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  Her belly lurched when strident cries arose from below. She blinked open her eyes and looked over the railing to where the slaves were held. Two of the Fatimid guards were struggling to wrench the screeching child out of the arms of his distraught father.

  She understood only a smattering of the Arabic language but her blood ran cold when she recognised the word Siraya. She looked back at Kon. “Contagion,” she breathed.

  INTO THE DEPTHS

  Kon let go of the tiller, confident Rospo would continue to steer the ship. He was concerned for Zara who had rushed down the steps to intervene in whatever was going on below.

  If there was disease aboard the ship, it would spread rapidly. When he reached the deck, his heart stopped. Zara had one long leg astride the wale and was pulling desperately at the robes of a Fatimid who had the boy in his clutches, evidently intending to throw him overboard. She was screaming something unintelligible at the Arab.

  With a manacle still clamped around one wrist, the child clawed at the face of his captor, whose turban had been knocked askew, covering his eyes. Terror seemed to have struck the boy dumb. The father shouted desperate pleas in some foreign tongue while another Fatimid menaced him with a curved sword. The rest of the slaves were on their feet, their faces full of terrified outrage. The crew stared, apparently unaware of the mainsail dangling loosely in the still air, despite grunted warnings from Rospo.

  Lupomari’s hoarse command snapped them into action. Two hurried to right the sail. The rest turned to the struggle going on beneath the stern-castle.

  Kon was afraid for Zara and the threat the Fatimid posed to her. He drew his dagger and lunged at the infuriated Arab, yelling a loud war-cry. As his weapon sank into the man’s flesh, the brute released his hold on the boy. Zara lunged to save the child. His heart pounding in his ears, Kon heaved the Fatimid’s body out of his way and grasped hold of her shirt. The fabric ripped and she and the boy tumbled into the sea.

  He was vaguely aware of a melee in the cog’s stern, but had no time to worry about the slaves now. The only thing that mattered was saving Zara. He hurriedly pulled off his boots, climbed onto the side and jumped.

  Zara loved the sea, but she’d never experienced the numbing terror of falling overboard. The boy was ripped from her arms by the impact. When she resurfaced, gasping for breath, there was no sign of him. She cursed the ignorance of the Arab who had condemned the child for no good reason.

  She was a strong swimmer. Her father had insisted she learn and she thanked him for it now. The Nunziata had drifted on into the lingering mist but Lupomari would drop anchor and come to her rescue. Muffled shouts from the direction of the ship confirmed it. The boots were making it difficult to tread water, but she thanked her patron saint for the male attire. Skirts would have dragged her to her death.

  She took a deep breath and slipped beneath the surface, searching the clear water for any sign of the child, panic setting in when she found none.

  Lungs bursting, she broke the surface, surprised to be suddenly in Kon’s grip.

  “Thank God,” he gasped.

  She struggled for breath, relieved to rely on his strength. “I can’t find the boy.”

  He raked her hair from her face. “Mayhap it’s for the best if he is deathly ill.”

  She shook her head. “Yellow eyes,” she panted. “Jalnice. Not contagious.”

  “Can you stay afloat while I look for him?”

  She nodded, and he was gone before she had a chance to deter him. If he drowned…

  Kon had barely recovered from the shock of plunging into the deep water when Zara broke the surface. His immediate reaction was to offer thanks to the Almighty for her safe delivery into his arms.

  Perhaps there was a God after all.

  When she told him of the reason for the boy’s ordeal, he knew he had to try to find him.

  He filled his lungs and peered into the bottomless depths. The salt burned his eyes, and he acknowledged with a sinking heart that diving in the Adriatic wasn’t going to be anything like retrieving rocks from the bed of the Elbe.

  He struck out, kicking hard.

  Zara’s strength was fading, her arms on fire, her heart in knots. Despite the warmth of the water, a chill had seized her. No help had come from the strangely quiet and still mist-shrouded Nunziata. Something was wrong. And where was Kon? He’d been underwater too long.

  She cried out her relief and consequently swallowed seawater when he resurfaced at long last. He had the boy tucked under one arm. “You saved him,” she coughed.

