Blind Mercy (11 page)

The Guest

After three days of separation from Rachelle, Tyr still didn’t know what to do. One brief look or touch of her body had the ability to impair his judgment.

Three generations of bedeviled Sigurdsson men had fallen prey to the charms of English women. Did it never end? Was there something putrid in Tyr’s blood or his soul that deserved this? His father had warned him.
The gods blessed our family with superior strength and aptitude, increased our holdings, gave us wealth, and condemned our cocks to seek out the passion of English women.

Tyr didn’t crumble under pressure. Never. But tonight, he’d lashed out by telling Rachelle a callous lie. It was a natural reaction, inevitable after her cold rejection. Although deeply offended, she didn’t appear surprised. He brooded over that for a long moment. Surely the girl had deep-rooted suspicions and would doubt anything a Norseman told her. The reality of it made his stomach turn. So did her death wish. Those words were quick and careless. Her mannerism reminded him of an overindulged child. O’ that he could teach her a valuable lesson and remind her how prudent people wisely held their tongues.

He took comfort in the fact that Onetooth visited her every day. The girl had bonded with his old friend almost immediately. A poor substitute for his own relationship, but he learned from the conversations his captain had with her.

However, the longer he waited to resolve their troubles, the more difficult it would be to concentrate on anything else. With her room located directly over his, every night he stared up at the ceiling, as he was now, pretending to see her through the floorboards. She’d make a delightful life companion, worthy of his admiration and deepest affection. But that undisciplined mouth—thoughts burst out of it without forethought.

Raised in a distant country, without the love of her parents, adjusting to life amongst his people would be a constant struggle for her. Exasperated by his inability to settle his mind, Tyr rolled onto his left side, then punched his pillow.

To make matters worse, the course of Norway’s future was unknown. What expectations would the new king have of the pagan
jarls
? If Tyr didn’t know where his own loyalties lay, how could he expect a woman to choose?

The hope of sleeping faded. He rolled onto his back. The morning after his argument with Rachelle, he'd gathered his household in the hall. So great was the pain inside his heart, it swept through his veins. As he’d predicted, rumors about the battle at Stamford Bridge had already begun to circulate. Women were without husbands—children without fathers. Tough questions were asked and demands for vengeance voiced before he’d even begun to speak.

Disgraced warriors who’d survived had returned home; three from the Trondelag. Word had reached Tyr’s steading within a day. And Hardrada’s eldest son, Prince Magnus, who was appointed regent before his father departed, would hold formal inquiries in Oslo. No ruler would accept this magnitude of humiliation. Tyr knew if the surviving captains didn’t willingly go to him, he’d find them. Dozens of inquisitors would be dispatched.

And the Trondelag wouldn’t be spared this degradation.

A week after the initial shock, Aaron strutted into the great hall. “At least fifty men are encamped a mile east of here.” He addressed Tyr too casually. Throwing himself into the chair opposite his cousin’s at the high table, Aaron poured himself a drink. “If Magnus wishes to restore faith in the Church and establish credibility with the people, he better do so quickly. Before the peasants decide peace can only be achieved through bloodshed.”

“Whose blood?” Tyr slammed his fists on the table. “Magnus’ paranoia will only add to the suspicions of the commoners. Three quarters of his subjects can’t read or write. They’ll believe what they’re told. Men lose battles—gods die. Countries crown new kings.”

“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.