“That does not concern me,” said Danaë loftily. “It is your part to leave no traces. You have a boat ready at a suitable place, able to sail at any moment?”
“A boat, my lady?” Petros was taken aback. “Why a boat?”
Danaë stamped her foot. “Fool! to carry off the Lady to Strio to her prison, of course. And how are the little lord and I to return thither, pray? Did you think the Lord Romanos would willingly part with his son?”
“My lady”—Petros looked at her with cunning eyes—“you are wiser than I. I have indeed been remiss, but the boat shall be ready. How could my lord your father be other than delighted to receive the beloved wife and child of his illustrious son?”
“She is not his wife!” cried Danaë. “His wife must be Orthodox and of royal blood. She is neither.”
“Yet the little lord will be welcomed and honoured as the heir of the Christodoridi?” insinuated Petros humbly.
Danaë felt as though a pitfall had opened before her feet, but she faced him undauntedly. “That does not concern you, friend Petros. The Despot will do as he pleases. I have not felt obliged to share with you the secret instructions he gave me.”
“And I did not expect it, my lady. Only—there are some who would willingly make everything secure by killing the Lady instead of merely carrying her off.”
The chronicles of the Christodoridi included a not inconsiderable variety of cold-blooded murders, but Danaë blenched. Nevertheless, she endeavoured vigorously to justify herself, realising that Petros was gloating over her horror.
“What is that to us? You have the Despot’s orders to bring her to Strio, not to kill her. To remove her evil influence from the Lord Romanos is a good deed, but to shed blood would be to bring sin upon our souls. Moreover, I, at least, would sooner have the witch in captivity, where I knew her to be secure, than set her malicious ghost free to haunt me.”