Blind Mercy

by Violetta Rand

  Nearing mid-ship, Rachelle’s feminine laughter had a perverse effect on him. Why did he bring her, a lapse in judgment? Perhaps an uncontrollable desire to have his way with her . . . no . . . she was more than a sexual conquest. When he had first cracked his eyes open to see who was standing over him on the battlefield, he thought Odin had sent a Valkyrie to escort him to Valhalla. The girl turned out to be flesh and blood. What delicious flesh to see, but damn her Saxon blood.

  After stalking to a row of wooden boxes stored near the mast, he opened one. Taking out a large fur, he closed the lid, then faced the girl. If she was going to stay with him, he’d better consider her safety more. Slipping behind her, he covered her shoulders. She snuggled into it, welcoming the warmth. There should be dry clothing for her somewhere. As for shoes, he eyed his young thrall. His feet might be near the size of Rachelle’s. The boy could wrap his feet in strips of fur to keep warm. Anticipating colder weather, he didn’t want his precious cargo getting chilled.

  Any encouragement Rachelle received from Onetooth, to make her feel more welcome within the confines of the ship, disappeared by the third day of the voyage. Today, Tyr amassed most of his men. He glanced at Rachelle. She hugged herself, knowing what must be done. He’d condemn only himself by sharing the news that Norway had no king. Having grown up in an officer’s home, she’d been exposed to many unhappy conversations regarding military affairs. The thrill of victory wouldn’t be experienced by these men.

  Looking as dignified as he possibly could, Tyr began. “Every man is responsible for his own life. Limitless rewards are bestowed upon the man that girds himself with vigilance and wisdom and who keeps his eyes focused heavenward for signs from the gods. Hardrada’s men threw caution to the wind after we conquered York.”

  The longer he hesitated, the more she noticed how his head dipped and his shoulders became a little less erect.

  “I will not dishonor our brethren by recounting useless details—I’m not particularly interested in who was at fault—logic was abandoned in York. After King Harold attacked, most were not prepared to defend our position.” His voice was thick with regret. “A single warrior stood out amongst Hardrada’s forces. Raising his weapons fearlessly against our enemies, he alone held Stamford Bridge and prevented the complete annihilation of the army. What you deserve to know, need to know . . .” His head drooped. “King Hardrada is dead.”

  A graveyard possessed more life than this vessel in the moments following Tyr’s pronouncement. Shock and confusion set in. Rachelle overheard heated words. Fists were raised toward heaven. Threats and curses were sworn against the Saxons. Shrinking back, she met Tyr’s steady and hardened gaze. Although she deeply respected his constraint, she couldn’t help feeling threatened. A lamb trapped in a lion’s den.

  “Any survivors?” someone asked.

  By God, she could feel Tyr’s suffering deep in her bones.

  “Few,” he answered.

  “What happens when we get home?” an oarsman queried.

  “Norway will be partitioned between Hardrada’s sons, Magnus and Olaf, as the law permits.”

  “If our treaty with Hardrada is nullified,” Onetooth started, “where will the children of Odin safely gather?”

  “As long as breath remains in my body, we will continue to thrive in the Trondelag. I’ll never bow to the cross as our forefather, King Olaf, did. His transgressions died with Hardrada. If Norway faces war again, I’ll be the first to raise my sword in her defense. Our sovereigns will face violent opposition if they try to forcibly convert us. Sancta Sedes will never enjoy episcopal jurisdiction over our lands, or the people who seek religious freedom there.” He cocked an angry brow at Rachelle. “No man wearing the holy robes of the Church will ever be welcomed in my home—unless he’s dragged there in chains.”

  She felt as small as an insect in his shadow. Tyr’s hostility made him seem a hundred feet taller. Deadly, more and more like the maddened wraith that butchered those men in the moors. The little cross pendant, hanging on a gold chain around her neck, seared her skin. A precious gift from her mother, she refused to take it off. Swallowing hard, she prepared for whatever came next.

