Blind Allegiance (Viking Romance) (The Blind Series)

by Rand, Violetta

  Noelle crinkled her nose, displeased with the already less than favorable opinion of her homeland. She bit her tongue, remembering what was at stake. This was no longer about her own welfare, the maids clinging to her skirts required protection. If she set herself at odds with Randvior’s mother, nothing would go well for them.

  Aud looked around uncomfortably while the older woman kept a sharp eye on him. Finally, he faced Noelle again. “The girl . . .”

  These men spoke truth as easily as her brother told lies. At this moment, Noelle wondered which caused more harm. Finesse, even if used sparingly, would have aided her cause much more.

  Randvior’s mother opened her eyes wide with surprise. She exuded authority and conceitedness, grace, and power all at once. A formidable woman and she looked Noelle over like a head of livestock under consideration for purchase.

  “She’s malnourished,” she commented unfavorably. “The color of her hair is simply unnatural, dyed I should think. So unlike the women my son typically favors. But who can keep up with a man’s passing obsessions? Once we take the shears to her head she’ll know her place in his household.”

  Noelle turned abruptly and stared directly into her eyes. “You’ll have no easy time laying a finger upon my head,” she warned. “I’m quite aware of my position. My father is no commoner.”

  To think she dared suggest cropping her hair. A woman’s hair is her crown of glory—cut it and I shall become as insignificant as a bondswoman. This was a cruel practice, utilized even in England, to distinguish between the classes.

  Aud’s eyes darted between them. Noelle knew he was very familiar with feminine quarrels, he had three daughters.

  As Lauga’s mouth dropped open, Noelle prayed a swarm of locusts would descend from heaven and fly inside, shutting her up for eternity.

  “Do you know whom you address, girl?” she asked.

  “There was never a question in my mind about your identity—Randvior is your son. I shall extend a courtesy you failed to show me by introducing myself. My name is, Lady Noelle Sinclair, and I am your son’s guest, not his slave.”

  Her eyes became narrow slits, as gray and frigid as the North Sea. Color drained from her cheeks and she harrumphed, obviously unaccustomed to having her authority challenged. The similarities between mother and son were astounding.

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “I am Jarl Randvior’s mother, Lauga.”

  Noelle nodded. If they could just start over, she would admit his mother deserved reverence. But if she threatened her again, Noelle was prepared to defend herself.

  “I’m surprised my son bothered bringing home an English harridan. There are at least twenty women in the Trondelag more worthy of his affection.”

  Aud raised an arm above his head, signaling for reinforcements. No need. Randvior started up the footpath and the crowd turned away from the ensuing disagreement and focused exclusively on him. Much applause sounded as he came closer. Noelle met his eyes and smiled; he nodded and jogged the rest of the way, just in time to see his mother’s unpleasant face. He stepped in between them, and gave Noelle a sincere look.

  “Odin må ha satt vinden i ryggen. Men hans forbannelse er på deg på samme tid, se tispe han sendte over vannet med deg som plager oss alle.” Lauga’s tone left little to imagination.

  “Nok! Du er min mor, men jeg har tenkt å bli viet til denne jenta, og vil ikke tolerere noen fornærmelser,” Randvior countered, stepping closer.

  They exchanged more heated words before Lauga finally relented and looked away spitefully.

  Randvior grabbed Noelle’s hand. “I never intended for this to happen. My mother is overly protective of me, even though I’m a grown man.”

  She managed to veil her truest feelings with a thin smile. The biting chill in the air made her teeth chatter, her fabric cloak poor protection against the rising wind. She searched the ground, frost crowned the wilted vegetation poking through patches of ice and snow. The wide path before them meandered up a hill, and people were walking to and from what she assumed was the direction of Randvior’s house.

  More than anything, she wanted a hot bath, food, and sleep. Perhaps a night away from her lover’s amorous sexual appetite, too. It meant a chance to recover and figure out how she could deal with his antagonistic mother.

