Chapter 37
Belgrade, Serbia
Frederick’s eyes narrowed as a gilt and painted carriage, covered with scarlet cloth fitted over a frame and harnessed to a matched set of silver-gray oxen, came to a halt along the teeming riverfront wharf, not far from where the fishing boat had docked only an hour before.
The carriage was flanked by a motley group of twenty Janissary soldiers on foot, ten on each side, a tiny fraction of the large garrison assigned to protect the city.
Yet they looked more like outlaws in their mismatched uniforms, the white cotton turbans on their heads the only item that distinguished them as members of the Sultan’s elite corps of infantry soldiers.
And, indeed, they were outlaws. Renegades, protecting a distant military outpost far from the control of Sultan Achmet.
Hasan had told him how they had murdered the last pasha of Belgrade, cutting him into small pieces with their scimitars for no reason other than that he restrained them from plundering the surrounding countryside.
Now Mustapha Pasha was general here, commanded by his own Janissaries.
He had not dared to punish them for his predecessor’s murder, for fear of his own life.
On the contrary, he had applauded their action, showering them with gold and blessing their fierce raids into Hungary, where they raped and pillaged, burning everything in their destructive wake.
It was to this man, a ruthless coward, that Frederick was entrusting Kassandra’s care and protection while he traveled on to meet the Grand Vizier.
Frederick shrugged. He had no choice but to leave her here in Belgrade. There was simply too much at stake to do otherwise. He could not have her slowing him down on his journey toward Constantinople, a journey that would be treacherous enough for him and his Janissary escort.
Frederick’s lips thinned into a tight line. He only hoped Mustapha nursed a healthy fear of his powerful cousin, Halil, as well, and would think twice before touching Kassandra while she was in his safekeeping.
He would have to make it very clear she was destined as a gift to the man who was second in command only to the Sultan himself…a man who could end his life, cousin or no, with the flick of his hand or a simple nod if Mustapha sampled what did not belong to him.
Frederick watched silently as the driver of the carriage and the accompanying servant jumped from their high seats to the ground.
The driver flung open a corner of the rich cloth to reveal the silken interior, while the servant rushed along the length of the boat.
When he spied Frederick standing near the prow he stopped abruptly, raising his voice as he bowed numerous times.
“His Grace, Mustapha Pasha, welcomes you to Belgrade, Count Althann.” He bowed again, sweeping his arm toward the carriage. “Please, His Grace awaits you anxiously at the fortress.”
Frederick’s expression remained impassive as he bowed his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment of the well-dressed slave. He turned to the two sailors standing just behind him, and spoke to them in Serbo-Croatian, their native language.
“Fetch the woman. But first see that her hands are tied and she is blindfolded.”
They nodded, ducking their heads as they clattered down the wooden steps into the hold. A few moments later they returned, a subdued Kassandra stumbling between them.
Frederick could not suppress a wry smile, noting they had also gagged her. He had not heard her this quiet since they left Vienna. Yet his smile quickly faded as he studied her more closely. This was the first time he had seen her since the night she had tried to escape.
Her cheeks were pale, her hair unwashed and stringy, and her cotton gown hopelessly wrinkled.
He had held good to his threat, and she had spent the last week below deck, confined to her cabin.
Obviously the lack of sunshine and fresh air had dampened her spirits, though it had done little to mar her beauty. She was as lovely as ever.
He had taken her impassioned oath to heart as well. It had shaken him deeply.
Never before had a woman vowed to take her life if he so much as touched her, and that was one thing he did not want to have on his conscience.
It was bad enough he couldn’t sleep at night, thinking about the fate that soon would be hers.
Yet it was not enough to sway him. He was as much of a coward as Mustapha, fearful of his own wretched life above all else…
Damn Sophia to hell! he raged, his fists clenching as he willed the disturbing thoughts from his mind. One day he would repay her for what he had been forced to do to this innocent girl!
“Take her to the carriage,” he said gruffly. He followed the two sailors as they hurried down the plank and onto the wharf, carrying Kassandra between them.
Like a lamb to the slaughter, Frederick could not help thinking, climbing into the silken interior of the carriage and settling himself on the plush cushions piled upon the lacquered floor. He watched grimly as Kassandra was propped up beside him, then the scarlet curtain was closed.
