Blind Allegiance (14 page)

“Did you enjoy the bathhouse?”

“That water possesses restorative powers.”

So does my cock . . .
He wanted to rip her clothes off. What man could contain his feelings after tasting that virgin flesh?

Noelle drew back and showed him her hand. “I must thank you for this bracelet, it was so unexpected.”

He grazed her knuckles with a kiss, while eyeing the shiny metal. Her hands were more the size of a child’s than a woman’s.
Mine.
He stepped closer—obsessed with her lips. His dark mood flared and he pushed her inside one of the many curtained alcoves along the west wall used for
private
conversations. Out of sight now, he latched onto her hips and hugged her close. She trembled as he covered her mouth possessively with his and stole air from her lungs.

He broke away, leaving her dazed and open-mouthed. “If you find yourself craving male companionship beyond the feast table,” he growled into her ear, “ask my permission first.” Randvior turned to leave.

“Sir McNally convinced me to dance with him. He told me you were like brothers.”

He threw his head back and laughed violently. “That would be as careless as a shepherd placing his prized lamb before the mouth of a wolf’s den. Brandon
is
my brother, but still a man. No,
min lille dukke
, don’t fret. I’m not angry with you. Brandon will always try to outdo me, it’s in his nature.”

“I’m not a helpless creature. I can fend for myself.” She crossed her arms over her chest and sulked.

“Forgive me.” He thumbed her chin. “I failed to identify you as
my
lamb. Does this distinction suit you better? Come, let us find refreshments.”

He parted the curtains and she followed him.

Lauga bit her lower lip as she spied her son and Noelle emerging from the alcove. She agonized over his lack of propriety—how he flaunted the girl so shamelessly.

No matter how disciplined a man, in her mind, if he abandoned honor to pursue a woman of questionable reputation, the woman was always to blame. This particular tart thrived on his attention. If Randvior needed to whet his sexual appetite by sleeping with exotic women, let him choose from amongst the Danes or Rus, even a Spaniard. Not a filthy Saxon! Her heart nearly burst at the thought of her son bedding such a wench.

The family bloodline was in jeopardy, one of the purest in Norway. And if her son possessed a sliver of conscience, he would forget this girl and marry one worthy of his name. He needed to produce an heir. Lauga sighed at her misfortune in life—the gods closed her womb after Randvior was born. In her heart, she knew she could have birthed at least a dozen sons.

She hovered predatorily and seized the first opportunity to get Noelle alone. She slithered to the girl’s side after her son left her standing while he headed for the tables on the other side of the room.

Lauga gave Noelle a glass of wine she’d poured with her own hands. She accepted the drink.

“I know you are unhappy with me,” Noelle said, sipping delicately. “I know you think I’m an outlander unworthy of your son’s affection. If you’d only give me a chance, I promise—”

Lauga didn’t want to hear her lies and cut her off immediately. Noelle had seduced her son, plain and simple. She raised her glass in salutation, refusing to participate in the conversation. “This wine is not from my son’s stock, but from my personal collection. Rennish wine, the most delectable in the world.”

Noelle drank more sparingly. “Sweeter than any I’ve ever tasted.”

“Aye,” Lauga smiled, so much for intelligent dialogue. She inched away the moment she realized Randvior was headed back.

The musicians were done playing, and slaves reassembled the tables. A troupe of skalds wearing festive robes entered the hall with all the pomp and ceremony expected of their kind. They waved their hands, encouraging men and women to sing. Norsemen have a soft spot for gifted storytellers—a fondness for poets who they believed were divinely inspired. Randvior returned to his seat at the high table and signaled for the performance to begin.

“Lordly
Jarl,
gentlemen, and ladies . . .” The master of ceremonies established the credentials of his troupe by introducing each artist individually and listing their accomplishments. Randvior grinned a bit drunkenly, tilted his goblet, and drained it. He banged a fist on the table and held his glass up. A thrall rushed to refill it.

