Chained to the Barbarian. Carol Townend
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block. Jesu, what has the world come to?
Grimly, William forced himself to take stock of his surroundings.
The auction block was a raised dais in the centre of a covered market that was packed with people. Stone pillars held up the roof. With something of a lurch, William realised why the torches had not been lit. It wasn’t twilight, far from it. Sunlight was streaming through Romanesque arches, bright shafts jabbed like hot knives into his brain. The darkness had been conjured by his exhausted mind, by his beaten body. The citizens of Constantinople were jostling each other, talking and laughing as they pressed up to the dais. They were narrowing their eyes as they stared at the children. At him. As William understood it, slavery was common here at the heart of the Empire.
This was the second time William had been put up on a slave block. He didn’t recall anything about the first time—then they had drugged him into oblivion, rather than beating him. Drugging had been most effective. William had known nothing until he had woken in chains to find that he, Sir William Bradfer, had been enslaved.
Fury at his fate, at the sheer injustice, had his guts writhing. I am a knight, I should not be here!
Resolutely, he set fury behind him, there would be time for fury tomorrow. Today, the girls needed him.
The black patches, the crows—William’s mind was fumbling over the distinction between reality and imaginings—were swooping towards a slash of sunlight as though they were attacking it. He blinked and the auction space swam back into focus. Columns. Two small girls. Strangers staring. Assessing eyes.
He must stay conscious, he must ensure the children were not bought by a cruel wretch like the last one, the darkness could not take him until he knew they were safe …
The auction house wavered, the crows swooped and soared, light knifed the back of his eyes. Biting down on his tongue, William tasted blood. Scraps of black flickered at the edge of his sight, but he did not faint.
A movement at the front of the crowd drew William’s gaze. Two young women were gazing intently at the children. William shook his hair out of his eyes again and felt himself freeze.
Hope.
He prayed he wasn’t imagining it, but both women’s eyes were full of what looked like compassion. And shock. Emotions that were surely alien to a cruel soul, emotions that William had not thought to encounter in the Constantinople slave market.
‘You must buy those two, you must!’ The taller of the two women caught her companion’s arm as she looked at the children. She had smoky grey eyes that were luminous with tears.
William held his breath as her gaze turned in his direction. A single teardrop caught the light as it fell from her lashes and everything seemed to slow. Despite the shufflings and mutterings of the crowd, despite the pain throbbing in his head and shoulder, William caught the hiss of her indrawn breath. He saw the whitening of her fingers on her friend’s arm.
Hope.
‘Buy him! You must buy him!’ Her voice was clear. Urgent.
If William had strength he would frown—the woman wanted to buy him, bruised and battered as he was? She must be mad. But those smoky grey eyes were kind.
The auction hall rippled, his sight was definitely going, it was like peering through a heat haze.
Stay conscious. If these women buy the children, they will be safe.
How he knew this, William had no idea, but he knew it, no question. If these women bought the children, he need have no more worries on their behalf. It wouldn’t matter then who bought him, he was no slave, he had no intention of remaining in the City, not once the girls were safe. He had plans—he had only delayed putting them into action because of little Daphne and Paula.
William fixed his gaze on those luminous grey eyes and the rest of the market faded from his awareness. Dimly, he heard her friend make some objection. ‘He looks like a troublemaker.’ She was talking about him.
The grey eyes never left his face, the young woman’s veil trembled. Like her gown, the veil was brown and plain. ‘Buy him as well as the children,’ she said. ‘Please, my lady, I … I don’t have money of my own, but I will pay you somehow. You can have my gold bangle and the rest of my jewellery. You can sell the lot and buy more slaves.’
The buzzing in William’s ears was louder, the crows had flocked back, their ragged wings fluttering between him and the two young women. The floor rocked.
‘My lady,’ said the girl in brown. ‘I will give you Zephyr, you can sell her, too …’
William must have blacked out for a few moments, because when he came back to himself, the bidding was underway. His stomach cramped. The young women did not look wealthy enough to be buying slaves, indeed, the one who was bidding had a gown that one might expect to see on a maidservant. They were being outbid by a man with the air of a prosperous merchant and a woman in a cherry-coloured gown whose face was wearing so much paint it looked enamelled. The words ‘whore of Babylon’ leaped into William’s mind.
He grimaced—he must be fevered. His right arm throbbed like the devil. Chains clinking, he struggled to ease it by cradling it in his other arm and fought down a wave of nausea. He wasn’t going to contemplate the thought that nausea was often sign of a break.
At the foot of the dais, the young women were muttering. Comparing them to the other bidders, William’s heart sank. The fabric of their gowns was far too plain, the weave too simple. Brown homespun. Their clothing was simply no match for the merchant’s luxurious green brocade or the painted lady’s cherry-coloured silk. It was a dream to imagine those women would have enough money for both William and the girls.
Buy the children. Forget about me, but for God’s sake, buy the girls.
He was peering past a swirling, sickening grey mist, trying to decide whether the women had any chance of winning the bidding contest when there was a disturbance in the crowd.
A man was pushing his way to the front—his hair was dark as night, his face intense and angry. When he reached the side of the smaller of the young women, the one who was placing the bids, he attempted to take her arm. Something about the way the man held himself told William that he was a soldier.
Despite William’s efforts to stay on his feet, the grey mist drifted inexorably nearer. First it swallowed the pillars of the auction house, then the young women started to fade.
No! Stay awake!
The platform shifted.
Lady Anna of Heraklea dug her nails into her palms. Her pulse was shaky and uneven. It was only her second day back at the capital and the last place she wanted to be was the slave market. Who would be here, if they could avoid it? At best it was a brutish place where the most squalid of deals were made. Here, they traded in human flesh.
She did not like to think about it, particularly when she ought to be thinking about what she was going to say to her father when she met him tomorrow. Two years—I have not seen Father since I went to Rascia two years ago. Will he still insist that I marry Lord Romanos?
The thought made her ill. Anna had to work out the best way of convincing her father that marriage with Lord Romanos was impossible, but instead, here she was at the slave market.
Katerina had been determined to come, and Anna had realised that if she did not accompany her, Katerina would have come on her own.
Which would not have been safe. It is bad enough that we left the Palace with only a Varangian sergeant and a handful of off-duty Guards, but for Katerina to even have considered coming here on her own—such foolishness! Katerina should be keeping up appearances, she is meant to be playing the part of Princess Theodora.
Katerina should be queening about in the Princess’s apartments with a vast entourage, she should be convincing everyone in the Great Palace that she is the Princess. Katerina should not be in the slave market, she