Yet this lamb would know her fate, he decided, and who had so drastically altered the course of her life. At least he could give her that. Perhaps her hate for him, for Sophia, would give her courage to face what was to come.
The carriage jerked into motion, the sound of the Janissaries’ boots striking up a measured cadence as they began the long ascent up the rocky hill to the massive fortress overlooking the city.
“Welcome, Count Althann,” Mustapha Pasha exclaimed, clapping his pudgy hands. Gold rings, encrusted with precious jewels, glittered from every finger. “Your reputation of excellent service to Our Most Supreme Sovereign, the Sultan Achmet, precedes you.”
His wide smile suddenly faded and he clucked his tongue in agitation.
“Hasan Aziz was here only six days past, with such news, such news. The Imperialist dogs! He is well on his way to Constantinople by now, to alert the Sultan…” He paused, waving away the unsettling news as if he were swatting a pestering fly.
“Ah, but we can talk of this later. You are most welcome here.”
He stepped closer, his slippered feet making no sound on the polished marble floor that shone like glass. “Who is this?” he asked softly, studying with veiled curiosity the gagged and blindfolded woman kneeling beside Frederick.
“She is a gift for His Grace, Halil Pasha, upon his arrival in Belgrade,” Frederick replied pointedly, stressing the Grand Vizier’s name. “I have brought her to you for safekeeping, until she may be presented to him. Her name is Kassandra.”
“Ah…” Mustapha breathed, his hands forming a triangle as he rested his index fingers on his broad lips.
Frederick watched as he walked around both of them very slowly, his gown of purple silk stretching taut over his vast stomach and falling into swirling folds around his short legs, the ermine hem of his white pelisse brushing along the floor.
Kassandra had started at the sound of her name. Once again she did not understand the language being spoken, but she knew it was Turkish. As she now knew Frederick was a spy for the Turks.
And that it was Archduchess Sophia von Starenberg who had brought such wretched injustice upon her…
She winced, shifting uncomfortably, her knees aching from the cold, hard floor. Yet she was grateful for the pain. It was the only thing that made her feel half-alive, the numbing shock of everything Frederick had told her during the carriage ride to the fortress becoming stark reality in her mind.
It had spilled from him like a flood, like a wild confession—Sophia discovering he was a spy through her dwarf, Adolph, who was probably the same little man Kassandra had seen at the theater, in the carriage, and after her fall; Sophia’s demand that she be killed if Frederick wanted to preserve his secret; the drowning hoax; on and on.
Now she knew her life had been spared for a fate perhaps crueler than death.
She was to remain in Belgrade under constant guard until she was presented to the Grand Vizier as a slave for his harem!
Frederick had told her about everything, his cowardice, his greed, as if he believed she would never be able to use such knowledge against him.
As if she were to disappear from the face of the earth. The only thing he hadn’t told her was why Sophia had done this to her…why?
Kassandra felt an anguished scream rise up in her throat, stifled only by the filthy gag in her mouth.
Deep in her heart, she knew the reason. It was as old as time itself. Jealousy. Sophia loved Stefan…and would stop at nothing to have him.
Had she succeeded? Kassandra wondered wildly, tears stinging her eyes beneath the blindfold.
Would Stefan forget her so easily, to find solace in the arms of the woman who had plotted her death?
Sophia had been his mistress; he must have some feelings for her.
Oh God, please tell her he hadn’t forgotten her!
Kassandra drew in her breath, her roiling thoughts shoved rudely into the recesses of her mind as a moist hand, smelling of sweet perfume, glided across her cheek. A silken garment whispered about her arm and shoulder. Mustapha Pasha! Would this nightmare never end?
“Is her tongue like a serpent’s, sharp and tinged with venom, that you have her mouth bound so?
” Mustapha asked, standing in front of Frederick once again.
“Are her eyes, like Medusa’s, able to turn a man to stone?
I think not.” He sniffed delicately, lifting his hand to his nose.
“She is unclean, but from what I can see, that is her only true fault. Yes?”
Frederick studied him shrewdly. He nodded. “Yes, Sire, her only fault.”
Mustapha clapped his hands together, and two female slaves appeared as if from nowhere. They prostrated themselves on the floor before him.