That explanation didn’t seem to satisfy her. She looked hurt and confused, and stepped back.
Foreseeing her next move, he rested his hands on her shoulders to keep her from running. “Be still.” The decision was made. Rachelle Fiennes would travel with him as far as the coast.
A Norseman speaking fluent English was the last thing Rachelle expected to find. He understood every bloody word she’d said from the start. Did he do it for protection or to trick her? She shouldn’t care. But he differed so greatly from the ferocious Vikings described in childhood legends. He exuded confidence and exercised mercy—she suspected that’s why she still breathed. They shared a common bond. Both mourned the loss of a loved one.
A tepid north wind caught her face as she stared in the direction the soldiers had ridden. If only they carried news about her uncle. She would follow them to the ends of the earth to hear it. Deep inside, she believed her uncle was dead. Whenever Rachelle loved someone, they abandoned her or died. It was an undeniable fact. This left only one person in the world she could love and trust—her closest friend Mercia. But Rachelle wouldn’t burden her. Mercia’s family had no money to help.
Trapped between her sorrow and the need to leave years of suffering behind, she considered her future. Having waited for a sign from God nearly all her life, each day had been filled with nothing more than tentative happiness. Little by little her uncle convinced her to live again, to smile and laugh. Not wanting to disappoint him, she’d conditioned herself. Yet underneath, anguish thrived. That was the sum of her life.
Her heart quickened at a crazy notion. Could this man be the answer to her childhood prayer? There was something about him that made the earth move under her feet. Or was that fear? She still considered it. What if her bitter portions had suddenly run out?
The Viking exhaled and snatched her hand. “It’s time to go.”
“Before we do anything, I want to know why you were playing dead on this field.” Her gaze flicked up, meeting his.
“You can ask as many questions as you like, I won’t answer. I’m not in the habit of discussing personal matters with Saxons.”
His gaze slid shamelessly down her body as he muttered, “Why are you so bold and beautiful?”
Rachelle didn’t know if she was meant to hear those words. It baffled her.
As if snapped back into the moment, he asked, “Why were you examining an unconsecrated corpse?”
“Am I expected to answer your inquiries after you completely disregarded mine?” She needed to argue to feel alive again.
“Listen to me.” He gave her a gentle shake. “By morning, this field will be crawling with soldiers. I have no choice but to leave you behind. If you hide until daylight, you’ll be safe.”
His words jolted her. She didn’t want to stay alone in the dark. Just a moment ago, he’d announced it was time to go. Assuming he meant both of them, she tried to make sense of it. “What will you do with your brother’s body?”
“I’ll finish what I started.”
Willing to endanger his life for the sake of a funeral proved he was comprised of more than beastly instinct. It deepened her desire for a family of her own. The giant unhanded her, then returned to his brother’s side. He dropped on one knee.
“Lo, gjør Det jeg ser min Far, og Lo, gjør det jeg se min mor, og Lo, gjør Det jeg ser mine brødre og mine søstre og Lo, gjør Det jeg ser mitt folk tilbake til begynnelsen, og Lo de gjør kaller meg, og byd meg ta min plass blant dem i haller av Valhalla, Hvor modig vil leve evig . . .”
His ardent entreaty raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “What does it mean?”
“Lo, there do I see my Father, and Lo, there do I see my Mother, and Lo, there do I see my Brothers and my Sisters and Lo, there do I see my people back to the beginning, and Lo they do call to me, and bid me take my place among them in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave will live forever . . .”
She wanted to believe his gods would grant his request.
Miraculously, it began to drizzle. She tipped her head, letting raindrops fall on her face. After months of drought, this was like manna from heaven. Wishing it would wash away the evidence of the battle, she froze when she saw the Viking arranging the body on the pyre. After crossing a sword and shield over his brother’s chest, he kissed his cheeks. Finished with his preparations, the Norseman took a square piece of metal and flint stone from his belt. Misery and regret had silenced him altogether now.
