“Not our God.”
Rage had been building inside Tyr’s gut for days. He’d warned his cousin on numerous occasions to never refer to the White Christ as their god. Standing abruptly, he reached across the table, then grabbed Aaron by the front of his shirt. “Blood . . . you claim blood will mollify the cowards in Oslo. What about the brave men who perished while you sat on a boat waiting for me? You’re a bloodsucking tick on my hairy arse and nothing more. What gives you the right to make observations of any kind?”
“For the love of Christ.” Aaron rolled his eyes. “Have ye any idea how dangerous it is to be in opposition with the royal family at the moment?”
“I care nothing for what apostates think. Have you forgotten Hardrada’s younger son? Olaf survived. He’ll winter in the Orkneys, but after his return, he’ll bring some common sense to the table. Did I not tell you this country will be partitioned? Until that day, Norway is far from peace. A regent alone hasn’t the authority to cancel treaties or forge new ones. Things will remain as they are until Olaf returns. These are my lands—purchased with my father’s blood, sweat, and faith. I’m a jarl, not some sniveling thrall. Odin breathed life into me, not your mythological god! Think before you speak again!” He released Aaron.
A frown furrowed Aaron’s brow. He downed a second serving of mead. “A pity you feel so adamantly. Hardrada’s son is at your doorstep.”
Tyr’s mouth tightened instantly. Why would Magnus leave the security of his fortress to travel here? “How did you find this out?”
“I shared a drink with his guards. If you’re thinking the regent is here, don’t. This is the king’s third child.”
Tyr wanted to strangle Aaron. Third child? His cousin thrived off the enmity between them. “Which son?”
“His bastard.”
Anger prickled the back of his neck. He stared at Onetooth, who stood close by. Did the regent think so little of the Trondelag that he sent his sire’s illegitimate spawn to investigate the nobles who sacrificed their wealth and lives to serve his father? Tyr wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt.
“What shall I tell him?” Aaron asked.
“You spoke without my permission?”
“Aye,” he answered cockily.
Tyr’s gaze swept the length of the great hall. He needed a diversion before he hacked this interloper in half with his battle axe. “I sent you on patrol, not on a peacekeeping mission. What does he want?”
“To meet with you.”
Tyr rubbed his chin, then sat down. Half-blood. Still Hardrada’s offspring. Diplomacy was a cumbersome process. Might he turn this unplanned meeting into an opportunity to benefit the jarls who shouldered the responsibility of protecting Odin’s faithful? What gods did this man worship? “Fetch him.”
Aaron threw him a skeptical look.
“Escort the man to the hall, you worthless whoreson,” Onetooth interposed.
Ignoring his captain’s insolence, Tyr spoke. “If you prefer I send someone else—”
“No.” Aaron leapt to his feet. “I’ll go.”
Rachelle cracked her bedchamber door open. If she moved too fast, the floorboards creaked. Only the flickering light of wall torches greeted her. She was stunned. No guards were posted in the corridor. Onetooth had rushed through the eventide meal and hadn’t stayed to share a glass of wine as he usually did. Last night, she’d questioned the old warrior until he’d sighed in frustration. His tolerance for her constant prattling was nearing its end. This much she had learned: Tyr issued three missives addressed to her uncle within the last three weeks. Each letter was entrusted to an official representative.
Demand for ransom. That’s what she assumed. Curse Tyr’s wretched soul for taking advantage of her aged kinsman—if he was even alive. Hope took root in her heart. She prayed multiple times each day. Let Uncle Henry be alive and well. Onetooth revealed nothing about the content of those letters. Although he did advise her to give it time. The North Sea claims her dead in winter. What ships sail to England go slowly.
A season for all things . . . Not the approach she was willing to take any longer. She wanted answers.
Knowing anonymity was her only chance of getting outside unnoticed, she tucked her long hair under the hood of her wool cloak. She planned on investigating Tyr’s household to find out if there was any news about her or England. The best place to do that might be in the courtyard where she knew men lounged and drank. Most of the people who lived in the main house were quartered on the first and second floors. Slaves shared rooms off the kitchen or lived in the thatch-roofed huts west of the hall. She didn’t expect anyone to be upstairs. The feast was in full swing. Creeping to the end of the hallway, she made it down the first flight of stairs.