In bits and pieces, the skalds magically wove their enchanted tales, gripping the souls of everyone who listened. Even Randvior sat on the edge of his seat, entangled in the story of Valkyries and warriors. The latest story ended when the bravest and most celebrated warrior in the land shed tears for the woman he would never get to marry, as he laid dying on the battlefield. His only reward was the aubergine-eyed Valkyrie that comforted him by ensuring his passage into Valhalla.
Fear not noble man, Odin has heard your war cry. You are chosen for his table.

Randvior
eyed his lady as she clapped enthusiastically, dazzled by the talents of these men. Most stories were told in Norse, some in English or Gaelic. Brandon leaned close and translated. Randvior tolerated it. He knew of the limited entertainment offered in English courts. Master musicians, acrobats, clowns, dancers, and actors graced King Sweyn’s hall, but never a skald. The English were not blessed with an ear for epics. The last performer took his respective place in the middle of the room, a wiry youth with eyes as translucent as a spring.

Randvior felt encouraged, always interested in hearing new talent. But the young man seemed distracted by Noelle; his voice wavered and cracked like an untrained adolescent. The boy started and stopped, but was promptly rewarded with catcalls from the impatient crowd. With great effort, he bowed toward Randvior and picked up a miniature lyre. Skalds rarely accompanied their words with music, but he began a new verse.

A lord shall always honor those who serve loyally

With innumerable gifts of silver and gold.

But this time he rewarded us with a rare flower from across the sea of ice,

From a land for centuries laid low.

He brought forth a maiden with a countenance as fair as any I’ve beheld - beneath Odin’s goodly skies.

A woman with warmth breathed into her silky curls, a hint of winter maiden.

And after the lord jarl is taken up to Asgard, his just rewards to collect,

May her womb blossom and be opened in Freya’s abounding light—

“What insult is this?” Randvior bolted from his chair, stormed across the hall with his battle-axe raised above his head.

Never
in all his years did he see a performer so eager to part with his head by paying homage to a virtuous woman in public—especially
his
woman. Simply not done! Not in his court. A great commotion sounded from behind as Randvior towered threateningly over the singer who had dropped his instrument the moment he had attacked. The boy cowered and trembled, fell to his knees in complete supplication.

“Wait!”

Randvior turned abruptly at the sound of the familiar voice. Noelle bent down and shielded the skald with her body.

“Go back to your seat!”

“What unforgivable sin did this boy commit?” she asked, her brown eyes opened wide, demanding explanation.

He ran his hand through his hair as if to clear his mind; her obstinacy was an even greater insult than the singer’s words. It reflected badly on him. “It’s forbidden to single out a woman in verse. It draws unwanted attention, compromises . . .” He spoke through tightly clenched teeth.

“Her maidenhood?” she finished.

He knew exactly what the sharp-tongued little shrew was insinuating.
Wait until I get my hands on you . . .
Noelle ignited a flame inside him that might never go out.

All of his thoughts fragmented as she suddenly crumpled on the floor at his feet.

Chapter 10

A Matter of Trust

Voices bombarded Randvior’s ears as he leaned over Noelle. Brandon, Starri, Unnr, and Katherine rushed to his side; but he didn’t really see them as he dropped his axe and forced everyone back. He wished now he hadn’t acted so rashly with her. He cradled her in his arms. She was burning with fever, her skin scarily ashen.

“Upstairs!” he roared. “Summon the spaewife, find the physicians.”

He started up the steps, taking two at a time with Aud at the lead. Randvior crashed through the door and laid her out on the bed. The spaewife must have been nearby; she arrived within minutes. She quickly assessed Noelle’s condition and flashed a concerned look at Randvior.

“Clear the room,” she ordered. “I can’t work with all these people breathing down my neck. If you want a proper diagnosis,
Jarl
, I require complete privacy.”

Why should he trust this woman, or anyone for that matter? The spaewife had served his father faithfully while he was growing up. Loyalty for his sire did not guarantee her devotion to him. Perhaps she sympathized with Lauga, or at least feared his mother enough to withhold her skills. He gripped her by the arm. Perhaps a bit too hard, he felt her bones creak.

“I ask you as a subject of my household—overlook her birthright. Remember what is required by me alone.”

