Stolen Splendor (43 page)

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Authors: Miriam Minger

Tags: #historical fiction, #romance, #historical romance

BOOK: Stolen Splendor
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Frederick knew it was close by, but with each passing
moment he could see less and less. The fog had become so
dense,
it obscured anything more than a few feet away. He did not see the silent
shadows crouching behind a mass of boulders until it was too late, could not
even have guessed that a regiment of Imperial soldiers had been sent out along
the Danube as advance scouts for the battle to come.

He and his Janissary guard passed unwittingly right
through the midst of them, realizing their danger only when they were attacked
with a swiftness that sent them sprawling from their saddles. Three of the
Janissaries died at once, quietly, neatly, their throats slit, their lifeblood
staining the sandy soil. The remaining guard was wounded, but not mortally,
subdued by four silent soldiers.

Frederick fell hard upon the ground, a soldier
immediately astride his chest while two others pinned him down. The white
turban was knocked from his head, the cold point of a dagger pressed beneath
his chin, piercing the skin. He looked up into the clouded sky, awaiting death.
Instead he heard a sharp intake of breath and a deep chuckle.

"Look at what we have here, Commander," his
captor muttered incredulously, peering at him in the dark. "Either this
Turk had a blond, light-eyed mother, or I would swear he is no Turk at
all!"

Another man drew close and bent over him, squinting
closely at his face. He straightened, quickly voicing low-spoken commands.
"Get this man to his feet at once. You three will accompany me back to the
camp, while the others hold their position here until we return."

A numbness washed over Frederick, a swift death denied
him with these words. He could not believe how quickly fate had turned against
him. His deadly game had been well played for almost three years, and now
suddenly he had lost, without even a fight, just as he had attained the wealth
that would free him from his role as a spy. That gold was useless to him now.
It could not spare him from what lay ahead, a death far worse than anything he
could imagine.

Frederick was pulled roughly to his feet, his hands
bound with leather cord, a gag stuffed into his mouth. He waited as a boat was
brought from behind the rocks and slid across the gravel into the river. A
sharp push propelled him forward, and he stepped shakily into the rocking
vessel, strong hands pushing him onto a planked seat.

"Perhaps you might explain to Prince Eugene why
you wear the clothes of the enemy, lad," the officer murmured tersely,
settling behind him, a blade at his back.

After the men heaved the unconscious Janissary guard
into the bottom of the boat, they pushed off from the shore and drifted
silently downstream. For fear any sound might bring the Turks down upon them, no
oars touched the water until they reached the point where the Sava flowed into
the Danube. Then they rowed like hell against the conflicting currents, making
straight for the Imperial camp.

 

***

 

Stefan stepped from Prince Eugene's tent, the council
of war having drawn to a close. It was already well past ten o'clock. The camp
was hushed, still, but for the intermittent bursts of artillery fire near the
Sava, the Turk's remedy for holding them at bay, even during the night. Except
for the continuous guard posted around the camp, most of the soldiers were
catching a few precious hours rest, which was also his plan. Three o'clock in
the morning, when the camp would rouse to make final preparations for battle,
would come swiftly enough.

He drew in a great breath of the damp night air,
murmuring a prayer of thanks for the heavy fog that blanketed the camp and the
surrounding countryside. He could barely see the lighted windows of the
fortress high above Belgrade. Hopefully the fog would hold to serve as their ally
and shield in the dark hours before morning.

Stefan turned and strode toward his own tent, his mind
working over the events of past hours, the council of war, the lengthy
discussions, planning a course of attack, on and on. Yet one event stood at the
forefront of his thoughts. He shook his head, still astounded. He could hardly
believe that Count Frederick Althann, the court fop, was a spy for Sultan
Achmet.

It had been the most incredible scene. They had all
been gathered about a large oaken table, Prince Eugene and every commander save
one plotting the battle that would commence well before dawn.

