Blind Mercy

by Violetta Rand

  Tyr didn’t like surprises or Saxons. However, he appreciated the other man's astonishment once they both got a full look at each other. Not all Englishmen were cowards. It took a great deal of courage and love for this man to board his ship and sail to Norway. For this reason alone, the jarl would deal fairly with him. Tyr claimed his seat and scanned the room before speaking.

  “You shouldn’t have come here.” Tyr looked at the stranger.

  Short and muscular, Henry stepped closer to the dais. “And you should never have gone to England, you bloodsucking parasite.”

  Tyr’s eyes narrowed at the insult. He cast a look at Onetooth, who always lingered nearby in case violence erupted.

  “But I did, milord, and now you’re here to beg mercy from me. Let us agree to remain civil—I think we might discover we have the same goal.”

  Tyr willed himself to remain calm. The memory of his twin brother’s bloodied body hanging limply in his arms still tormented him. This man sought a beloved niece. Yet, the temptation to thrust a pike through the belly of another Saxon pig crossed his mind, too.

  “I care little for formalities, Jarl Sigurdsson. After we discuss the future of my niece, do with me what you will. Where is she?”

  If only Tyr could give a proper answer. “Gone . . .”

  Rage overtook the older man. “Hva har du gjort med henne du sodomitt?” Henry screamed in perfect Norse.

  Surprised he spoke his language, Tyr replied, “I’ve been called many things, Sir Fiennes, but a Sodomite isn’t one of them.”

  “Where is she?”

  Tyr despised himself for getting drunk and losing Rachelle. “Onetooth.” He’d scour all of Norway if that’s what it took to recover her. “Send out two search parties. Cover the steading first. She may be hiding.”

  Onetooth nodded and left the hall.

  After half an hour of arguing with Sir Fiennes, Tyr was weary and impatient to find Rachelle. “I could send you back to England.”

  "The Normans spared my life, not my lands and wealth. There’s nothing to return to.”

  “Where did you encounter my men?” Tyr asked.

  “In York. So many of my countrymen have been uprooted, York is brimming with migrants. There are no coincidences in life. I believe God brought us here.”

  Tyr nodded. “Sit with me.”

  After a long pause, Henry walked around the table.

  Tyr handed him a cup of wine. “Tell me about the girl?”

  Henry eyed Mercia. “Her mother served me faithfully for forty years. When the Normans invaded, I claimed her as my own daughter so they’d spare her the humiliation other women have suffered.”

  Tyr considered the man’s plight and deeply appreciated his bravery. “You did the honorable thing.” Tyr’s respect for him grew in the span of a few seconds. He signaled for one of his guards. “Take this young woman to Rachelle’s bedchamber. Let her rest. Stay posted outside the door.”

  “Rachelle has her own room?” Henry asked.

  “Did you think I locked her in a cell?” Admittedly, he remembered threatening to do so when she’d insulted him.

  “I didn’t know what to expect.”

  “Tibi seris tibi metis.” This time, Tyr spoke in Latin. As you sow, so shall you reap.

  The Saxon smiled ruefully, then raised his cup. “I cannot deny that bit of wisdom.

  “Your niece has earned my admiration.” Worry gnawed at Tyr’s gut. The longer she was gone . . . “Clear the room.” He intended to win this man’s trust in the next few moments. He was the closest thing to a father-in-law he’d ever get.

  “Rachelle often refuses to stay where’s she’s told. On more than one occasion, she’s placed herself in danger,” Tyr reported.

  “She’s been that way since the day I first met her. Unfortunately, after my young wife died in childbirth, I left England. I wasn’t a part of my niece’s life until after her parents died. I’m afraid I’ve overindulged her. She answered to no one growing up—she ran wild, disappearing for a day at a time.”

  “I must find her.” Tyr wouldn’t rest until he did.

  Aaron sat on a high stool and crossed his legs. He accepted a cup of wine from Prince Edwin’s hand. The transformation from a stately nobleman attending a feast in Tyr’s great hall to the man that stood before him now was disturbing. The prince seemed overly anxious and unpleasant. Of course, being forced out of a jarl’s hall so violently, when you’re the son of the late king, gave this man good reason to be bitter. Aaron hoped Edwin didn’t hold him personally responsible. Surely, he knew how ardently Aaron had pleaded with Tyr on his behalf. Aaron took a sip of his wine and glanced over at Rachelle, who slept peacefully on a pallet in the far corner. Safely delivered as promised.