She edged closer, standing at a respectable distance. Nothing could ever strip this memory from her mind. The tenderness this man displayed, the heavyheartedness that showed on his face made her heart skip a beat. Knowing firsthand what it felt like to lose someone, her own tragic memories came flooding back. Tears tracked down her cheeks. She’d cried more over the last two days then she had in years.
Not even the light rain could keep the flames from licking higher. Her body tensed. Men should be buried, not burned. Standing on the opposite side of the pyre, the fire illuminated every hard detail of the Vikings form. Pain and exhaustion were etched on his face. His broad shoulders drooped as if he’d been whipped.
She knew he risked capture if they delayed their departure any longer. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Rachelle didn’t care who or what he was, she never wanted to see death again.
At first, Tyr thought it would be a good idea to take the girl with him. But after she demanded answers he wasn’t willing to give, he quickly changed his mind. A swift escape and time alone with his thoughts is what he wanted, not a cackling moorhen trailing him everywhere. After walking briskly for three hours, the girl caught up once he slowed down. He’d rather have Loki on his heels.
“Stay here. I’ll give you a knife and build a fire and shelter.”
She adamantly refused. “You’d abandon me in the middle of nowhere?”
“You cannot consider it desertion if I didn’t invite you to travel with me.”
In the moonlight, her pearly skin made him want to touch her. More reason to put as much distance between them as he could. What strange thoughts were playing in her mind? Her people were searching for her. She had somewhere to go. Perhaps this was a passing fancy, an adventure for a pampered girl who suffered from nothing more than boredom. He wouldn’t ask. The less he knew, the better.
Frustrated, he pointed southwest. “Go.”
“You can only order dogs and children home that way.”
What a stubborn little wench. Sighing, he rubbed his chin. Logic didn’t work. Neither did direct commands. It was too late to frighten her off. Didn’t she sense the danger of the forces at work here? All-consuming hatred drove him right now. If he acted upon it, nothing good would result. He closed his eyes.
Tyr wanted to take her, to carry her innocence away like a trophy. Stegir’s death had eternalized a level of grief and violence he’d never known. Vengeance pumped through his veins. Saxon pigs . . . He ran his fingers through his hair. He wanted to leave this place before he changed his mind, turned back, and slaughtered anything with a pulse.
That’s what she risked if she kept following him.
To reach the coast by sunrise, he needed a horse. Searching the nighttime sky, he used the constellations as a compass. Headed northeast, he already smelled the salt air and heard waves crashing against the shore. That’s what he loved. The ocean provided everything a man needed to survive. At this moment, it was his lifeline—the only way home.
Looking back at the girl, her motives still remained a mystery. She offered a sad smile. His palms went clammy. “There’s nothing to grin at,” he chastised. “Many died today.”
“How many?”
Gods curse the delicate inflection of her voice. He didn’t want to remember the details. It slowed progress and forced him to recognize his shortcomings as a leader. Recalling the faces of the men whose lives he’d carelessly turned over to Hardrada. Maybe if he answered, she’d shut up.
“Nearly ten thousand.” He recoiled. “T
he most decorated warriors from Norway have fallen, including many of my own.” Odin keep them.
Rachelle’s eyes widened. Her gaze was solidly fixed on him. “We’ve both suffered—”
“We have nothing in common.” His fury exploded. “I don’t care why you were roaming the battlefield. Don’t pretend to share my pain and offer false sympathy. Did you forget yourself, Rachelle Fiennes? You’re Saxon.”
She licked her lips nervously. “How kind of you to speak my name for the first time while insulting me. Yes, those soldiers were looking for me. And if I wanted to be found, I could have bitten your hand so hard you would have screamed to high heaven. But I didn’t.”
Hammer some common sense into this girl’s foolish head. Boundaries, that’s what he needed to establish to protect them both. And he should instruct her not to challenge someone bigger and stronger than she. He didn’t care to hear why she stayed.
“My name is Jarl Tyr Sigurdsson, and that’s all you need to know. Don’t consider me an ally because I spared your life. And cease talking, I cannot think straight.” He’d been patient. Tolerant. But it must end here.
