, Justinian, and moved onto the Mesê.

Lyting began to ask Thord of Koll when a commotion down the street caught his eye
— two men struggling with a woman, her dark red hair swirling about her.

Lyting
’s heart slammed against his ribs as his focus sharpened on a thickset Syrian and his scrawny servant forcing Ailinn into a waiting litter.

Lyting grabbed for his sword but found naught but an empty scabbard. Breaking into a run, he shouted back for Thord and the others to follow and raced down the
Mesê.

»«

Panic seized Ailinn as her abductor’s fleshy hand slid farther up her thigh, desire shimmering in his eyes.

Snatching the emerald necklace from her throat, she hurled it at him, then spat on him fully so he could not misinterpret her rejection of him.

The man crimsoned, rage firing his features. With a snarl and a curse, he drew up his hand to strike. Ailinn braced herself for the coming blow.

As he began to swipe downward, his
fierce mien flooded with surprise. His eyes widened then bulged as he strained against an unseen force. Still, his hand remained rigidly locked in place. In the same moment the litter jarred to a halt.

Ailinn
’s gaze flew past the man. She gasped a quick breath, her pulse leaping wildly, for there stood Lyting, trammeling the man’s wrist and slicing him straight through with eyes of ice.

“
You are in possession of something that is mine,” Lyting growled in imperfect Greek.

“
Be away with you, the woman is mine for this night and quite possibly many more,” the Syrian barked, not about to surrender his prize. But his eyes widened further as they lodged on the seven hulking Varangians that surrounded his litter, their fearsome, double-headed axes rising above their heads.

Thord
angled his blade, the sun’s light kissing its edge with a smile as he set it against the Syrian’s neck.

“
Do as he says,” Thord warned.

Infuriated but outflanked, the Syrian could do naught but sit powerless while
Lyting reached into the litter and claimed Ailinn from the man’s side.

As he lifted her to the ground, Ailinn
wound her arms about him, hugging him close as he anchored her to his side.

“
I will not soon forget this incident, Norseman,” the Syrian snarled. “Nor will I forget
you
.”

With that, the Syrian bellowed to his driver and servant. The litter lurched forward and rumbled down the stone paved avenue of the
Mesê.

Lyting
’s blood simmered as Ailinn recounted all that had befallen her since he left her in the company of Arnór and his family.

He had miscalculated where the women were concerned, and that made him doubly mad with himself. Their jealousies had been plain. He should have foreseen the deceit. Lyting determined not to spend another night in their company. He would not subject Ailinn to any more of the women
’s connivances.

“
What is it, my friend?” Thord asked of a sudden, seeing Lyting’s scowl.

“
We will need lodging for the night. The convoy is to be housed outside the city, but I have no desire to stay there.” Lyting related an abbreviated version of what had happened.

Thord appeared sympathetic.
“Can’t say that I blame the Syrian, though,” he jested. “The woman is a rare beauty. Is she your mistress or your
kona
?”

Lyting marked how the interest of the other Varangians drifted continuously to Ailinn.

“She is my
kona
,” he declared flatly, so there would be no doubt in any of their minds.

“
You are a fortunate man,” Thord said buoyantly. “I insist you come with me and stay the night at the house of Melane. She is a special friend of mine and will be honored to have you both. She is also one of the wealthiest women in the city. I think that you will find the accommodations she can provide are more than comfortable.”

From the warmth and tone of Thord
’s voice, Lyting suspected Melane to be his mistress.

“
On the morrow,” Thord continued, “I will accompany you to the palace and help you make the contact you seek. I, too, will stay at Melane’s, and we can talk into the night of Koll, Askel, and the others, if you desire. I knew them well, and much has happened since your brother’s departure.”

Finding Thord
’s offer agreeable, Lyting apprised Ailinn that they would remain within the city. The Varangian would serve as their “official” guard should the Byzantines require it.

She walked quietly at his side. Too quietly.

“Are you all right,
elskan mín
?”

“
I am now that you are here.” She smiled up at him, placing her hand on his arm.

They walked southward, back toward the statue of Justinian, following Thord. He directed Lyting and Ailinn to one of the side streets, pausing to speak with his comrades. Minutes later Thord rejoined them while the others headed for the Augustaeum and the Sacred Palace.

The afternoon grew late as they passed along the streets and through shrubbed courtyards with fountains and statuary. Dark-haired children laughed as they ran past, rolling wheel-like hoops with sticks, and vendors cried their wares.

The house of Melane, like many they had seen before, was two-storied, its exterior almost stark, except faced with marble so highly polished it reflected the street and the sky. A row of jewel-like windows smiled from above.

Thord rapped at the door with his knuckles — a distinctive tune. Brief moments later the door drew open to reveal a small but lovely woman, Melane.

Swathed in vivid reds and gold, she stood no taller than Ailinn
’s chin. Her honey-blond hair was swept up and fashioned into an elaborate coil studded with gems. Her frothy veil, affixed to the back of her head, spilled to the floor, where silk slippers peeked from beneath her gown.

As Thord presented Lyting and Ailinn and explained their needs, Melane
’s striking green eyes encompassed them.