  “Come,” Randvior said. He led her away, through a crowd of cheering admirers.

  As they climbed to the top of the hill, she spotted the wood and stone longhouse that Randvior had so carefully described to her. It was situated in a valley, surrounded by forest and pastures. They walked down the incline and slowly approached the facade.

  Ornamental stone and woodcarvings of mythical creatures graced the double-arched doorway at the entrance. A gray stone fence demarcated the main courtyard at the front, and dozens of men were seated at tables around a huge fire pit, eating and drinking. Once they realized their jarl had arrived, they dropped whatever they were holding and saluted him. Randvior released Noelle’s hand and walked ahead to greet them.

  One of them handed him an ale horn. He raised it ceremoniously and swallowed. Amber liquid dripped down his beard as he smiled exuberantly, very much the barbarian she’d pictured him as in these familiar surroundings. She had to admit, she enjoyed seeing him this way. He offered high praise in both Norse and English. He thanked them for guarding his lands so loyally. The guards stood and saluted him again. Randvior reached inside his cloak and pulled out a leather coin bag. He tossed it on top of the nearest table.

  “Silver,” he said.

  Randvior pulled Noelle in front of him. “See what else I have brought home.”

  Catcalls and whistling erupted.

  Noelle frowned. How easily he reverted back to that uncivilized nature once he was surrounded by his kinsmen.

  Once the laughter and noise stopped, Randvior spoke again. “I present to you Lady Noelle Sinclair. She will be staying here as my personal guest.”

  Several men expressed their approval and offered their own titles and names. One name caught her attention, Rafael Long-foot. She looked at his feet. Completely normal. And Rafael seemed much too Spanish for a Norseman. Noelle couldn’t help but smile at their adolescent behavior. Buffoons.

  Randvior continued, this time in Norse. She didn’t understand a word. Judging by the serious looks on his men’s faces, it must have been along the lines of She’s mine. Keep your bloody hands off her. But he had only referred to her as a guest.

  Formalities complete, he escorted Noelle inside. The great hall was more spacious and well-appointed than she had expected. Rectangular in shape, it boasted the largest hearth and finest mantelpiece she’d ever seen. Along the north wall was a raised stage and throne. A less imposing chair stood next to Randvior’s seat and she wondered if one day she would occupy it. Her eyes slipped back to the over-sized throne. Only kings sit on thrones. Just who is this man?

  The chair was shaped as an ancient oak tree in full bloom. Silver and gold medallions, similar to the ornaments on Randvior’ boots, graced the tips of the branches. Golden-threaded tapestries depicting famous scenes from history, including what she believed were the infamous brothers, Romulus and Remus, suckling at the she-wolf’s teats in what one day would be the gateway to the city of Rome, decorated the walls. The flagstones were covered with luxuriously thick animal skins and soft carpets.

  The high table sat on a wide dais steps lower than the throne. She counted eight rows of tables and benches below, where guests would feast alongside him. A room fit for a king.

  The kitchens were located off the south end, from which permeated the irresistible scents of roasting meat and bread. Her stomach groaned miserably. Her diet had consisted mainly of salt fish and stale bread over the last ten days. She craved fresh meat. Randvior must have heard her hunger pangs and threw her a sympathetic look.

&n
bsp; “There will be a grand feast this evening, min lille dukke, perhaps the kind you’ve attended at court. My storehouses will be depleted, but my stomach will not be disappointed for it. Do you want to take a bath?”

  She cheered instantly, willing to forget hunger in trade for fresh water. She felt disgusting, sticky with salt, sweat, and who knew what else from head to toe. Two men came inside carrying her trunks.

  Lauga interfered before her son could direct them. “Shall we settle your mistress in the thrall’s quarters where she’ll be most comfortable, or will she take one of the small chambers off the kitchen?”