Bearded gods, women, and ale . . . The only things these Northmen cared about. She rolled her eyes at the loud noises below. The unabashed fornication and overindulgence in anything pleasurable in this household appalled her. She’d witnessed more than enough her first night here. Maybe there was an advantage to living so unrepentantly. No fear of eternal damnation.
Rachelle crouched on the first stair overlooking the great hall.
Trestle tables were arranged in a rectangular configuration. Polished metal torch stands formed a fiery ring around the celebrants. Slaves rushed in and out of the kitchen. The noble women seated at the tables wore colorful tunics and headdresses. Even the servants were dressed in finery.
One woman drew Rachelle’s undivided attention. The same blonde that Tyr had fondled stood near him, dressed in a charming green gown. Her lustrous tresses glistened in the candlelight. Remembering the passionate kisses she shared with the Viking in England made her jealous of his servant.
As guests shuffled around, Rachelle had an unobstructed view of Tyr’s profile. He was seated at the center of the high table with Onetooth at his right and a man she didn’t recognize to his left. Aaron reclined inelegantly in the chair next to the stranger. Tyr’s impressive stature captured her interest again. His thick hair was braided at the temples, adorned with silver and gold beads. Wearing a black tunic, embroidered with gold thread over a burgundy linen shirt, the jarl looked the perfect nobleman. His guest must be an important dignitary.
She lowered her eyes. This would be the last time she allowed that bullying swine of a man to get inside her head. What remained of the wreckage of her life was more important than Tyr. With renewed confidence, she slipped onto the landing. Not one soul paid any attention to her. The loud noise and cramped conditions in the room would shield her from notice, she hoped. She made it to the doors.
“Søster.”
Who said that? Although it was spoken in Norse, Rachelle understood clearly. So many women were here, why fear anything? She rested her hand on the metal latch.
“Sister,” the same voice called out in English.
The music dwindled. Afraid, she opened the door.
“Stopp den jenta,” someone called.
Her heart somersaulted inside her chest. She couldn’t look. That order was directed at her. Fisting her left hand, she held onto the door so tightly her right hand went numb. Then the sound of padded footsteps came. Closer and closer. Until soft leather boots appeared in her periphery. She wavered as a firm hand grasped her shoulder. Twisting around, she acknowledged the man with a mere nod.
“Come,” he said.
The sentry’s soft smile was reassuring, but it didn’t dismiss her fears. Head hanging, she avoided the stares she felt on her back as they walked between the tables. She still refused to raise her head after they stopped in the center of the room. The guard tapped her shoulder.
“You’ve nothing to worry about, girl,” he assured her.
Yes I do. As soon as Tyr and Onetooth recognize me . . . Thank God the hood covered most of her face.
“If you’re disfigured in any way, sister, tell me, and I’ll leave you in peace.” That gentle voice had a calming effect, but that name he kept calling her—sister—irritated her beyond
measure. She crossed herself.
“Ah . . .” The stranger stood. “A Christian. So I speak righteously when I call you sister. Come, shed your veil, and reveal your identity.”
The price she’d have to pay for leaving her room. Lowering the hood, unruly, loose waves of hair broke free and tumbled down her back. She met Tyr’s heated gaze first. She scowled. He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. Onetooth looked away. Guessing the stranger to be nobility, she couldn’t possibly deny his simple request. Something had caught his attention. Did she look that suspicious sneaking outside?
The visitor sucked in a satisfied breath. “Radiant. I’m never wrong. You’ve been hording this breath of joy, Jarl Sigurdsson. Not that I blame you.”
Tyr’s big hands opened and closed slowly. He sat close enough to grab ahold of the stranger’s throat. Something sinister flashed in Tyr’s eyes, making Rachelle swallow. He’d worn the same dire look when he’d tied the drunk to the tree in Durham.