  He reached out his free hand to buoy her up, but his reddened eyes were bleak. “I was too late,” he panted. “The lad drowned.”

  NEVER TRUST A PIRATE

  “We must get back to the ship,” Kon said hoarsely, spitting out seawater. “You’re cold.”

  “I don’t understand why they didn’t come to our aid,” she gasped as they swam in the direction of the Nunziata.

  “I’m concerned the Fatimids may have gone berserk after my attack,” he admitted.

  “But it’s too quiet.”

  As the hull loomed out of the mist, Kon spotted three bodies floating in the water. Given the turbans and robes, they couldn’t be anything but Fatimids. “Mayhap I am wrong,” he quipped when Zara gaped, her emerald eyes filled with alarm at the macabre discovery.

  He was relieved when a rope ladder came tumbling over the side. He made sure Zara had a firm hold and was out of danger before hoisting the boy over his shoulder and beginning the ascent behind her.

  Once on the deck, she reached up to hold the body while he climbed aboard.

  He raked his wet hair off his burning eyes, then took the child from her, befuddled that the crew seemed to have disappeared. The captives cowered in the center of the cog, all still chained, except the father of the boy. A second manacle dangled from the one around his wrist. He stared at the corpse, fists clenched, his distorted face wet with tears.

  “Where is everyone?” Kon said, trying to fathom how chained men had done away with three armed Fatimids, the captain, and his entire crew.

  “Loading the spoils onto my ship.”

  They spun around to see Drosik, grinning broadly, hands on hips, one foot braced on the wale.

  Zara gasped in outrage.

  Kon’s gut knotted when he realized the Narentine’s smaller cog was nestled alongside.

  Drosik jumped down onto a rowing thwart. “Well done, priest. You delivered the Nunziata as promised.”

  “This is none of my doing,” he growled, avoiding Zara’s accusing gaze.

  The pirate captain’s laughter came to an abrupt halt when the boy’s father bellowed like a wounded beast. He wrenched his son’s body from Kon’s arms, shoving him hard in the process and leapt over the side into the sea.

  It happened so quickly there was no chance to react. Kon staggered to regain his balance then ran to peer over the side. The wretch had disappeared into the depths. Nausea swept over him. He’d failed to save father and son from a terrible fate— but at least the rest would be free.

  Drosik smirked. “Forget him. One less slave won’t make much difference to my profit.”

  An icy hand gripped Kon’s innards as Zara seethed at his side. “But you swore to deliver them to me.”

  Drosik wiggled his eyebrows and jumped back onto his own vessel.

  “I warned you not to take the word of a pirate,” Zara hissed.

  Prior to sailing away, Drosik deemed it highly amusing to rope Kon and Zara together back to back. Anger throbbed in her aching head. “He’s not going to get away with this. There’s a dagger in my boot.”

  She leaned back against Kon. They were still soaked to the skin, but the warmth of his body had driven away the chill, along with the fury flooding her veins.

  The rest of the crew were tied up in various parts of the cog. The slaves, the bales of cloth, the sacks of salt and the rest of the precious cargo were gone. All that remained were a few oddments of canvas an
d some of the hides used to protect the goods from the elements.

  Kon expressed his regret over and over for what had happened.

  She struggled with her anger. Someone had to take the blame, but she should perhaps have been more cautious. Ultimately any misfortune that befell a ship was the responsibility of the master. “You are not solely to blame,” she finally reassured him. “It was a litany of errors. We’re fortunate he didn’t kill us and steal the ship.”

  “Not enough men to crew her,” Lupomari shouted from somewhere nearby. “We’re too big to be of use to a pirate.”

  Zara twisted and turned, trying to get a hand loose, but both wrists were tightly bound. “We have to get the weapon and cut the rope. He already has a head start.”

  “Push against me, and we’ll try to stand,” Kon suggested.

  She was glad he hadn’t argued, evidently understanding her desire for revenge.

  Pressing back to back and bracing their legs, they managed to stand.