  Edwin drained his cup, slammed it down, then locked gazes with Aaron. “I asked you to bring Lady Rachelle to me,” Edwin said. “Not to deliver her in bonds.” His agitation crested.

  At least Aaron knew why he was angry now. The marks on her face and her dirty gown didn’t garner trust. “She ran away. What else could I do?” Aaron leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. Goddamnit, even bastards expect the impossible.

  “Console her. Slowly introduce her to the idea of marriage with me. I didn’t ask you to put the fear of the Almighty in her. Look at her. You’ve passed the whole bloody night alone together—need I ask what else happened?”

  A trick question if he’d ever heard one. In truth, Aaron wanted to say he’d tupped her silly, but that would cost him his life. As his captive, he’d done what was necessary to maintain control over the high-spirited lass.

  “Everything I did was reasonable. She’s headstrong—has her own idea of the way things should be done. She’s proven to be nothing but trouble for the length of her stay at my cousin’s home. And I assure you, marriage with anyone is the last thing she wants.”

  “If I find out you’ve harmed her—”

  “Wake her and ask.” He was tired of accusations.

  Edwin grimaced. Color slowly returned to the prince’s face. He shrugged unapologetically and reached inside his pocket for a leather purse. He threw it on the table near Aaron. “Your payment.”

  Aaron retrieved it. The weight of the gold felt good in his hand.

  “Our business is finished for now,” Edwin said. “The wedding vows will be exchanged tomorrow. I expect you to appear as a witness for my bride. Until then, you’re free to enjoy the comforts of my camp.”

  Aaron wished that included Frida’s open arms and legs.

  Once the Viking made his intention of marriage known to Sir Fiennes, a pledge of cooperation swiftly followed. “I clasp your arm in friendship, Jarl Sigurdsson.”

  Satisfied with the arrangement, Tyr excused himself. He went to the courtyard where thirty guards waited. Two thralls handed him his helmet, shield, and sword. “Where is my cousin?” Tyr sheathed his weapon.

  “Gone,” a swordsman answered.

  “You’ve checked the grounds?”

  “Twice.”

  He didn’t believe in coincidences. Henry’s words rang strong—his obstinate niece couldn’t be trusted to watch out for herself. What if Aaron . . .

  Suddenly, Onetooth appeared with Frida in tow.

  “Let me go, old man!” she screamed, trying to wiggle free.

  “Tell the jarl where I found you, or I’ll do it myself.”

  She looked possessed, her eyes enflamed with hatred. “In Sir McNally’s room, in his bed.”

  Damn Aaron. He’d preyed on Frida, and now likely had Rachelle under his control. Tyr grabbed her arm and gave her a solid shake. “Where is Rachelle?”

  She winced.

  “Tell me now or I’ll strip you and thrash you in front of everyone.” Tyr jerked his head toward one of his men and the guard immediately unbuckled his weapon belt.

  Frida trembled at the sight of the leather strap, but it didn’t loosen her tongue. She tried to break free. Fear over Rachelle’s safety ignited Tyr’s fury. He
shook her harder. “Where is she?”

  “Long gone—promised in marriage to Prince Edwin. And by now,” she hissed, “the vows have been consecrated by a priest.”

  Control nearly fled Tyr’s mind and body. To Hel with honor and patience . . . if a woman wanted to act like a man, she should be treated as one. But he’d never hit a female before. Swallowing his rage, the mere fantasy of giving her a good beating would have to satisfy his need for violence. There were other ways to punish his former lover. Besides, if Edwin had planned the wedding for tonight, he’d better ride like the wind before it was too late.

  With no patience left, he addressed Onetooth. “Lock her in her room. I’ll deal with her upon my return.” Tyr eyeballed her one last time. He didn’t miss the pain and embarrassment on her face. How did Aaron convince her to participate in such betrayal?

  Tyr mounted his horse and rode ahead of his men. He didn’t need anyone slowing him down.