Then those fathomless eyes brimmed with tears. Guilt surged in his chest. Kick a dog, it comes back. Make a woman weep . . . Although he wanted to comfort her, if he did, she’d use it as a reason to stay. She sniffled, then wiped her face with her sleeve. I mustn’t blame her for my misfortune. Who was he to judge? Half his cursed blood was English, too.
Finished with her for the moment, he started to walk again. His rank mood only deepened. What Odin-loving man could suppress his rage after his heart had been ripped out of his chest? And his gut moaned from hunger. Every sort of distressing thought crossed his mind. His parents would never forgive him for Stegir’s death. Tyr should have sent him home to Scotland after he confirmed plans for the invasion. Drit . . . His whole world was disintegrating.
A half hour later, he spied firelight in the near distance. He stopped. Finally, the gods interceded on his behalf. The landscape had started to change dramatically over an hour ago. Woods and a small lake were ahead. He’d survived sipping on mead for two days. If there was a camp, he’d find food and maybe a horse. Fresh water to drink, too. He’d kill a man for a loaf of bread.
Rachelle stopped beside him and gazed ahead. The empty look in her eyes sent a shiver down his spine. He’d not addressed her since the argument. “Thirsty?” he asked calmly.
“Not for that poison you offered me before.”
Strong spirits weren’t meant for women. “We’ll rest here.”
Nodding, she glided down the footpath ahead of him. Convinced the girl had lost her bloody mind, her latest reaction confirmed it. One minute she was in tears, the next, as joyful as a child on a casual walk. Everything felt strange here. Plodding after her, he approached the water, yards down shore from her. Through the thin moonlight, he could see her washing her face and hands. Dragging his feet in the shallows, he crouched, scooped up a handful of water, then drank.
Laughter echoed across the lake. He shot up—looking left, then right. Nothing. Perhaps the local residents were celebrating their victory. Surely, her countrymen would take care of her. Now would be the perfect time to leave. He gave her a last look, then silently slipped into the woods.
It didn’t take her long to notice his absence. “Tyr.”
His heart quickened. Too loud, she nearly screamed his name. Be quiet. Do anything but cling to me . . .
Rachelle tried to stay calm. She nibbled on her bottom lip. Given the dreadful events of the day, why should his disappearance bother her? Fantasizing about a new life was hopeless. Whatever awaited her back home, she’d face it. Did she have a choice? She needed to prepare for whatever life God intended her to live. With or without the love of a family. People suffered far worse fates every day. She was just another girl in a great wide world full of heartache and death. The elders in her village often debated about predestination and freewill. Today, she sided with the supporters of predestination. No matter what she did, she couldn’t change the future. God blessed and cursed humankind as he saw fit. Thinking on the tribulations of God’s most faithful servant, Job, made her more appreciative of her circumstances.
Nothing would make her regret meeting Tyr Sigurdsson. In the time she’d spent with him, she’d learned so much. Heard his incantations and witnessed pagan funeral rites. She’d carry that knowledge with her and would always be grateful he’d spared her life. It was time to let go of childish imaginings and accept that part of her had perished with her parents. She couldn’t resurrect that piece of her soul. But if Uncle Henry was alive, she swore to try harder.
Feeling better, she turned west. Thanks to Tyr’s exceptional navigational skills, her sense of direction had been restored. All she needed to do was walk through the night and she’d get back to where she’d started. And closer to her uncle, she hoped. Before she’d gone too far, a pack of men approached. Their discordant greetings between gulps of wine were followed by a string of garbled praises to King Harold for slaying the barbarians. Not wishing to appear frightened, she greeted them.
“A great day for England,” she chimed in.
They raised their bottles in salute. “To the king!”
The largest gave her a lopsided grin. “Lost?”
Thankful for the silvery bright moonlight, she searched their faces. Besides being intoxicated, they seemed friendly. “No,” she lied. “I’m on my way home.” That sounded idiotic. Women didn’t travel across the moors in the middle of the night.
