However, Cadoc only smiled, raised his cup, and replied, “You can tell me your name, my lady, and whatever else you care to. You can gladden me with your company for a short while. That is ample. Drink, I pray you.”
She sipped. Deliciousness flowed over her tongue. This was no berry wine of the backwoods, it was—was— “I, I am—“ Almost, she gave him her baptismal name. But of course that would be unwise. She believed she could trust this man, but if a sorcerer somehow learned it she would be open to spells. Besides, she seldom thought about it. “Svoboda Volodarovna,” the name she used at home. “From … afar. Where is your friend?”
“Rufus? Oh, I’ve put him to getting your clothes as clean as possible. Afterward he won’t disturb us. I gave him a flagon of his own to keep him company. A loyal man, brave, but limited.”
“Your servant, then?”
Did a shadow flit across his face? “An associate of mine for a long, long time. He lost his hand fighting once, warding my back, when a gang of Saxons ambushed us. He kept on fighting, left-handed, and we escaped.”
What were Saxons? Robbers? “Such a wound should have disabled him, at least. Most men would soon have died of it.”
“We’re a tough pair. But enough. How did you happen to be abroad after dark, Svoboda Volodarovna? You’re clearly not the kind who ordinarily would. It was sheer luck that Rufus and I were in earshot. We’d been having a last cup with a Rus factor I’ve come to know; bade him goodnight since we must rise betimes tomorrow, set off, and then— Ah, it seems God would not let a lady such as you come to sordid grief.”
The wine glowed and thrilled in her blood. She remembered caution, but did find herself blurting out as much as Gleb had revealed on her behalf to Olga Borisovna and … and, as her voice ran on, to Igor Olegev. Cadoc’s shrewd, quiet questions made it easy.
“Ah,” he murmured at length. “Thank the saints, we did save you from ruin. That besotted mercenary would have left you in no state to hide what had befallen, if he left you alive at all.” He paused. “Whereas you can tell your landlady, and afterward that man who’s playing father to you, that you stayed too late at the church, lost in prayer. It’s nothing unusual hereabouts.”
She bridled. “Shall I give them a falsehood? I have my honor.”
He grinned. “Oh, come now. You’re not fresh out of a cloister.” She didn’t know what that might be, but caught his drift. “How often in your life has a He been more than harmless, been a shield against hurt? Why put the good Gleb in an awkward position, when he has worked so hard on your behalf?” Impudently: “As the go-between who brought Igor the chandler a superb new wife, Gleb can await excellent business deals. Spoil it not for him, Svoboda.”
She covered her confusion by draining her cup. He refilled it. “I understand,” he said. “You are young, and the young are apt to be idealistic. Nevertheless, you have imagination and boldness beyond your years, more than most men do, that you would set forth into an altogether different life. Use that wisdom.”
Sudden desolation welled up in her. She had learned how to turn it into mirth of a sort. “You talk as my grandfather might have,” she said. “How old are you?”
His tone bantered. “Not yet worn out.”
Eagerness to know surged like lust. She leaned forward, aware of his awareness of her bosom. The wine buzzed, bees in a clover meadow. “You’ve told nothing of yourself. What are you?” A prince or boyar, ending his father’s name not in “ev” but in “vitch”? The byblow of a forest god?
“A merchant,” he said. “I’ve followed this route for years, building my wealth till I own a ship. My stock is fine things: amber and furs from the North, cloths and delicacies from the South, costly without being too bulky or heavy.” Maybe the drink had touched him a bit also, for he added, puzzlingly, half under his breath, “It lets me meet people of many different kinds. I am curious about them.”