She smiled warmly.
“Ipodhohi. Embros.”

“
She says ‘welcome’ and ‘come in.’ ”  Thord grinned and motioned for them to enter.

Lyting and Ailinn followed Melane into the central hall, a spacious area filled with light. Marble columns rose to an airy height, supporting the upper level, while at the back the entire wall opened onto a courtyard.

Ailinn marveled at the murals that covered the walls, realistic paintings of idyllic landscapes. On second glance she realized they contained small figures — a creature half-man, half-horse playing a lyre; a bearded man crowned with grapevines sipping wine; partially robed couples reclining, many a man fondling a woman’s breast. Ailinn’s brows flickered upward. She cast a glance about the hall.

Melane clapped her hands, sending several servants scurrying from their presence on a string of instructions. The women returned scant moments later bearing an embossed silver ewer and matching goblets.

“Melane tells me the other women who occupy the house are absent this evening, attending a private banquet. Except for the servants, we shall be alone.” Thord grinned roguishly, his hand moving to Melane’s hip, confirming Lyting’s earlier suspicions of their relationship.

As Ailinn accepted a goblet brimming with wine, one of the servants relieved her of her mantle.

“She will see it is cleaned,” Thord explained as the servant disappeared down a corridor.

Lyting paused his cup midway to his lips and took a long, appreciative look at Ailinn. He found himself swallowing. In the weeks since he had freed her, she had begun to regain some of the roundness she had lost on the journey, filling out in all the right places. Now the folds of her dress clung to all those right places.

Melane also drew an eye over Ailinn’s hair and clothes. She then gave the men a sharp assessment, her gaze lowering to their dusty boots and sandals. She spoke to Thord, bringing forth a good-natured laugh. He turned to Lyting.

“
Melane says we should take ourselves to the men’s baths. She insists, none too delicately, that we are sorely in need of the visit!”

Lyting rubbed his beard and then looked down at his garments and boots. He grinned.
“I think she is right, and I would certainly enjoy the luxury.”

“
Come, my friend.” Thord stepped toward the door. “Melane will see to Ailinn’s needs and prepare your room. You should enjoy the experience of a Roman-style bath. There is nothing to compare — cool and heated pools, saunas. Even the floors are warmed from beneath. If you like, you can even have a massage.” Thord’s smile widened.

Lyting turned and explained his departure to Ailinn.
“I will be gone only a short time. Melane will see that you are freshened and comfortable. We will stay here tonight.”

He traced the side of her face with his forefinger, hating to leave her, then turned and departed with Thord.

»«

Ailinn stepped from the scented bathwaters, feeling wondrously restored. The servants attending her quickly toweled her dry, directed her to a marble bench, and rubbed precious oils into her skin. Enveloping her in linens, they led her to a room at the back of the first floor.

The room proved tiny but stunningly beautiful. Sumptuous fabrics draped the walls and covered the bed, which consumed most of the room. An elegant table and cushioned chair sat to one side, both of ivory and encrusted with mother-of-pearl. Silver lamps glowed softly about the room.

Such decadent luxury, Ailinn sighed, to have such a room all to herself. A realization tripped on the heels of that thought and struck her solidly. Undoubtedly, the room was meant for both her and Lyting to share.

Before her eyes, the room began to shrink.

Melane appeared, smiling and gesturing for Ailinn to sit on the chair. Two servants followed, one laying clothing on the bed, and the other bringing a mirror, comb, and fine silk cording twined with strands of little pearls.

Melane chattered to Ailinn in Greek as she began to work with her hair, sweeping the sides from her face and catching it atop her head. Ailinn listened without comprehension, enjoying the ministrations as Melane wove her tresses with silk and pearls.

Drawing up the remainder of Ailinn
’s long locks, Melane encircled the base of their thickness with the garnished braid, creating a small crown to secure it in place, but allowing the wealth of Ailinn’s hair to cascade back down her neck and shoulders.

Melane held up the hand mirror for Ailinn
’s approval, then motioned to the servants, who quickly dispossessed Ailinn of her linen toweling. They returned, each holding matching panels of fabric — diaphanous clouds of silk.

As they moved to stand, one before Ailinn and the other behind, Melane joined them and fastened the cloth at each shoulder with identical jeweled pins. She left the neck opening wide enough so that it bared Ailinn
’s shoulders. Melane next girdled the fabric at Ailinn’s waist with a thin belt of gold, arranging misty folds so that they covered Ailinn’s hips but separated partway down her thigh, allowing a glimpse of bare leg.

Melane and the servants stepped back nodding and smiling over their handiwork. Ailinn
’s concerns, however, grew as she viewed herself through the transparency. ‘Twas a gown meant for seduction. Obviously, Melane believed she was Lyting’s lover and prepared her for his pleasure.

Ailinn desperately hoped the women would provide her with a more concealing robe. Instead, Melane set out a pair of embroidered slippers and began to leave. Another servant appeared momentarily with the cleaned mantle and lay it on the end of the bed.

As the women withdrew, Ailinn’s thoughts skipped ahead to Lyting’s return, then back to the dimensions of the room. She moved to take up her cloak. ‘Twas going to be a long night.