Chained to the Barbarian. Carol Townend

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      Head thumping, William woke with a start and grabbed for his sword. Then he remembered—his sword was lost, he was a slave. Mind fogged with pain, he heaved himself into a sitting position. Out of the tangle in his head one question emerged. Are the girls safe?

      He had been put on a clean pallet in an airy room that was busy with activity. He caught a brief impression of a wide tiled floor; of a line of tall windows billowing with drapery of some kind; of women rushing to and fro, long skirts swishing as they skimmed over polished marble. There was so much marble, so much light and air, he could not imagine where he might be.

      He could not see the children.

      A feminine hand pushed him back against the pillows, it belonged to the woman from the slave market, the one with smoky grey eyes. He wondered who she was. The brown gown and veil were so plain, she might be a servant. Yet her companion’s clothing had been equally plain, and that had not prevented her from finding money for three slaves …

      ‘Paula?’ His voice was creaky. He struggled back onto an elbow. ‘Daphne?’

      The woman settled on a cushion at his side, a glass goblet in hand. The goblet caught William’s eye—the glass looked Venetian, it must have cost a fortune to have shipped it here. A Venetian glass goblet?

       Where am I?

      The woman smiled. It occurred to William that she was observing him most carefully, and had been for some time. ‘I take it that Daphne and Paula are the girls in your … party,’ she said, pointing to the other end of the chamber. ‘They are being well cared for. See?’

      And there, in the centre of a circle of women, were the girls. Paula, in a fresh tunic, was holding the hand of one of the women. She was smiling. William’s throat tightened, he could not recall the last time he had seen Paula smile. Daphne, closely wrapped in what looked like silk, was safely in the lap of a motherly-looking wet-nurse on a gilded stool.

      A gilded stool? Lord.

       What is this place?

      Daphne was being fed. The wet-nurse glanced William’s way without embarrassment and nodded at him.

      ‘As you see, the children are safe.’

      William swallowed, but his throat was so parched it was well nigh impossible. Grimacing, he massaged his throat.

      The woman leaned towards him, offering the goblet. ‘Wine?’

      Clumsily, for his hand did not seem to be obeying him the way it ought to, William grasped the goblet and sipped.

      ‘I hope it is to your taste, it is watered,’ she said, lowering her voice and leaning towards him. Beneath her veil, he caught a glimpse of wavy brown hair. ‘I thought perhaps, you have not taken … refreshment for some time.’

      Giving a jerky nod, William drank. He drank deep. The wine might be watered, but the flavour was richer and smoother than any he had tasted in his entire life. When he had emptied the glass, he sank back against his pillows and peered in amazement at the few remaining drops. Excellent wine served in a Venetian glass, a pillow softer than thistledown, a chamber that is the size of a knight’s hall, huge windows fluttering with silk draperies …

      He cleared his throat. ‘Where? Where am I?’ His voice sounded like an unoiled hinge.

      She gave him another of those tentative smiles. ‘In Princess Theodora’s apartments in the Boukoleon Palace.’

      ‘The Palace! This is the Great Palace?’ His head throbbed, the glass wavered in his grasp. A rush of emotion ran through him, confusing in its intensity.

      Here, almost a quarter of a century ago or thereabouts, his reclusive mother had met his father. His irresponsible, careless father, the unknown Norman lord who had refused to marry his mother and had never acknowledged William’s existence. Having spent most of his life outside the Empire, William had never thought to set foot in its capital Constantinople, never mind the Great Palace.

      ‘Yes, you are in the Great Palace.’

      Bile stung the back of William’s throat. Holy Heaven, finally, he had come to his mother’s birthplace. As a slave. ‘And the other woman, the one who was with you in the … market—she is Princess Theodora?’

      The woman gave a jerky nod and the precious goblet was plucked from his fingers.

      William glanced down the length of the chamber, the girls looked happier than he had ever seen them. Paula was still smiling, Daphne still feeding. Relaxing into the pillows with a sigh, he closed his eyes and willed his head to stop throbbing. He needed to think, but not about his mother, not yet. First, he had to get out of the Palace.

      ‘You are hungry?’

      He opened his eyes. Hungry? His stomach growled.

      The smoky grey eyes were anxious. ‘I have ordered beef. Would you like some?’

      Briefly it crossed William’s mind that this might be a new torment his previous owner had devised for him. Beef. His mouth watered. He levered himself into a sitting position, almost choking on a sudden rush of saliva. Bruised muscles screamed in protest. Another pillow was thrust behind him and a bowl was handed over, smelling fragrantly of meat and herbs. When William reached for the spoon, he was shamed to see his hand was shaking, he was practically drooling.

      She, bless her, pretended not to notice.

      Beef. Lord. And bread.

      William forced himself to eat slowly, but he did not pause until the bowl was empty, even going as far as to mop up the gravy with a chunk of bread.

      She gave him a measure of privacy while he ate, flinging the odd remark to the other women in the chamber. ‘The baby feeds well, Sylvia?’

      ‘She is fine, my lady.’

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