  Unaffected by his mother’s meddling, he waved his hand. “Enough folly, Lady Sinclair is an honored guest in this house. She will occupy the suite on the north end of the second floor.”

  “Adjacent to your personal chambers?” She seemed truly scandalized by his choice, her intolerance growing by the second.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Need I your permission to bed a girl under my own roof?”

  Lauga puckered her lips in complete revilement. It was becoming painfully apparent to Noelle why he had revealed very little about his family. He spoke so fondly of his sire, sadly an invalid, crippled in a war nearly a decade ago. But his mother, he told her, was an accomplished spaewife. Not a white witch, but one who dabbled in the dark arts. And for this reason, she was both revered and deeply feared by his people.

  The men carried her luggage upstairs.

  His gaze drifted to the English maids standing nearby—Deanna, Katherine, and Johanna. They were young, the eldest being no more than twenty.

  “You may choose one of these women as your personal attendant. The other two will work in the kitchens.”

  A generous offer—but she hated the idea of rewarding one and forcing the others to work in the kitchen with strangers. She’d choose all three if she could, but if she did, would Randvior withdraw his original offer? Common sense overruled her hesitation, having an English woman as her companion would help. She carefully considered each, remembering how they performed their duties at home. Even-tempered Katherine would serve quite well. She accepted.

  “Now that the lady has chosen, we can properly prepare the other women for service. Shave their English heads.” Lauga struck again.

  Noelle pinched herself. Any hope of building a lasting rapport with this woman was fading—her inconsiderate nature reminded her of Brian’s selfishness.

  Deanna and Johanna cowered nearby, covering their heads. Noelle refused to allow anyone to lay a finger on them.

  She rolled her eyes heavenward. “English women don’t shave their heads, madam,” she said, and shifted into a defensive stance in front of the girls. She would shield them with her own body if necessary.

  Randvior intervened. “They serve as freewomen, paid a regular salary.”

  She prayed his word was final concerning household arrangements and deliberated whether this was Lauga’s way of retaliating against her only child for frightening her by not sending word of his whereabouts. Thank God, the woman didn’t live at his steading fulltime! Her home was located miles away where she lived with her husband. But she imagined Lauga freely exercised her authority in this house in the absence of a proper mistress.

  They said nothing more for a few moments, then Randvior looked at Noelle. “Aud will see you to your room.”

  She inclined her head and waited for the captain to signal their departure. She followed him upstairs and down a narrow hallway. They stopped at the last door on the right.

  “This is your suite.” He opened the door.

  She stepped inside and the door closed. Sunshine brightened the room. She noticed every detail of the comfortable furnishings and feminine tapestries that decorated the walls. Her trunks were on the floor near the bed. Feeling as frolicsome as any child, she couldn’t resist the urge to jump up and down on the new mattress. After nearly smacking her head on the beams above, she allowed herself to fall back into the thick padding.

  Liberation at last. No Vikings and no smug-faced mother.

  A sweet scent drew her to the far corner. A ceramic bowl filled with dried rose petals and heather made her smile. She further explored. The suite consisted of three rooms: her bedroom, a sitting room, and a second bedchamber probably intended for Katherine’s use. The furniture looked expensive, likely imported from exotic lands. These rooms were intended for a woman the jarl wished to pamper. Her favorite spot was in front of the two large windows, along the west wall, where a carved table and matching chairs gave her a perfect place to sit and view the river.

  Noelle opened drawers and cabinets. She found a jewelry box sitting on top of a bureau, and eyed it suspiciously. Perhaps something the last occupant accidentally left behind? She braced herself for anything as she opened the lid, imagined it contained a trinket that Randvior had presented to his last mistress. There was a card inside that simply read min lille dukke.

  Underneath the paper was a beautifully crafted gold bangle. It felt solid and heavy in her hand. The goldsmith had engraved it with the tiniest shapes. She walked to the windows and held it up, closely examined the intricate designs. Her Christian name was inscribed on the underside. She stared at it in amazement. When did he find the time to have this made for her? And exactly what did it mean?