Prince Eugene had already discussed with them his
decision to launch a surprise attack against the Ottoman lines. The long siege
and the constant bombardment had taken a heavy toll on his forces, in both
manpower and morale, until the Imperial army was on the verge of collapse.
Believing his hand to be forced, he had to choose between retreat, hardly an
option for the brilliant general, or striking out in a daring retaliation,
despite the heavy odds against them. He had opted for retaliation, with the
full support of his commanders.

At the height of their discussions, they had been
suddenly interrupted by a commotion outside the tent. The commander of the
regiment that had been sent to scout the Ottoman camp had burst in, followed by
a retinue of soldiers, two bedraggled prisoners in their midst. One of them was
a Turk, slumped between his guards, his shoulder bloodied and his right arm
hanging uselessly by his side, and the other was Count Frederick, dressed as a
Turkish officer.

A stunned silence had fallen while the commander grimly
recounted how he had captured the prisoners, then he handed Prince Eugene a
letter that had been found on Count Frederick. An aide familiar with the
Turkish language was summoned, the general's expression darkening as the young
lieutenant read it aloud.

Never had Stefan heard more overbearing confidence than
was expressed in that letter. It elicited a terse response from Prince Eugene.

"This letter shall be Halil Pasha's undoing,"
he murmured, his dark gaze falling on every man in the tent. "His
misplaced confidence proves once and for all that we must make a stand. It will
be the last thing he expects. Cowards? The grand vizier will soon know the
meaning of the word when his soldiers are routed and scattered in retreat, his
tents razed to the ground!"

If ever there had been evidence to condemn a man as a
spy, and a traitor, it was that letter. Yet through the reading, Count
Frederick remained aloof, silent, with a studied dignity, as if that was the
only weapon remaining to him. It was clear to everyone that he was hardly the
preening fop he had played at court, an ingenious role he had devised to cover
a far more dangerous pursuit.

At last, after refusing to answer any questions, he had
been dragged away for torture along with the Turkish soldier captured with him.
His death—as for all spies, impalement on a sharpened stake driven into the
earth—would come later, after they had gotten any useful information from him
that might help them in the battle the next morning.

Stefan sighed heavily. That had been several hours ago.
No doubt by now
Frederick hardly
resembled the same
man. Torture was a cruel, but necessary evil in wartime. The information he had
given to the Turks had already cost hundreds of Austrian lives, a price he
would pay with his own.

Stefan slowed his pace as he drew closer to his tent,
recalling the piercing look Frederick had shot at him before he was hauled
away. A strange chill had coursed through him, but why, he had no clue.

"Commander von Furstenberg!"

Stefan wheeled at the agitated cry, but he saw no one
through the damp mists. He turned back, continuing toward his tent.

"Commander . . . von Furstenberg! I must . . .
speak with you!" the voice called again, and this time when Stefan turned,
he saw a dark form running toward him, taking shape in the mists. He recognized
the captain of the prison tent, where not only the prisoners but also unruly
and undisciplined soldiers were being held.

"What is it, man?" Stefan asked as the burly
captain drew up alongside him, panting as he fought to catch his breath.

"I just came . . . from Prince Eugene's . . .
tent. He gasped, bending down and resting his hands on his thighs, his chest
heaving. "His aide . . . said you had left . . . only a moment . . .
ago."

Stefan nodded. "So you have found me. But what's
the urgency here—"

"The prisoner, sir . . . Count Althann," the
captain interrupted, straightening. "He is asking for you, Commander. He
says . . . he will speak to no one . . . but you."

Stefan's expression hardened. What could the traitor
possibly have to say to him? Then he shrugged. He only hoped it was useful
information.

He nodded. "Lead on, man." They set off
through the fog, the shorter man fighting to keep up with Stefan's longer
strides. When they reached the prison tent, the guards quickly lowered their
muskets and stepped aside, allowing them entrance.

It took a moment for Stefan's eyes to adjust to the
dark interior, lit only by scattered oil lamps. Unkempt soldiers were shackled
to their cots, a row along each wall, deserters, thieves, ruffians, the lowest
dregs of any army. The air was stuffy, smelling of human waste and sweat. The
war prisoners were kept off by themselves in an adjoining tent. The morale in
this place was low enough already without having to listen to a man's agonizing
screams during torture.