  “The English crushed our army, not our hearts.” Tyr pounded his right fist against his chest. “We’ve prospered keeping the old ways, venerating Odin, and remembering our blessed ancestors. For countless generations, we smashed our enemies—burying their brittle bones in unmarked graves, condemning their spirits to roam the earth as nightwalkers. We are feared and revered, loved and despised across three oceans. Don’t be troubled my brothers, even Odin’s children don’t know when Ragnarǫk comes. Lives will be lost. But remember, some shall be spared. Death in battle is our duty.”

  “Overly disparaging, don’t you think?” Saffron colored eyes dominated the lean, but attractive face of the man who dared interrupt. He wore a green and gray tartan over a long-sleeved linen shirt.

  Rachelle couldn’t believe a Scotsman was on ship.

  “Not everyone has an open invitation to Valhalla.” He maneuvered dramatically around the jarl.

  Tyr’s face tightened. “No,” he agreed. “And not all Christians are hunted down like swine in the Trondelag. Perhaps I should have kept the old tradition alive whilst we were in England, cousin, and skinned you alive and nailed your bloody carcass to the church doors in York.”

  Onetooth joined Rachelle. She looked at him in question.

  He patted her hand. “Don’t lose any peace over them. That’s Aaron McNally, the jarl’s patronizing cousin, first son of his departed uncle, Brandon McNally. They grew up together in Scotland.”

  “Is he . . .”

  “Aye.” Onetooth’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “A bloody Christian.”

  “And the threat—”

  “Masculine posturing, nothing more. Aaron is a leech who takes advantage of Tyr’s generosity. Instead of pledging fealty, Aaron meddles in all things sacred and political even though Norway isn’t his homeland. He prefers to sow seeds of discontent over hard work. If ever a man deserved to have his black heart ripped out . . .” Onetooth swallowed his last words. “Disregard everything Tyr said about nailing his useless hide to the church doors.”

  “Aren’t most legends based on truth?”

  The oarsman regarded her, then answered. “You’re a witty one. I admit there’s truth in it. A century ago, enemies of the church were indeed punished that way.”

  She jerked upright. Her tutors had conveniently forgotten to share this piece of history with her. Then another man came forward.

  “Stegir?”

  Cringing, Rachelle groaned at Tyr’s reaction.

  His shoulders slumped. “Dead, goddamn it. Dead.” Appearing defeated, he said, “I’m finished speaking.” He stormed away.

  She sighed and turned to Onetooth. “I pray he has more brothers.”

  “Two,” the henchman answered.

  She smiled ruefully. “Why doesn’t Tyr live with his family in Scotland?”

  “Ah,” Onetooth sighed. “He chose this life over a Christian one. Although his mother and siblings prefer the new religion, he followed in his sire’s footsteps. Praise the gods. He traded his inheritance in Scotland, Ireland, and the Orkneys for his lands in Norway. Without him, Odin’s legacy would have disappeared. And now, he’s one of the only chieftains powerful enough to afford the high taxes Hardrada imposed on all the pagan families to avoid severe criminal penalties.”

  She looked up at Tyr’s menacing form. He’d moved away from the crowd and was staring overboard. Beyond her own fatigue and heartache, the jarl’s pain squeezed her heart, too.

  Minutes later, she didn’t hear Tyr approach. Onetooth coughed, looking uncomfortable.

  “I’ll provide the history lessons, old friend,” Tyr said.

  She ran her tongue over her dry lips. A warning. Onetooth lowered his head, then left them standing alone.

  “Don’t blame Onetooth for anything. I’m to blame, always sticking m
y nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Willing to shoulder the responsibility for an old man’s wagging tongue?” Tyr rubbed his chin. “Most women deny responsibility altogether. You’re an intriguing creature, Rachelle Fiennes. Protecting a Norseman when you were raised to hate us.”

  She most absolutely should—independent of what she’d been taught. A week ago, she had fallen asleep safe and secure in her own bed. The next day, the king’s recruiters came to her village. Hatred required too much. And as she stood there staring at Tyr, she couldn’t imagine ever hating him.

  “Come with me.” He offered his hand.