  Awake and feeling better, Rachelle nodded politely at the stranger who set a plate of food down on a table near her cot. The servant departed. Three oil lamps provided enough light to see where things were situated. A couple of large trunks in a corner, three cots, furs on the floor, and assorted weaponry. No doubt this was one of Prince Edwin’s military camps. She vaguely remembered being carried inside the tent last night.

  She padded to the table. Her head still ached, but that didn’t affect her appetite. She picked through the food and sampled some bread, cheese, and smoked salmon. She smiled faintly as she chewed. Anything would taste good right now. She traced the scratch across her eyebrow with her fingers, then felt the side of her head, only to wince when she found the painful lump. That blasted tree.

  She’d been taken against her will for the second time in weeks . . . No, that wasn’t entirely true.

  Had she resisted the Viking, she’d probably still be in England or dead by the hand of a raping Norman. She scowled at the thought. Marriage to a royal must offer some benefits. But nothing would change her mind about Edwin’s character. He obviously lacked any morals or consideration for her feelings. She’d been distracted by his kindness at first, she now knew he had only feigned interest in her. Tyr had recognized the man for what he truly was.

  She startled when an old woman entered the tent. Dresses were draped over her left arm and she carried a small box in her right hand. “Milady.” The woman curtsied. “I’ve been sent to help you prepare for your wedding.”

  “Wedding?” The word sounded absurd, she refused to acknowledge it. “Bloody hell,” she whispered, then felt remorse. This poor creature was only doing what she was instructed to do. “May I have the pleasure of knowing who the bridegroom is?”

  The servant gave her a strange look. Of course she would. What woman didn’t know the identity of her betrothed?

  “Prince Edwin.”

  The time of reckoning had arrived. She couldn’t marry him and absolutely refused to accept this fate. “I won’t!” she screamed. “I’ve no desire to be joined with a man I don’t love and can’t trust.” She ran for the opening of the tent. One of the four guards posted outside stopped her. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her further outside. She slapped the brute across the face.

  “Bitch.” He raised his hand.

  “Strike me if you dare,” she challenged. She preferred violence to facing Edwin.

  “Ignore her,” another man advised. “Get back.”

  Trapped between the two of them, she had no choice but to yield. They shoved her back inside. The old woman was waiting patiently next to the mattress with three gowns spread out for inspection.

  Eying Rachelle benignly, she said, “The green silk is my favorite. But the amber has the best beadwork. Which do you prefer, milady?”

  Rachelle wanted to tear the gowns apart. “None.” She cursed again. “Do as you please, I refuse to participate in this mockery.”

  “It’s perfectly legitimate, lass."

  She spun in fury at Aaron's intrusion.

  "You! Why are you doing this?"

  His lips twisted while his gaze traveled over her. “There’s little I could do to damage Tyr. Eliminating you from his life is the first step in restoring my reputation.”

  Her laughter had a harsh, almost hysterical note. “You blame me for your fall from grace?”

  “My cousin lost more than his wits once he found you.”

  “You’re nothing but an envious fool.” Rachelle wished with all her heart that Tyr would send a war band to rescue her. “I’d give anything to see him again, to have a chance to apologize.” She missed him.

  He ignored her remark. “This union will make you part of the royal family. Imagine the esteem and influence you’ll enjoy." He eyed her. "You would do well to cooperate with Bera.”

  He left on that dire warning.

  Rachelle dressed, only for the sake of self-preservation. A woman in her position shouldn’t risk her life by resisting the prince. Yet she harbored the hope her Viking wouldn’t fail her. He couldn’t.

  Less than an hour later, Rachelle meekly followed Aaron outside, flanked by eight guards, to an area just beyond the tents. Three fires burned and a bearded musician played a solemn melody on his flute. Edwin looked undeniably handsome dressed in a dark blue tunic and matching fur cloak. Bera joined a small assembly of well-dressed witnesses near the fires. Several of his men lounged on fallen trees, while others stood a short distance away.