“May I introduce, Rachelle Fiennes?” Tyr said, his tone reserved.
She curtsied, hoping to avoid Tyr’s displeasure.
“Saxon?” the guest asked, surprised.
“A halfling, Prince Edwin.” Tyr responded.
A prince . . . She should be relieved to be in the company of someone so civilized. This place could use a bit of refinement. And how clever of Tyr to figure out her parentage without asking. She frowned at him again.
“Jarl, you continue to impress—such diversity in your household.” Edwin complimented.
“This woman’s father was a simple gentleman. It’s through her father and mother’s lineages that we discovered her wellborn Norman blood.”
Tyr’s caustic tone, along with every word he spoke, hurt to the core. Her eyes burned, but she refused to give in.
“Sit with me, Lady Rachelle. We shall enjoy this meal together.” Edwin saved her.
A thrall immediately responded to his invitation by placing a chair next to the prince. Rachelle didn’t bother seeking Tyr’s approval. She stepped onto the dais, then passed between Edwin and Aaron. Edwin rewarded her with a dazzling smile, took her hand, and brushed a soft kiss across her knuckles.
“I look forward to getting to know you, sir,” she said with as much flare as she could muster. “Meaningful conversation and a good meal is a most welcome change.”
Bastard, you mean . . . Tyr focused on the largest fireplace across the room. He didn’t like being reminded of his mistakes with Rachelle. Overhearing every falsehood Edwin whispered set his blood on fire. What a preening rooster—fatherless weasel.
Of all nights, why did she choose this one to disobey him?
The prince’s pomposity continued. “I’ll provide an escort and give you a personal tour of the countryside.”
Over my dead body. “The lady stays here.” Edwin’s ridiculous suggestion needed to be curtailed before it went any further.
The nobleman frowned.
“I have yet to earn my host’s complete trust,” Rachelle explained.
Edwin’s dark brows slanted. “How could that be?”
Tyr was beginning to despise the man. “She’s a quarrelsome wench.”
“What if I personally guarantee the maid’s safety?”
As persistent as any pestilence. Tyr shook his head vigorously.
“Perhaps we can discuss this another time,” the prince persevered. “There are other issues of importance we need to focus on, Jarl Sigurdsson. If you’ll reconsider supporting me, and make a public oath that you recognize me as one of my late father’s legitimate heirs, I promise to increase your holdings. As you know, my mother’s family hails from this region, less than a day’s journey northward. We are connected by more than just duty, we are brothers.”
“And sisters,” Rachelle added.
Tyr sucked in his laughter when he realized Edwin had missed her sardonic tone. Exchanging a quick smile with her, Tyr’s heart cheered at her audacity.
“Yes.” The prince patted her hand. “Women are welcome, too. Anyone from the Trondelag who endorses me will find favor in my eyes. My beloved father misjudged the intentions of the northern lords. These aren’t barren lands. Odin’s spirit is alive everywhere I go.”
“But you’re a Christian,” Rachelle suggested with surprise.
“I’m open-minded, dear,” Edwin boasted. “And prepared to share my lands with anyone who seeks sanctuary here. I’ll ask very little in return.”
“With the exception of our money,” Onetooth blurted.
That raised enough laughter from the lower tables to cause the prince’s face to flush. He deserved it. Tyr knew he’d never traveled farther than Oslo in his pathetic forty years of pampered life. No king allowed his bastards to be seen. “Forgive my captain, his prejudices parallel your father’s.”
“Aye.” Edwin acknowledged. “It will take time and patience to reverse the damage done by such misconceptions.”
Tyr would expose this fool’s treachery. If he guessed correctly, as soon as Edwin had received the news of his father’s demise, he’d raced to Oslo to reunite with his half-brother. Norwegian law didn’t specify standards for the maintenance of illegitimate children. Hardrada’s holdings were considered a private estate. How he divided his wealth amongst his vassals was his choice. Instead of deflating Edwin’s ambitions, Magnus must have seen a strategic use for him. Appoint him as an honorary minister and send him on his way. Out of sight, off his mind, and out of his way.