The man who offered the first smile shrugged. “Rare to find such a pretty bird out here,” he observed. “Didn’t you give your own safety any thought?”
Her eyes locked on his. Panic slowly chilled her blood. Five of them . . . she tried to think of an appropriate response.
“Come.” The lout offered his hand. “We’ve a warm fire and food to share.”
“Don’t waste your time.” One of his companions slapped him on the back. “Look at ‘er. She’s no lady. Coin is the only thing that will change her mind.”
That snide comment deserved a slap. Before she had a chance to retort, all five encircled her. She struggled to stay calm. Showing fear would only encourage more intimidation and bad behavior.
The big one snared her hands and tried to coax her to go with them. “I’ll keep you warm.”
The smell of male sweat, mixed with his rancid breath, made her stomach churn. Yanking her hands free, for a split second, she scanned the trees. Tyr had vanished. No other alternative existed.
She ran.
The sound of pursuing footsteps made her legs buckle. Tackled from behind, she tumbled and smacked her head on the ground. Rolling onto her back, she struggled to take a full breath as she crab crawled away. The beast with bad breath stumbled closer, taking a last drink from his bottle. He tossed it over her head. It hit the water with a splash. Loosening his breeches as he advanced, she was trapped between the water and her assailant.
“I wish I had a hot little piece of arse like you at home. I’d never leave.”
She burrowed her fingers into the muddy earth. Two more steps and he’d be standing at her feet. If he were closer, she’d spit in his eye. Tempted to slither into the water like a snake, she guessed what would happen. She’d drown because of her fear. Better take her chance fighting on solid ground. Her mouth dropped open when he pulled his breeches off. Having never seen a man naked below the hips, her eyes were naturally drawn south. Choking back her alarm, she tried to forget the grotesque appendage covered with dark coarse hair. She knew what he wanted. God designed men and women to fit together. And her dear uncle, who considered knowledge more deadly than weapons, had told her what to do if a man ever tried to rape her.
The chance to test her kinsman’s advice never came. A bloodcurdling scream fragmented the silence. Out of nowhere, Tyr appeared and swept his sword horizontally. The rapist didn’t see it coming. With one stroke, Tyr separated the man’s head from hi
s body. The gruesomeness of his act forced her into silence. Turning away, she heard a cry of dire warning.
“Norse!”
Looking up, the Viking, who stood only a few feet to the right of her, jammed his elbow downward, smashing the nose of the man who came at him first. That one crashed to the ground. Another challenged Tyr. His blade stopped him short. The ruffian grabbed ahold of his left side and sank to his knees, howling in pain. Rachelle saw blood gushing from the wound. Stunned by Tyr’s raw courage and speed, Rachelle stared unblinking at her rescuer. He’d only confronted three. Where were the other two? Worried, she started to call to him.
But he dropped his sword and shot left before she could make a sound. Squinting, she watched as he caught the fourth derelict by the nape as he started to run. Lifting him off the ground, Tyr snaked his arm around his neck. The unmistakable sound of snapping bones made her body clench. Before the corpse slid to the ground, the last man fell on his knees and begged for his miserable life. Stepping close, the corners of Tyr’s lips curled upward into a ruthless grin as he backhanded the drunkard so hard his head rolled back.
After observing such brutality, she didn’t know what she thought or felt anymore. That Viking—half man, half beast—had single-handedly eliminated four lives. Fearing for Tyr’s mortal soul, she shoved forward, intent on saving the last man’s life. “Leave him to God’s justice.”
“If the White Christ’s idea of justice is allowing a defenseless woman to get raped by five men—to Hel with your faith,” Tyr snarled.
The sot opened and closed his bloodied mouth, then clamped onto Tyr’s feet. Kicking him off, Tyr pulled his war axe. He rested the edge of his weapon on the coward’s left shoulder. Murder sucked the goodness from men, the more they killed, the more inhumane they became.
Blind Mercy Page 3