  She wanted him, and reveled in the memory of being close to him—his manly scent filled her head, nearly intoxicated her. Even the first day on ship together, before he touched her so intimately, strange warmth settled into her bones whenever he came close.

  No. This was part of his plan. Make her vulnerable and weak, so she’d submit to his demands without a fight. One minute her heart ached for home, and the next she agonized over the man who took her away from everything she loved. The old belief that distance makes the heart grow fonder was an outright lie. What stood in front of her nearly consumed her soul. She must keep the memory of Ophelia alive and draw strength from it. Neither her father nor Margaret could still the whirl of emotions in her head and heart now.

  Somewhere underneath the jarl’s rigid exterior was a man of limitless curiosity and passion. She noticed it on their voyage first—how he immersed himself in everything she told him. He asked questions, sometimes too many. He forced confessions out of her more efficiently than a priest, ones only God should hear. And now she regretted acting too hastily, asking him to find her a suitable husband. She slipped the bracelet on—a perfect fit—like their bodies.

  She left England a prisoner and arrived in the north as Randvior’s mistress. He could deny it all he wanted to spare her feelings. But truth is truth. Flaunting her so openly in front of his mother reinforced her point. And now this extravagant gift.

  Similarities existed between Ophelia’s lover and Randvior. Her mind twisted. His gentle hands had worked miracles with her body. And he saved her life on more than one occasion, too. Her sister’s lover was no saint; he had threatened to kill her father after he refused to allow them to wed. Both men killed for a living, whether for a king or themselves really made no difference to her.

  And the Viking had killed his own conscript so she could escape. He never denied it. That man’s blood stained her hands, too. Noelle knew men killed for only a handful of reasons. To protect their lands, for sovereignty, or for the people they loved. The first two were irrelevant.

  Randvior is a man, and they always do as they wish. One thing did separate him from most men, though. He revealed secrets so easily—spoke of his gods as if he walked and talked with them every day. A soulless man would say nothing, feel nothing.

  What would Margaret say if she knew Noelle was considering a union with the man that nearly destroyed their home? Did it matter? Hundreds of miles separated them now. If she resisted, what benefit would come of it? And if she opened her heart to him . . .

  Her thoughts bounced wildly ba
ck and forth. Should she choose loyalty for her family or allegiance to a man she hardly knew?

  And for this reason, a man shall leave his father and mother’s house and cleave unto his wife . . . To become one flesh.

  She was full of reluctance. If the Viking ever offered her his love, she’d wait to choose.

  “You are wrong about the girl,” Randvior spat, holding a glass of wine in one hand, banging the other on the table.

  Lauga sat next to him, questioning him at every turn. She’d spoken no kind words or said anything useful from the moment he’d arrived home. If he mentioned Noelle, she refused to acknowledge her as anything more than a slave, and continuously referred to her as an English whore.

  “If you will not send her away,” Lauga said, “relieve her of that English pride before she grows too proud to serve you.”

  “Silence!” He threw the goblet across the room. It hit the back wall and shattered. “You’re twisting words. That tongue is as destructive as a battering ram. I’ve been home for only five hours and you’ve managed to set this household onto a path of chaos. The girl stays. It is not open for discussion.”

  From his seat at the high table, he could oversee all the activities going on in the hall. Occasionally, people gazed in their direction. Public arguments with his mother weren’t so unusual—only the current topic. Lauga despised the English. Randvior hoped she only needed some time to adjust to the idea of having Noelle around.

  “Sleep with her then,” she said, rising quickly. “Bed her until your prick rots off.”

  He slammed two fists on the table. “Sit down, now!”

  Lauga shook her head. “I am not the one that turned this wonderful homecoming into a funeral feast. What would your father say if he knew you brought a Saxon home and deposited her in the most comfortable rooms in your house as if she were your own wife?”