She nodded. “I’m a healer, not a murderess. It makes no difference to me where she was born.” She walked around the bed and began examining Noelle more closely.

Randvior was the last to leave and paced restlessly just outside the closed door. When the physicians arrived, the spaewife refused to let them in. Hours passed before she emerged, looking haggard, but confident.

Randvior studied her face, savage heat rising in his cheeks.

“’Tis better we speak in private,” she said. “Your kinsmen might not agree with my findings.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, didn’t like the idea of leaving Noelle’s chamber unprotected. He left Aud to stand guard and invited the healer into his own bedchamber.

“Speak.”

“Your woman was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” he repeated. Something he would have never suspected.

“Only a few plants native to these lands are toxic enough to cause these symptoms. After purging her body and examining her fluids, I can assure you the main ingredient in the draught mixed to bring about your lady’s demise is
Amanita muscaria
. It’s a very poisonous mushroom. The culprit underestimated the amount necessary to bring about death. In weaker concentrations it acts as a powerful hallucinogenic. Praise Odin, she lives.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Let me stay the night with her.”

He agreed. “Take me to her.”

Noelle slept fitfully. Randvior noticed the chamber pot on the mattress near her head. The healer immediately walked to the bedside and restrained her hands. Suddenly, Noelle flailed and kicked, called out for her brother, Brian.

The name sliced through him like a knife. Why would she call that sluggard’s name instead of his? Dark thoughts plagued him. He remembered Margaret’s allegations against her brother—what heinous acts had he committed? Beatings or rape? He possessed the bloodstained sheet from his first night with her to disprove rape.

“Be comforted,” the spaewife urged. “She shouldn’t remember any of this.”

He swallowed his rage. “Stay with her.” He needed to get away for a bit. “Tell me, would a man resort to such tactics?”

“No.”

Her weathered face reminded Randvior of his favorite wine bag, proof of her years and reason to trust her opinion.

“Undoubtedly the deed of a woman, a very dangerous one,” she observed.

“How can you be certain?”

“Men kill without hesitation.” She cleared her throat. “Poison is the weapon of choice for women.”

Noelle woke with a pounding headache. Every time she opened her eyes, bursts of light swirled dizzyingly around her. Her throat was as parched as a desert. The room was dark, but she crawled out of bed and went to the table near the windows to get a drink of water. It went down like liquid heat.

Oh, God . . .
The last thing she remembered hearing were Randvior’s threats directed at that defenseless boy. Why? If he had performed in an English court, singling out a beautiful woman, no one would harm him—they’d celebrate having been chosen for such an honor. Noelle realized she wasn’t in England any longer, and her heart plummeted. She tried to reason, but her mind fogged if she thought too hard.

For weeks, she’d attempted to overlook Randvior’s violence. But he seemed intent on never letting her forget who he really was. She refused to accept it any longer. Regrettably, he shared the same tainted blood as her brother, blood that bred tyranny. She swooned—
what’s wrong with me?
Memories rallied inside her head. As a child, she’d sworn an oath before God. Had promised to escape the cruelty of her home and seek refuge in a place where she could serve the poor and live peacefully. How could she find any peace in enemy lands? Noelle reached for the pitcher of water and threw up in it.

God has placed my future in my own hands. I must leave and find someone willing to take me home.
If England is too far, I’ll seek refuge in the first Christian lands I come to—where the Church grants sanctuary to displaced daughters of Christ. Maybe in Scotland or Ireland.

Head still swimming, she limped away from the table and went to the wardrobe. She dressed in the heaviest overdress she owned and wrapped her fur cloak tightly around her shoulders, securing it with two silver brooches. Her legs wobbled. Next, she flung herself in a chair, put on a pair of stockings, and laced on her warmest boots. She had no money to pay passage on a ship, but Randvior let her keep many of her jewels. She pocketed the most expensive pieces.

She opened the door and peered into the hallway. Empty—it must be very late. Noelle stepped outside of her room and listened. Not a sound.

Confident that she had chosen a perfect time to escape, she cautiously made her way downstairs. She stiffened as she came closer to the landing, but didn’t see anyone below.