Stefan passed quickly through the main tent, looking
neither left nor right, then through a wide fenced area and into a smaller
tent. He stopped short, his eyes widening as his gaze shifted from the Turkish
guard,
lashed
and hanging limply from a wooden post,
to an outstretched form bound hand and foot, and lying on a blood-soaked cot.
He moved closer, his lips tightened into a grim line. It was not a pretty
sight.

Frederick's naked body was streaked with blood and dank
sweat, his face black and blue, his eyes swollen shut. His fingers and toes had
been mutilated, and scorch marks crisscrossed his chest where a hot brand had
seared into his flesh. His left leg had been broken, and twisted cruelly
beneath him, shattered white bone breaking through his thigh.

Stefan fought back a wave of unexpected nausea. He had seen
far worse on the battlefield time and time again, but there was something about
this man that struck him to the core. His body had been reduced to ruin, yet he
lay there with a quivering defiance Stefan had seen in few others, friend or
foe.

"He has refused to say anything for two
hours," the captain blurted, standing at his side. He had regained his
breath, an incredulous look upon his swarthy face. "He grinds his teeth,
screams, moans, cries out for God, but other than that, says nothing . . . even
through this." He shook his head, perplexed. "Just when I begin to
think he will take any information he possesses to his grave, all of a sudden
he asks for you, Commander."

Stefan drew closer to the cot, studying the once
handsome face. Frederick's breathing was very shallow, and it appeared he had
lost consciousness.

The captain seemed to have the same thought. With a
callousness born of practice, he grabbed a bucket of cold water near the cot
and threw it in the prisoner's face.

Frederick gasped, his body jerking spasmodically. His
eyelids were so swollen and puffy, he could not open them. He turned his
head,
his lips cracked and bloodied, his rasping voice
barely above a whisper.

"H-has he come? Count von . . . Furstenberg. Has
he come?"

Stefan knelt on one knee next to the cot, the captain
hovering over his shoulder. He glanced up, annoyed. "I can assure you,
Captain, if the prisoner says anything of importance, you will soon know it.
For now, stand back."

The captain's eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly
complied by retreating to the entrance to the tent.

Stefan turned once again to Frederick. "I am here,
Count Althann," he murmured. "The captain says you want to speak with
me."

"Kassandra . . ." Frederick moaned.
"Kassandra . . ."

Stefan blanched. For a moment he said nothing . . .
could say
nothing
. His eyes bored into Frederick, the
same unsettling chill he had felt earlier racing through his body.

What rantings were these? Had the man gone mad from the
pain, his mind dredging up memories from the past as his life streaked before
him? Why, Frederick had not seen Kassandra since . . . since Prince Eugene's
gala. Had he been summoned only for these lunatic mutterings?

"Kassandra," Frederick repeated, his voice
cracking and breaking, yet stronger this time.

Stefan reached out and gripped his shoulder, regretting
his action when Frederick groaned hideously. He drew back, restraining himself,
not knowing what to do, feeling as if he were the one going mad.

"Why do you say her name?" he asked, his
breath jagged, his face taut and drawn. "Why?"

"First . . . you must promise me."

Stefan started. "Promise you . . . promise you
what?"

Frederick tried to lean forward, struggling against his
bonds, but he fell back, the wasted effort shattering his body with wrenching
pain.

"Promise me . . . I will . . . die swiftly. N-not
. . . impalement. Please . . . promise me, Count Stefan . . ." he
whispered, tears oozing through his swollen eyelids and streaking down his
ashen face. "S-swear it."

Stefan swallowed hard. He was certain this condemned
man knew something about Kassandra. And he was bargaining, even now! He nodded
quickly, his throat constricted,
then
remembered
Frederick could not see his assent. "Yes. Yes, I swear it," he
agreed. "I swear, on my life. Now tell me. What do you know of
Kassandra?"

Frederick turned toward the tented ceiling, a great
shuddering sigh expelling from his body. "She lives," he murmured
simply. "She lives."

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