After all, it was difficult to be seductive when she was still shivering, and itching, and scratched in a dozen tender places. And when Ljuba tried to take a second step forward, she trod right on a rock that seemed knife-edged, and fell forward with a little shriek.
Finist caught her. Ljuba stole a quick, wary look up at him and saw nothing in his eyes but concern… Maybe this was going to work after all! That cursed rock had hurt her enough to bring tears to her eyes, and now Ljuba let herself go and sobbed.
What man could have resisted? She felt Finist's arms close about her, and buried her face against his chest, very well aware that only one thin layer of silk separated them.
«Here.» Finist's voice was husky. «Let me see if you've cut your foot.»
«No, no, I only bruised it.» Ljuba looked up at him, eyes still bright with tears. «Finist, oh, Finist, I never dreamed, I never dared hope…»
«I… This isn't… We shouldn't…«He made one valiant, gallant attempt to free himself, but Ljuba's arms were about his neck, her lips were meeting his. He turned away, but only to bury his face in the warm mass of her hair, and Ljuba smiled, feeling his control slipping, feeling the disciplined, magical mind drowning beneath the flood of the body's demands. Right now he was helpless, helpless, and with a small, fierce cry, he surrendered and bore her to the ground. Ljuba stared up at the hostile forest with wild, triumphant eyes, thinking defiantly, You see? He's mine!
And then she forgot all about clear thought for a time.
Chapter IV
Accused
Foolishness, foolishness, this tradition that insisted he leave his safe palace and come down here to the marketplace with its peasants and riffraff and Heaven knew what else, just to officiate over the closing of market day. But one must, after all, keep in touch with one's people-unpleasant and potentially dangerous though that might be.
Prince Svyatoslav of Stargorod, tall, aging and thin, gathered his voluminous golden robes about himself lest they sweep up the market dust, and proceeded on his regal way, only the darting of his gaze revealing his unease. Oh, they all seemed sincere enough in their welcome, these cheering crowds, but who knew what they were really thinking? A prince must learn from childhood to trust no one—he'd learned that harsh lesson early. He flinched from memories of blood, of terror, of the palace revolt that had left his mother and uncle dead before his eyes. God, and then, when he'd newly come to the throne, little more than a boy, when he'd been fool enough to begin to dare trust again, his cousin, his friend, the one man he'd thought safe, had betrayed him: Prince Rostislav had tried to depose him! Well, Rostislav had gotten himself exiled‑lucky to keep his head—and Svyatoslav would never again make the mistake of giving his trust to anyone.
Least of all in this marketplace!
At least he could keep his royal bodyguard all about him, his loyal, spearbearing achrana.
But what was this? Those guards in the lead had stopped in a tangle of confusion, and Svyatoslav perforce had to stop short too, thinking wildly, Assassins!
It wasn't assassins. It was one man, only one, lying prostrate in the street before him, arms outstretched on the ground in total submission, total supplication, face hidden. Svyatoslav hesitated, uncertain. He hadn't reached this mature age by taking chances. But he could hardly act as though the man wasn't there, and simply step over him. And to have the achrana cut a safe path through the crowd to avoid the man would hardly suit the royal dignity.
«Who are you?» the prince snapped, angry at having his routine disturbed. «What do you want?»
The prostrate figure slowly raised his head, moving with great caution since he was ringed by spears. «Sire. Grant me a boon, I pray you. Grant me speech with you.»
An indignant Svyatoslav had recognized the man. «Alexei Sergeovich, I have nothing to say to you! You have nothing to ask of me!»
«Sire, no. You misunderstand. I—I don't speak for myself. I have news of something you must know. For the safety of the Realm. For your own safety.»
Svyatoslav straightened as sharply as though he'd been slapped. «What news? Get up, man! Tell me! What are you talking about?»
Alexei got carefully to his feet, eyeing the spearbearing guards warily, then turned his attention fully to the impatient prince. «About… Well, I'm afraid we're talking about treason, Sire," he said softly.
Boyar Danilo thought nothing of it when the guards fell in behind him. Some military ritual or other—the palace was full of guards constantly shifting from post to post. Nothing to concern him, surely.
But then they moved forward to surround him, and he found himself facing soldiers who were trying with embarrassed shifts of eye not to meet his glance, but whose weapons were very close to hand. «What nonsense is this?» Danilo asked sharply. «Stand aside. Eh, stand aside!»
They did, but only to permit a stout, somber, richly robed man to approach.
«Gleb Igorevich!» Danilo hailed the prince's under-steward. «Gleb, what's the meaning of this?»
The under-steward wouldn't look directly at him, either. Instead, in a rushed mumble he read from a scrolclass="underline"
«Danilo Yaroslavovich, boyar and member of the Inner Council of Svyatoslav, Prince by the Grace of God over Stargorod and — "
«Yes, yes, get to it, man! Tell me what all this is about!»
Gleb shot him a quick, uneasy glance. «It would seem, boyar," he began apologetically, «that our prince has accused you of high treason.»
The blood surged so painfully in Danilo's head that he staggered, his only thought a wild God, God, all the times I spoke so lightly of the prince's suspicious nature, all the times I boasted so smugly and never, never thought suspicion could ever fall on me‑I've done nothing wrong, nothing!
Gleb was watching him with more than a little sympathy, and Danilo knew he should say something, but all he could manage was a weak echo: «Treason…»
«Yes, my lord. You are herewith ordered to appear before the prince and his royal court to plead your case, and I'm commanded to see that you get there.»
«But—this is ridiculous! This is the most impossible, unbelievable— You know me, Gleb! You know I'd never — "
«Boyar, I'm sorry. Truly, I am. But…» Gleb's very stance said plainly, I don't dare say more, I don't want to risk my own neck. «I have my orders.»
Danilo fought to control himself. «Am I not to be allowed to know the specifics of this—this monstrous charge? Am I not to be allowed at least a chance to prepare my defense?»
Gleb sighed, studying the scroll. «No… it would seem not.» He gave the boyar a wry smile. «It appears to me that you must have made yourself some very nasty enemy. I… can only wish you luck.» His face went flatly formal. «And now, Boyar, will you come with me?»
Of course, Danilo had participated in many a royal court of law before this. But never like this! his mind screamed. Never as victim! And victim he too plainly was meant to be, ringed with guards like some common criminal, none of the assembled boyars—his friends, his colleagues‑daring so much as to look at him: cold-eyed Yelenko, Chief Steward and Royal Judge, waiting patiently to read the charges, and Prince Svyatoslav up on his throne watching the proceedings with all the softness and charity of a marble statue.
«Boyar Danilo Yaroslavovich," began Yelenko without preamble, «you come before the Throne accused of that most grievous of crimes, high treason against your sovereign lord — "
«How accused?» snapped Danilo. «Who dares accuse me?»