  “Now, turn to face me,” he said, “and I’ll do the same.”

  It took several long minutes of straining already tired muscles for them to come together, face to face, her breasts pressed against his chest. It wasn’t how she had imagined such a suggestive position coming about.

  Then he smiled and her heart raced. Despite the predicament she allowed her body to melt into his.

  “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known,” he said softly, pressing his hips against her.

  She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, longing for his reassuring kiss.

  Suddenly the rope loosened and fell to the planking. She blinked. Rospo stood beside her, levering the point of a dagger under the rope around her wrists, his big eyes dwarfed only by his wide, toothless grin.

  Kon gaped. “You have a…”

  “Dagger.”

  “How did you..?”

  Rospo cocked his head towards the water. “Hid.”

  “Over the side?” Zara asked in disbelief.

  “Rudder.”

  The resourceful fellow sprang off to free others while she and Kon stared. “He must have jumped in when they boarded and clung to the wood like a limpet,” she said, kicking away the coils of rope.

  “Mayhap Limpet should be his new name,” Kon quipped.

  She laughed, amazed that in the midst of despair and turmoil she still could. “I don’t advise you try it.”

  He snaked his arms around her waist. “You seem to be enjoying this.”

  She clasped his forearms and inhaled deeply. “There’s wind to fill the sail, my crew has a fire in their bellies, I’ve a fine ship beneath my feet, and a courageous man by my side. What more do I need?”

  “Mayhap the weapons from the drowned Fatimids?”

  “Good idea,” she replied. “If Rospo hasn’t already thought of it.”

  Lupomari regained the forecastle. “All hands to your stations. Anchor aweigh. We’ve a pirate to catch.”

  A SIGN

  Hours later, Kon left the tiller in Rospo’s capable hands and obeyed Zara’s summons to meet by one of the rowing benches.

  “We must plot our revenge carefully,” she said as he joined her and Lupomari.

  Kon was frustrated with what seemed to be slow progress. “Can we not go faster?”

  “We don’t want to catch him in the open sea. He’ll simply out-manoeuvre us,” Lupomari explained.

  Zara nodded. “Or throw the cargo overboard and flee.”

  Kon tempered his impatience. “What’s the plan?”

  Zara unfurled a chart and lay it atop the bench, one end tucked under an oar. “My guess is he will sell off some of the booty before proceeding to Bari with the captives. He’ll need coin to buy provisions and his crew will demand more money—selling slaves in Bari’s market is a risky venture when you’re not an established trader. The Fatimids guard their monopoly.”

  Kon pointed to the chart. “Ravenna would be the next port.”

  Zara shook her head. “He won’t go there. It’s a Papal State and they take a dim view of piracy.” She traced her finger along the chart. “Cervia is unlikely since they produce their own salt. Two powerful families control Rimini and he won’t want to tangle with them.”

  “Ancona, then?”

  “Doubtful,” Lupomari replied, scratching his beard. “The Anconian Republic has strong trade routes with Dalmatia and they sell more than they buy. Drosik is probably well known to them and they too don’t tolerate pirates. Bad for business.”

  An eerie certainty crept into Kon’s belly when he examined the chart further. “Termoli?”

  Zara poked the map. “It would be my guess.”

  Lupomari took the chart and rolled it up. “Mine too. I propose we increase our speed and plan to arrive before him.”

  “Agreed.”

  Kon put a hand on the railing and swallowed the lump in his throat as memories assailed him. “I know the town. I was an officer in the imperial army that occupied Termoli during the invasion.” Then he smiled when another thought dawned. “My brother, Lute, married a woman he met in Termoli, Francesca di Cammarata.”

  Zara frowned. “I heard tell of Ruggero of Sicilia’s niece marrying a Saxon count. He’s your brother?”

  “Yes. Emperor Lothair endowed him with lands not far from Wolfenberg as a reward for his services. However, what’s more important, Francesca had a maid from Termoli. Zitella left with her mistress.”

  Lupomari chuckled. “Must have been a man involved.”

  “You’re right, but Zitella’s family probably still lives in Termoli. Her father might be of help to us.”

