The Pagan's Prize by Miriam Minger

frustrated tears, Zora spouted without
thinking, "You loutish pagan! I'll not stop trying to escape until I'm
free of you—" Too late, she clamped her mouth shut, but she knew the
damage was done when he hauled her roughly to her feet and half dragged her
back into the bedchamber.
    "Here's some rope, my lord," Arne announced
behind them when she was thrown unceremoniously onto the bed. As she lay
facedown upon the furs, her arms were forced behind her and her wrists securely
tied. Then she was flipped over as if she weighed nothing at all. Tears blinded
her eyes as Rurik bound her ankles together.
    "I didn't want to have to do this, wench, but you've
forced my hand," he said tightly, his expression hard. To complete her
humiliation, he tore a length of fabric from the hem of her tunic and used it
to gag her. "Nor can I have you shouting for help. Someone outside might
hear you."
    Then he and Arne were gone, leaving her lying upon the
bed like a trussed bird. They had tricked her. As hot tears tumbled down her
flushed face, she heard Rurik slam the outer door and she silently heaped every
curse she knew upon his head . . . which in truth weren't very many and hardly
enough to do his crimes justice.
    It was some comfort to imagine the day of his
execution. A hanging? No, too kind. An arrow through the heart? No, too swift.
A tumble into a pit filled with wild dogs? Yes, now that would suit him! She
only hoped her father would allow her to give the signal that would bring about
his much-deserved death.
    Rurik strode through the crowded market, an odd
tenseness dogging him.
    He knew he had been too rough on the wench, but she had
pushed him. It had been clear from the mutinous expression in those lovely blue
eyes that she planned to escape. After all, she'd tried last night. It was
necessary to leave Arne there to watch her.
    Foolish little spitfire! She had looked almost comical
sitting there on her bottom, her mouth agape in surprise until her chin had
jutted at him defiantly, yet laughter had been the last thing on his mind. He
should have known she wouldn't cooperate.
    That Slav merchant Gleb had been right about the wench.
She was nothing but trouble! She didn't have a docile bone in her body. Instead
she was the most spoiled, disobedient, insolent, and excessively imperious
concubine he had ever seen. If one of his women even dared to go so far, he
would break her of her bad habits soon enough. Even Semirah, his passionate
desert beauty, knew when to silence her tongue.
    Lord Ivan was welcome to this woman, Rurik thought
irritably. Such impudent wenches served only to ruin a man's existence, and if
there was one thing he demanded in his home, it was harmony. To think that he
had momentarily believed he wanted to keep her . . .
    Cursing his folly, Rurik shifted the bundle of furs
upon his shoulder and scanned the variety of colorful stalls for the scribners'
section of the market.
    He needed to buy paper, pen, and ink to write his
message to Lord Ivan. He planned to arrange a secret meeting to discuss his
demands, allowing the boyar the knowledge that to thwart him would mean Ilka's
death. It was a dangerous scheme, but carefully weighed, and Rurik thrived upon
taking such risks. If not, he would never have achieved his esteemed status
under Yaroslav, and would still be a lowly member of the grand prince's junior druzhina .
    Spying at last a stall displaying a wide array of
quills, Rurik made his way through a noisy, bustling throng of merchants and
eager buyers. The air was filled with spirited haggling in a dozen languages
and when he reached the stall, he found the scribe engaged in a heated debate
with a foreign customer over the price of some pens.
    Impatiently awaiting his turn, Rurik leaned against the
booth. His gaze swept a busy market scene that was no different from a hundred
others . . . save for the large number of guards who moved through the crowd.
At first he wasn't troubled by their presence. Chernigov was a