Betrothed to the Barbarian. Carol Townend

tugged at her arm. ‘Please, my lady, I really think we should get below.’

      Captain Brand marched up even as Theodora had opened her mouth to object. His face was grim. ‘Ladies, it is time to retire, I believe.’

      ‘What is happening, Captain?’ Sophia asked.

      Their Varangian escort shook his head. ‘I have no idea, my lady, but the Palace lighthouse is out. I won’t risk sailing into the Imperial harbour tonight.’

      Theodora looked at the city skyline, mind racing. The Palace lighthouse—of course, that was why she could not get her bearings! For years, the Palace lighthouse had stood like a sentry next to the Boukoleon Palace. It was lit at dusk each day and for it to have been extinguished before dawn, something appalling must have happened. The wind shifted, pushing at the smoke, and the sea wall swam into focus, a grey ribbon bathed in moonlight. Flames flared like bright flowers on the domed skyline. Then the smoke drifted and the flame flowers, the gilded domes and the sea walls vanished.

      Shivering, Theodora hugged Martina close to her breast. ‘The City is on fire.’ She felt hollow inside.

      ‘We cannot be sure, my lady. It is probably perfectly safe, but we shall not be entering the Imperial harbour tonight.’

      The wind buffeted the galley and the sound of drumming reached them. Theodora gave the Captain a straight look. ‘Battle drums, Captain?’

      Captain Brand pressed his lips together. ‘That seems most unlikely. However, I have been ordered to protect you ladies. My apologies for the delay, but you will not be sleeping in the Boukoleon Palace yet awhile.’

      Theodora exchanged glances with Sophia. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry. Naturally, in her role as simple lady-in-waiting, Princess Theodora Doukaina did neither; she went meekly below deck, as she had been instructed. There was no sense rousing the good Captain’s suspicions about her identity at this late stage.

      ‘Have you decided what you will do with the baby, my lady?’

      ‘Mmm?’ Theodora lifted her gaze from the infant dozing in her lap. She and Lady Sophia were sharing a bench in an ill-lit guest chamber in St Michael’s Abbey, a few miles outside Constantinople. They were waiting for word on what had happened in the City; they had been waiting for nigh on two weeks. Two weeks. Easter had come and gone.

      Outside rain was falling, the air smelled dank. Wool-lined slippers made a poor shield against the wintry chill seeping up from the stone floor. Goose-bumps had formed on Theodora’s legs and arms. Keeping firm hold of the baby in question—her daughter, Martina—she cocooned both herself and the child tightly in veil and shawl.

      Theodora was grateful for this unexpected time alone with Martina, every moment spent with her was so precious. She was achingly conscious that Sophia, who was her friend and lady-in-waiting, believed that she and Martina would soon be separated. Permanently. Protocol would demand it. Protocol was an old foe. Theodora had fought it before, she would fight it again. She did not know how, but somehow she would win the right to keep her daughter.

      Sophia gave her a sympathetic smile and tried again. ‘Martina. What you will do with her when we reach the Imperial Palace?’

      The Princess and Lady Sophia were alone; the other ladies were in a larger guest chamber. Theodora was almost certain that they had managed to secure privacy for herself and Sophia without arousing Captain Brand’s suspicions; she was almost certain the good captain did not know she was the Princess Theodora Doukaina. They had taken great pains to make him think she was just one of the many ladies-in-waiting he was escorting to the Great Palace. A niggle of doubt remained. Has Captain Brand seen through our deception?

      The accommodation at St Michael’s was far from palatial, the guest chamber was little more than a monk’s cell. The walls were whitewashed and the meagre furnishings—sleeping pallets, bench—were dusty and decidedly rustic. The icon on the wall was shrouded in cobwebs. Since Captain Brand had decreed that none of the ladies could leave the monastery until they received confirmation it was safe to proceed to the Palace, the guest chamber had, in effect, become their prison. Thanks to the rain, even the Abbey courtyard was out of bounds.

      Theodora held down a sigh. The voyage back to Constantinople had been fraught with difficulties, not least because none of the soldiers escorting them to the Imperial Palace could know that she was anything more than another lady-in-waiting. Only Theodora’s waiting women realised the truth.

       The day of reckoning is almost upon me. I am Princess Theodora Doukaina and it is time for me to reclaim my proper identity.

      Theodora sat on the bench, stroking her daughter’s hair. The problem was that she did not want to reclaim her true identity. Outwardly, her expression was calm—years of training had ensured that. Inside, she felt as though her heart was made of glass, glass that had shattered into a thousand pieces. She could no longer remember what it felt like to be whole. Much as she loved Constantinople, she dreaded her return. If it was discovered that she had a daughter, the scandal would rock the City.

      If they discover that Martina is mine, will they take her away? Holy Mother, that must not happen!

      Captain Brand—the Varangian officer charged with ensuring their safety on their journey to the Great Palace—had assured them that St Michael’s Abbey would be the ideal place to wait for news. They would not be allowed to set foot outside until he knew it was safe.

      Safe. It had been hard not to laugh in the Captain’s face. Safe. If only he knew—Theodora had so many secrets she could never feel safe again.

      The voyage from Dyrrachion on the Empire’s western border had been nothing less than torture. Theodora had been obsessed with the thought that with every day that passed, they were a day closer to the moment when she might lose her daughter. On the one hand, she had wanted the journey to last for ever, so that she could enjoy being with Martina. On the other, pretence did not come easily to her. It was a challenge pretending to be just one lady-in-waiting among many, particularly when the other women knew her to be the Princess Theodora Doukaina and were in the habit of bowing to her every wish. The strain of the pretence was taking its toll on her.

      We should be in the Boukoleon Palace—what can have happened?

      ‘Why was the Palace lighthouse out?’ Theodora asked, not for the first time. ‘It’s unheard of. Unimaginable.’

      ‘I do not know. Perhaps the wind …’ Sophia trailed into silence.

      ‘The wind … no.’ Theodora rocked her daughter and adjusted her wrappings. The bench creaked. Theodora thought about the fires they had seen and the acrid smell of smoke. The screams. The wind had not extinguished the Palace lighthouse that night, Sophia knew that as well as she. For the Palace lighthouse to have gone out, and for it to have remained out, something terrible, revolutionary, must have happened in the Palace itself.

      ‘What can have happened?’ Has there been a Palace coup? A revolt of some kind? Even in Dyrrachion they had heard the mutterings; the Emperor—who insisted on calling himself Theodora’s uncle—was not the most popular of men.

      Sophia lifted her shoulders. ‘My lady, I do not know.’

      ‘It will take time for a messenger to reach the Palace and return, of course.’

      ‘Time? The messenger is certainly taking an age,’ Sophia said. ‘I don’t understand it—isn’t St Michael’s used as a hostel by the Court because of its proximity to Constantinople?’

      Sophia was in the right. St Michael’s Abbey sat on a promontory overlooking the Gulf of Lasthenes where their galley was currently at anchor, it really was not far from the City. Theodora forced a smile. ‘If something has happened in the Great Palace, we shall soon learn of it.’

      She rested her hand gently on the top of her daughter’s head, her thumb absently smoothing the baby-fine hair. Martina was snug in several layers of fine linen and silk. Safe, my daughter is safe. God knows