  Zara pecked a gleeful kiss on his cheek. “This is a sign. God is with us. Set a course for Termoli.”

  The prospect of revisiting the coastal town churned Kon’s innards, but it suddenly struck him like a blow from Thor’s hammer that it was indeed God’s will he go there. It was the last place he’d been Konrad von Wolfenberg, capable imperial soldier, aspiring priest and son of a prominent Saxon noble. His life had fallen apart after he’d marched south to Bari.

  He’d been reborn and was once again in divine hands. Or mayhap he always had been and hadn’t realized it. Was Zara right that his Savior hadn’t abandoned him? He would never be a priest, but renewed pride and honor surged in his veins. What’s more, he had found a beautiful and courageous woman who would make a perfect wife.

  Mixed emotions swirled in Zara’s heart as her beloved cog skimmed the waves. Polani ships had lost cargoes to pirates before, but she couldn’t recall a single instance when they’d pursued the thieves. There were always other cargoes. Her father’s philosophy.

  Drosik hadn’t taken the Nunziata, hadn’t murdered any of her crew. Why was she bound and determined to get back what had been stolen?

  Frequent glances at Kon Wolf manning the tiller, legs resolutely braced, provided the answer. Salt, rope and cloth were replaceable. This was about rescuing and freeing the captives. It had taken a man who doubted the existence of God to open her eyes to the evils of slave trading—she, a devout Christian. She shuddered at the thought that had she not met Kon she might not have tried to save the boy.

  Perhaps she was pursuing Drosik in order to avenge the man she was falling in love with. The pirate had taken advantage of his trusting nature.

  She rejoiced that, by some miracle, the terrible events seemed to have rekindled Kon’s faith, and she sensed he both dreaded and anticipated going to Termoli.

  A troubling notion intruded. If he rediscovered his faith he might turn again to the religious life. She made the sign of her Savior across her body. God would surely strike her dead if she stood in the way of a man becoming a priest.

  NIGHT AT SEA

  In deeper water and with the aid of the stars, the Nunziata sailed through the night with Zara and Lupomari taking turns on the forecastle so no time was lost at anchor. Rospo manned the tiller for the captain.

  With the slaves gone, and the wood scrubbed clean, a pie
ce of canvas was stretched across the area beneath the stern-castle for Zara’s privacy. The hides made a more comfortable bed than the bare planking. She had slept aboard ship before, and didn’t fear the crew, but after several hours on watch she couldn’t settle knowing Kon was close by.

  As if sensing her need of him, he came to the shelter. “Are you asleep?” he whispered.

  “No. Enter.”

  He knelt by her side, pulling one of the skins over her legs. “It’s important to keep warm.”

  She couldn’t see his face clearly in the darkness, but knew how tiring it was to spend hours at the tiller. It was the first time he’d taken on the task at night when winds might change unexpectedly. She cupped her hand to his cold cheek. “You must be exhausted.”

  He pressed his hand against hers. “You too. I wanted to make sure you were comfortable before I slept.” He leaned forward to brush a kiss on her lips.

  She wanted to respond, but was afraid she might be leading astray a man whom God had called to His service. He must have sensed her hesitation. “Sorry. You’re tired.”

  She was a forthright person. There was no point hiding her fears. She sat up. “No. You have a vocation to be a priest. I couldn’t bear…”

  His mouth took possession of hers with a passion that robbed her of breath. There was no choice but to allow his tongue to enter and mate with hers, no choice but to let him breathe for her as his hand cupped her breast.

  A moan of longing surged in her throat, but Rospo was only a few feet above them, the sleeping crew not far away.

  When they broke apart, he nuzzled her ear. “I will never be a priest, Zara. It is you I worship, you I wish to serve. When this is over I want you for my wife.”

  Zara’s father had introduced her to many carefully selected gentlemen, every one eligible, wealthy, handsome. Some had offered for her hand. She’d supposed one day the right man would come along, but hadn’t foreseen a proposal of marriage on a dark night aboard a ship headed into danger.