  They walked to the stern. The sailcloth had been hung for shelter. Peeking inside, Rachelle eyed a pallet, table, and stool appreciatively. A small brazier warmed the space. She stepped inside and sat down.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t provide these accommodations sooner,” he said.

  “I understand. You’ve much on your mind.”

  “Aye . . .”

  Distracted by how attractively his mouth moved when he spoke and how his thin shirt hugged his muscles, his words fell on deaf ears. With shoulders and arms as hard as granite, she wondered if any man had the right to be so tantalizing.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Startled from her thoughts, she repositioned herself on the stool. “I’m sorry.”

  The apology didn’t mollify him. “Come here.”

  She’d seen that look before. Shaking her head, she scanned the tiny enclosure.

  Ignoring her refusal, he stomped closer and hooked his arms around her waist. Tyr lifted her to her feet. “I want you.”

  Was everything so easy for him? Affection was given, not taken. Crushing her lips with his, his big warm hands moved up her back. Strong fingers kneaded the tension from her shoulder blades. What would he think if she tried to molest him?

  “So blasted sweet.”

  Blooming heat suffused her body. Pressure built inside her breast. This scoundrel’s intentions were clear, evidenced by his intrusive hands wandering down the front of her dress. Maybe he wasn’t thinking straight. All that distress and pain . . . She landed a limp-wristed slap on his chest. Feeble resistance seemed better than none.

  He rolled back on his heels. “I told you I’d never hurt you.”

  “I know.” Reason rang sharply in her ears. She didn’t want to lose her virginity. “I’m not ready.”

  He waved his hands. “Maidens rarely are.”

  His indifference upset her. Didn’t he have the sense to see she suffered, too? “I don’t appreciate your attitude. You tricked me into accompanying you, insulted me in front of your men, threatened to tie me to a bench, and now expect me to act the wanton. My maidenhood is intended for the man I love.”

  “There are better uses for your mouth.”

  Shaking her head in disgust, she thought him the biggest lout she’d ever met. Often, men acted as creatures without conscience—driven by something she didn’t fully comprehend. Lust and passion were only part of it. They hungered for control. Complete dominance. Even the matrons in her uncle’s small household endured this harassment.

  Not me. She wished to be left alone. “Don’t you have something important to do?”

  He studied her face. “Be quiet my beautiful little fool, before I silence you.”

  Tyr tilted her stubborn chin. He brushed another kiss across her lips. “Do you realize what a nuisance you are?”

  “Maybe you should have left me on the beach.” Her muscles felt weak, and her mind a bit hazy from no sleep. That padding on the floor looked more inviting than the softest feather mattress. Rest would restore her strength. Give her the sharpness of mind she needed to match this giant’s wit.

  “And what would leaving you behind have accomplished? I have plans. Trust me.” He pinched her cheek, then left her standing alone.

  Chapter 5

  Words

  Rachelle’s rapid heart rate separated her from her dream. She stared overhead, the daylight muted by the white fabric that served as a roof. Days and nights blended together on this ship. They’d been at sea for seven. The only reason she knew was because Tyr informed her daily. Sleep should have brought relief. Instead, she felt muddleheaded. Stumbling to her feet, she pretended she was still wrapped in her mother’s protective embrace—a recurring dream she’d had since her parents died. Keeping their memories alive made life easier to face. Damp air chilled her. Why did she let Tyr Sigurdsson bring her here? A long agonizing moment passed as she relived the hours she’d spent scouring the fields for her uncle. The cries she’d heard from men she’d never see and all those bodies.

  She had a right to change her mind. Maybe if she asked the Viking to drop her off in the nearest port she could pay passage back to England . . . Except, she had no money. No means to support herself. Damn it. Surely he’d understand. His brother’s death affected him the same way her fears about her uncle impacted her. The Norseman had been kind, before he’d tried to seduce her again. She reconsidered it. His personal feelings were secondary to her concern for family. Maybe he wouldn’t help, but she must try to convince him otherwise.

