Blind Mercy
Authors: Violetta Rand
Table of Contents
BLIND MERCY
The Blind Series - Book 2
VIOLETTA RAND
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
BLIND MERCY
Copyright©2014
VIOLETTA RAND
Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-384-8
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To Rudy Nino—years
and distance make no difference . . .
Acknowledgements
Much love to my husband, Jeff, for all his support. Without you, none of this would be possible. Hugs and kisses to Simon, Gretchen, Mason, Bella, and Ivan—the greatest pets in the world.
Thanks again to Soul Mate Publishing (Debby) and my wonderful editor, Cynthia Brannam, for believing in Vikings.
My deepest appreciation to Meredith Mix, Carol Cork, Collette Cameron, Jessica Jefferson, Johnny Read, J.J., Victoria Vane, Rudy Nino, Daniel Skrzynski, and Ross and Valerie Reed. Listening is the greatest gift you can give a writer.
Prologue
York, England
AD 1058
Rachelle Fiennes couldn’t banish the sorrow caused by her parents’ brutal deaths from her mind. When the cart carrying their bodies arrived a week ago, Rachelle’s life spiraled onto a path of destruction. Nothing would ever be the same. Her spirit died that day—hope forever lost.
Now, she spent every morning outside in the garden, while priests and servants came and went at all times of the day. Her mother’s dishes and jewelry, her father’s beloved collection of scrolls, their horses, and clothes—anything of value—were being appraised. They’d likely be sold to pay debts and ensure her place in the nearest covenant. Nobody cared if another daughter of the lower gentry was offered as a bride for Christ.
Because her parents had gifted her with freedom and knowledge, she knew more about the travails of the world than any child her age should. And she understood why the holy men who lived near York worked diligently to place her in a religious house. To make right what sins her father had committed. For years, her sire had warned all who would listen that the Pope no longer served Christ, only his own selfish ambitions. Her father also taught that it took more than mortar and stone to constitute a church. The clergy didn’t hide their disdain.
Revenge comes in many forms. And Rachelle feared there was no one to speak on her behalf. Or to protect her interests. Why hadn’t her parents discussed their future plans for her or appointed a guardian? Surely, her father’s modest assets could provide a living until she reached marriageable age. But it was too late. Secret plans were in motion—she overheard the whisperings of her servants.
A stranger arrived suddenly and Rachelle stood up so she could catch a glimpse of him. Short and muscular, he appeared overweight, but respectable in his military uniform. She eyeballed the sword at his hip. Marveled at his confident stride. He didn’t tether his stallion, but instead, rushed to the front of the house. “I’m looking for my niece, Rachelle Fiennes. Is she here?”
Her heart skipped a beat. Niece? Did she have an uncle? She stared, harder. He looked nothing like her father or mother. But her curiosity always overrode her fear. She sprinted toward him. “Uncle?”
Upon hearing her voice, he turned sharply. Eyeing her head to toe, a sad smile spread across his somber features. “You favor your mother, child. Come here.” He spread his arms wide.
For a split second, a sliver of joy coursed through her. She went to him. His embrace was what she needed. “I apologize for missing the funeral,” he started. “I was north when I received the tragic news. I’ve been riding for two days.” He released her and drew back to look at her again. “You must tell me everything. Did the presiding priest honor your parents? What arrangements have been made . . .?”
She tried to listen carefully to everything he said, but his voice became little more than a hum because she still couldn’t believe God had answered her prayer for a savior so quickly. Although her uncle didn’t fit the description of the great warrior she’d described in her pleadings, nevertheless, he wore a uniform and carried a sword.
How could she ever forget the funeral?
The parish priest assigned to perform the service glared at Rachelle as he approached the cart transporting her father and mother’s bodies, now prepared for burial. Those dark slits for eyes moved rapidly over. She recognized a liar’s eyes. And that friar was here out of duty, nothing more.
When he signaled the small crowd to follow him inside the sanctuary, she lowered her head and waited for everyone to get in line so she could stay as far away from the cleric as possible. Squaring her shoulders, she permitted her maid to pull her along until they passed the baptismal area, entering the nave. By the time she reached the front of the room, the priest was already seated in the presider’s chair. She sat rigid on the provided bench and surveyed the room.
A wood crucifix hung high on the wall behind the altar, Christ’s body carved in silver, his crown of thorns in gold. Two narrow windows, hardly wider than arrow slits, were hewn in the gray stone on either side of the cross. The sparse light that filtered through made the space more dismal. Besides the ornately carved lectern to the right of the altar, the space was plain.
This wasn’t the sort of place she’d imagined saying farewell to her parents. They deserved so much more.