Now, the ingrate was abusing his newly forged alliance to rally support for a claim on the throne. Not a bloody chance in Hel. If Norway was divided into thirds, it would cripple the country. Hiding his true feelings, Tyr raised his goblet in salute. “To our distinguished guest . . .”
For a moment, Rachelle thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in Tyr’s voice. It seemed odd to her that he offered a toast. He obviously didn’t care for the opinions or presence of Edwin. She shifted her hips, sitting at an angle where she could give her full attention to the prince, while keeping an eye on Tyr at the same time. She began a new conversation with the prince.
“How long will you be in this part of the country?” she asked.
“I’ll stay until I prove myself to these hardened warriors.”
“It seems we are both in need of a little hope to see us through our troubles.”
Hugging her with his gaze, he asked, “How did you become a guest in this house?”
A question she wasn’t sure she should answer. Knowing the jarl was monitoring their conversation, she looked up. The jealousy in Tyr’s eyes made her nervous. Surely, he didn’t care if she told the truth. Her family history had been made public. Why not her misadventures with Tyr? “Jarl Sigurdsson found me on the battlefield near York.”
“Found you?” Edwin repeated. “And what was a frail creature like you doing out there? Where’s your father? Does he know you’re here?”
Tears formed in her eyes. She leaned forward, then touched Edwin’s arm. “My sire is long dead, sir.”
The prince snatched her hand, then squeezed it. “Who takes care of you?”
His touch didn’t bother her. Those dark consoling eyes had a peculiar effect. It must be more than the mere fact they both lost their sires. Perhaps this man had the same gentle spirit as Onetooth. Naturally, she’d be drawn to that type of character.
Rachelle could feel the unease rising around her. Although she spoke softly, she knew Tyr overheard everything. The more information she volunteered, the more flustered he became. She didn’t care. Tyr had assumed responsibility for her without seeking her approval.
Eyes narrowing, she wondered if his duties included telling her whom she could form friendships with. So this is how a man reacts when he feels threatened by another. Sexual attraction existed between them. That teasing rogue made sure she didn’t forget it. Surely, he didn’t consider Prince Edwin a rival. These two men differed in every possible way. The jarl expressed himself through brutality. Edw
in communicated on such a higher level, relying on intelligence and grace.
“I’m afraid I cannot answer that question directly,” she said solemnly. “After my parents died, my uncle assumed responsibility for me. I haven’t seen or heard from him since the war ended. I fear the worst.”
The prince seemed genuinely concerned. He released her hand, then leaned back in his chair. “I’m sure Jarl Sigurdsson felt mightily compelled to provide protection for you once he learned of your unfortunate circumstances.” Turning to Tyr, he continued, “I now have a deeper understanding and respect for you. I didn’t realize how gallant you truly are.”
The compliment was met with a moment of total silence as Tyr leveled his stare at the prince. “Save your praise for someone more gullible,” he snarled.
Rachelle gasped. Why in God’s name would he show contempt for a nobleman? Such mood swings. Tyr drained his cup, then poured another serving of wine.
“I apologize for any misunderstanding,” Edwin said.
Tyr waved him off.
“Shall we concentrate on the purpose of my visit?” the prince asked. “Although Rachelle is a pleasant diversion, there is the matter of recording your account of what happened—”
“If Magnus requires a full report, I’ll pen it myself and have one of my captains deliver it posthaste.”
“Jarl Sigurdsson,” Edwin addressed him sincerely. “I understand the delicate nature of all this. Believe me. My father is dead. My brother intends to find out what went wrong. His order supersedes all else. Perhaps if I spent the night, we could revisit the subject in the morning.”
Tyr bellowed with laughter. “That’s not going to happen.”
Chapter 9
Denied
At times, Tyr found it difficult to control his aggression. Tonight, his hospitality ended at the feast table. Honorary guest—a damn shame to waste those words on a man as slippery as a snake. Prince Edwin masked his true intentions for spending the night. The knave wanted to stay close to Rachelle, nothing more.
Blind Mercy Page 9