  Shrouded in fur, she stepped outside the makeshift tent. It must be very early in the morning. The moon and sun were nearly aligned. Stars still dotted the horizon. She’d never seen anything so beautiful. Men were sleeping huddled together. She passed Onetooth, then Tyr’s abominable cousin. A few oarsmen were sitting on the benches, their conversations barely above a whisper. They paid no attention to her as she walked to the side of the boat and looked over the railing. The gray ocean water was eerily calm, almost silent. Magical, if she believed in such nonsense.

  The vessel suddenly turned, gliding into a fjord. She had a panoramic view of snow-capped mountains and rocky ledges. On the highest peak, mantles of bluish-green ice cascaded down and disappeared under water. Across the inlet, a herd of red deer watched as the ship skated by. Rendered speechless by the sights, she visualized her future and wrung her hands. Natural splendor couldn’t conceal the villainous nature of these beasts. Vikings appeared as untamed as their lands. What if she’d had misjudged Tyr? She could easily be a prisoner of war. Maybe he’d charmed her just to get her onboard without incident. If only she had trusted her deeper instincts and run away. She covered her mouth. Wild thoughts circulated in her mind. Fear gave rise to paranoia.

  A horrific rhyme from one of those childhood stories about Vikings popped into her mind. Crush your skull and grind your bones, drain you’re English blood until you’re dead. Offer up your Christian soul, to feed Odin’s great head . . .

  “Enjoying the ride, sweetling?”

  Rachelle turned abruptly to find Aaron McNally standing behind her.

  “It’s beautiful here.”

  “Aye, it is,” he said. “It’ll be the last time you see it.”

  She knew she shouldn’t pay any attention to him, but—

  “The last woman my cousin carried across the North Sea was sacrificed during the spring harvest festival. She admired the wilderness, too.”

  “That can’t be true,” she cried. “Surely, human sacrifice is forbidden.”

  Aaron laughed. “By who, their dead Christian king? The Trondelag is far away from the capital, milady. These brutes worship Allfather, not Christ. You’ll appease Odin’s bloodlust.”

  Rachelle’s eyes widened with horror. Was she a prisoner of war? That didn’t seem beyond the realm of possibility. Turning back to the water, she considered the Scotsman’s words. Was it a warning? Hypnotized by the water, she shrugged off the fur.

  “Are you lying to me?” She didn’t bother facing him.

  “I wouldn’t joke about something so evil. I fear for your life.”

  She struggled to think clearly. Refusing to be a sacrificial lamb for pagans, there was no other choice . . .

  Rachelle jumped.

  Frigid water enveloped her. A freezing kind of hell sucked all the breath out of her body. River Derwent never got this
cold. She paddled vigorously, but every stroke sapped her strength. Within a minute, she started to sink. She flailed and kicked. Her legs got tangled in her skirt, then she sank. With what little strength she had left, she propelled upward and pulled in a long breath. It didn’t help. Swallowing a mouthful of water, her mind started played tricks. Her hands and feet grew numb. Worse ways to die existed. And time didn’t matter anymore.

  Then her skin ignited with pain, it felt like a thousand pinpricks at once. She closed her eyes. Mother. Father. Soon it won’t hurt anymore.

  Tyr heard a distinct splash. His eyes popped open. His gaze swept the deck, bow to stern and back. Aaron was staring over the railing. He stood, then bolted for the tent. Damn the gods. She wasn’t inside. Without thought, he ran toward his cousin, then dove overboard.

  Thank Odin the ship was merely drifting and the river current wasn’t strong. If it were springtime, after the ice melted, Rachelle’s tiny body would have been swept away. Scanning the surface fervently, he didn’t see her. So, he plunged, feeling his way along the silty floor. Cold temperatures had little effect on him. He’d been conditioned for this environment, slowly building tolerance like calluses on a farmer’s hand. He resurfaced and sighted her bobbing above water.

  He gestured, but she’d never see him. With lightning speed, he swam to her. “Why elskede? Why risk your precious life?” He swept her into his arms.

  Her eyes fluttered open. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t understand her whisper.

  “Stay with me.” He swam for the north shore. Reaching it, he hauled her motionless form onto the muddy bank.

  “Følg meg til stranden!” he shouted in the direction of his ship. The narrow strip of mud he stood on was too soft to support the weight of his vessel.