After the Funeral Liturgy was read, the meager procession moved outside to the burial mounds, where the bodies had already been placed in the ground. Performing a shortened version of the Right of Committal, Rachelle whispered her own prayer to sanctify their bodies. “Father, please don’t condemn my parents to eternal suffering for resisting these men who claim they love you. My father only meant to teach me the truth. He honored you every day—instructed me to always remember your glory . . .” Prayers finished, she crouched, then grabbed a fistful of dirt. Staring heavenward, she silently begged for someone to rescue her. A brave and loyal man to love her as thoroughly as her sire had loved her mother. She stood and crumbled the cobbled soil over both gravesites. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
Goodbye . . .
No other words came to mind. Sorrow had already silenced her.
“Rachelle?”
She snapped out of her trance and stared up at her uncle. “I’m sorry.”
“Worry not, child.” He patted her arm affectionately. “We’ve time to get acquainted. Although I’m a poor substitute for my brother and his wife, you won’t be alone, that much I promise.” He took her hand and led her inside.
The priests and servants stopped abruptly when they saw them. “My name is Sir Henry Fiennes.” His voice thundered like the archangel Gabriel. “I’m here to claim my niece and settle my brother’s affairs. Who’s in charge here?”
Rachelle closed her eyes.
Thank you, God.
But somehow, she felt something was still missing from her life . . .
Chapter 1
Meeting
Eight Years Later
Stamford Bridge, Northern England
AD 1066
“Rally your men, Ivar.” Tyr Sigurdsson scra
mbled to gather his weapons. “We didn’t send for reinforcements. Look.” He pointed southward. “Those are English soldiers—”
Before he could say another word, arrows rained down from the cloudless sky. Wise enough to keep his shield close, while others had abandoned their weapons, Tyr raised the wood and metal barrier above his head. Three arrows pierced it. Once the assault ended, Tyr snapped his head left, then right. His heart dropped. Nearly all his brethren were dead or injured.
Curse the Saxons
. How did their army get here so quickly?
It didn’t matter. He needed to lead the handful of able-bodied warriors that remained across River Derwent to engage the enemy head on. Counting thirty men, he gestured for them to get in formation. He’d leave two behind.
“
Til ære for Odin. Til minne om våre forfedre. Ødelegge våre fiender
!” he roared, raising his sword high. Everything he did on the battlefield was for Odin’s glory. Not himself. Not even for the thrill of victory.
As swift as stags, they fanned out across the land.
The stench of blood, piss, and smoke burned Tyr’s nostrils as he pushed his way blindly forward. The surrounding fields were on fire. A poor defensive maneuver that slowed his troops. He couldn’t see Stamford Bridge. Nor could he hear the river. But he remembered the distance. A thousand feet from his encampment.
Norse battle cries echoed in his head, hastening his pace. Thirst for blood drove him like a madman. Clearing the smoke, he halted as if a deathblow had hit him. Only yards from the river now, he stared in amazement. The blasted English held the east side of the bridge. But a lone Norseman blocked their path across. The stranger pounded his fist against his chest, taunting the Saxons, daring them to advance.
Two cavalrymen answered his challenge. With a sweeping motion, the Viking knocked them off their horses.
“
Du vil ha meg du jævla fitter, kom og ta meg,”
the warrior screamed.
Tyr grinned—strengthened by his countryman’s ferocity—filled with hatred for the cowards he faced.
Think, damn it.
How could he get across the river unseen?
Upstream.
That was his only chance . . .
Fear and rage drove Rachelle Fiennes away from the safety of her home in the middle of the night. Fear for her uncle’s life. Rage for feeling as helpless as she had eight years ago when her parents died. The weight of her bewilderment nearly stopped her from climbing the rocky bluff overlooking River Derwent. Did she want to see the outcome of this war?
She dismounted and let her horse stray, then staggered up the incline. Thoroughly exhausted from the long ride, she cupped her hand over her eyes. Her gaze swept the lowlands for any sign of life. Uncle Henry was missing, and hundreds, maybe even thousands of bodies littered the glen. Curse the Norse swine for invading again. After three centuries of subjugation and violence, the Saxons couldn’t accept defeat. That’s what worried her the most.
But complaining would do nothing to bring her kinsman back. Only seeing her uncle with her own eyes would set things right.
Unseasonably hot for September, sweat trickled down her forehead. Her damp gown clung to her body.
Bloody, bloody hell . . .
Heat and exhaustion made her irritable, but she needed to regain control of her emotions if she was going to get anything done. Gaze intensifying on the river below, she licked her parched lips. The water shimmered as tantalizingly as a golden oasis. Wondering if it had the same purifying powers as holy water, she considered diving in—if only it would erase the uncertainty from her mind. Faith and hope were the virtues priests lectured on. They claimed miracles only happened to ardent devotees.
She knew better. Gold purchased blessings, not devotion. Inhaling a sharp breath, she grimaced. Why hadn’t she stopped her uncle from leaving yesterday? His days of glory on the battlefield were long over, but he simply refused to stay home while the younger men marched to reclaim York.