  Edwin tossed her a proud smile, admiration showing in his eyes as he offered his hand in welcome. She shuffled into her spot beside him with only a brief acknowledgement before her gaze strayed to the priest. She nearly fainted upon recognition. It was the same ghastly creature who had caused her endless nightmares as a child. Although his face was a bit more haggard and his robes shabbier than she remembered, those insidious eyes hadn’t changed. His frail body reminded her of a chicken bone picked clean. She should curse him. Why did God tempt her this way? What unforgivable acts had she committed to deserve this torture? After she’d left York as a child, she’d prayed she would never have to face a priest as cold-blooded as this one.

  “The ocean couldn’t keep us from meeting again,” he commented.

  Her lips pursed and she shook her head at him. “Nor bells, fennel, or hawthorn.”

  Edwin choked back a laugh. “Are you suggesting this priest is an evil spirit?”

  “I’ll leave that for you to decide, milord,” she snapped.

  The prince chuckled. “You are everything I hoped for, sweet Rachelle.” Edwin tugged her close. “It is with great pleasure I welcome you into my life. Put aside your grievance with this holy man until after we are united.”

  Her cheeks flamed. This exceeded a simple grievance—she wanted to kill him. She prayed for a miracle; fire raining down from heaven would be a nice start.

  Chapter 16

  Divine Interference

  With a sinking heart, Tyr left his stallion free to roam while he sniffed the nighttime air. Instinct drove him eastward—fresh hoof prints had led him to this camp. He knew it was Edwin. Few men could afford the luxury of such finely crafted tents. Hoping to enter the encampment undetected, he eyed the sky with its unobstructed view of Odins vogn—the great bear and lode stars. Raising his hands, he greeted the gods.

  Hail Day! Hail sons of Day! Hail Night and her daughter!

  With watchful eyes, look upon me and give me victory!

  Once he finished praying, he advanced. The eerie silence strangled him. A well-tended fire blazed in the common area between the shelters. There was no mistaking the ceremonial circle demarcated by a crudely built altar. Blood stained the snow. Perhaps a marital sacrifice . . .

  Edwin must have sealed his troth with ritual blood, though he claimed to be baptized. Falsifier. A true bastard down to his cowardly heart. Odin’s law remained ever superior to men’s imperfect canon. Even the prince recognized that. Imagining the hypocrite manhandling Rachelle made his hunger for vengeance explode. “Hvis du
rører henne du drittsekk, dreper jeg deg!”

  He gripped his sword tightly, then rushed the tents with a bloodcurdling scream, wildly shredding canvas in his race to find Rachelle.

  Men scrambled away from him as if he was a ravenous animal. He reached the last tent and ripped open the flap, heedless of what threat waited inside. His heart was driven by Rachelle’s unheard pleading, the worst fear he’d ever felt. What if Edwin was forcing himself on her? As he had imagined, the sight of Rachelle crushed against the upstart’s chest with her arm pinned behind her back, drove him mad.

  “Tyr!” she cried. “I’m sorry I disobeyed you,” she sobbed.

  Her apology pierced his heart. Edwin had exploited Tyr’s hospitality and kidnapped the woman he loved. In truth, Rachelle had never been looking for excitement. She’d only craved a safe haven—family—love. That’s why she’d clung to him the moment they’d found each other. And what had he done? Rejected her. Lied to her. Hurt her. The fierce world he forced her into, the restrictions he’d put upon her, the misery and discomfort he’d caused . . . Everything blurred together. This moment would decide their future. Tyr refused to be held prisoner by a godless malingerer. If death claimed him, he’d drag Edwin into the depths of Hel, leaving Rachelle safe.

  The desperation in her voice intensified his need for blood. White hot jealousy flared inside him. “Release her.”

  Edwin raised his chin defiantly. “I was afraid you’d miss our wedding feast. I apologize for not sending a personal invitation. I’ve been preoccupied with my reluctant bride.”

  Rachelle twisted to break free. “Let go.”

  But Edwin held tight, brushing kisses across her milky throat, positioning her so Tyr would be forced to watch. The prince touched her in places no other man had the right to explore, his cursed fingers tracing the contours of her beautiful face. Tyr eyed Edwin’s weapon belt. He couldn’t risk a direct attack yet, Rachelle might get hurt. Ty's heart hammered—hatred swelling inside him.