Blind Mercy (2 page)

How could she interfere with a man who claimed he was born with a sword in his hands? She wouldn’t strip Henry of his honor. A hot chill crept up her arms. A Saxon victory would serve as a strong deterrent to stop future invasions. But at what cost? Vikings had purged these lands as thoroughly as a plague. Stripping the land of its wealth and draining the life blood out of women and children.

How could she face tomorrow alone? After her parents were murdered by bandits returning home from London, she truly thought her life was over, until Uncle Henry had claimed her. Not exactly the hero she had prayed for that day at the funeral, but to her, he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. For eight years, he had invested in her happiness. Loving and adoring her as the daughter he never had. God gave them to each other and she doubted she could live without him. She had to bring him home.

The village of Stillington was only ten miles north of York. Circumventing the town, she’d reached the river by late afternoon. Of course, she’d regretted it the moment she arrived. The fertile croplands and meadows she’d known since childhood were unrecognizable. Black smoke billowed as high as she could see and a fire raged along the west bank of the river. To the south, she sighted tents. Royal standards whipped in the wind. A glimmer of hope warmed her heart. King Harold was here. It appeared the battle was over, as men on horseback raced away from the encampment. She slowly made her way below.

A sentry intercepted her immediately. “Who brought you here?”

Mopping her brow with the back of her hand, she answered, “I came alone. I seek my kinsman.”

“Women aren’t permitted near the battlefield.” He studied her critically. “Most of the troops rode north. The war is over. Look around.” He gestured with both hands. “We butchered the Norse. The king escorted his prisoners back to their ships.”

Grateful for this good news, she forced a smile. “My uncle is from Stillington. He rode with the king’s herald in the middle of the night.”

“So did a thousand other men.”

“Can anyone help me?”

He rubbed his chin, blinking several times. “Don’t these heathens scare you?”

Fear was insignificant at this point. She hadn’t come this far to be turned away. “God led me here.”

“Aye,” he nodded. “And the devil sent the bloody savages.”

She understood his duty. But nothing would deter her. “Please . . .”

“Most of the villagers went to York,” he said. “I advise you stay away. The celebration started as soon as King Harold departed. Drunkards—all of them.”

Admittedly, Uncle Henry drank liberally. She could picture him raising his glass in triumph. Over and over again. “Where can I wait?”

“Over there.” He pointed to one of the tents.

“Thank you.”

Walking to the canvas, she opened the flap. Inside, she found a field chirurgeon stitching a leg wound.

“Grab the linens. Take care of the man in the corner.” He didn’t look up.

Too tired to protest, Rachelle did as he directed.

After tending injured men for hours, her hands froze. Horrible thoughts plagued her mind, erasing the image of her uncle enthralled with celebration. She couldn’t keep a steady hand. Setting aside a pile of bandages, she knew the only solution was to find her uncle. Going to a makeshift table with a pitcher of water, she washed her hands. If injuries didn’t kill these poor soldiers, infection would. After she dried her hands on the front of her gown, she left.

Heat drained her energy the moment she stepped outside. Tears blurred her eyes. Glancing around, she hoped someone would send word. But no one who’d passed through the camp knew her uncle’s whereabouts. Every inch of her body hurt. Because she’d suppressed her feelings for so long, she couldn’t eat or drink. The longer she waited, the more reluctant she became.

Young women didn’t roam battlefields?
Damn propriety
. In her opinion, war removed all rules. It transformed civilized people into animals. Besides, how could anyone fault her dedication and love? Relying on what mental fortitude she had left, Rachelle trudged away from the safety of the tents.

After two hours of picking through bodies like a carrion buzzard, deep desperation set in.

How far could a portly gentleman of advanced age get? She stumbled. Regaining her footing, she jumped back. That wasn’t a Saxon on the ground. Long braids and a scrubby copper beard covered the man’s rugged face. She cringed at the sound of his guttural groans and considered grabbing a weapon off the ground to finish him off. Hatred fueled her dark thoughts.

Kill him. Now
!

She looked away. This heathen had robbed her countrymen of peace and prosperity. Again. Uncle Henry would undoubtedly tell her to lop off his godless head.

Yet, her resolve softened. She couldn’t do it. Enemy or not, he looked so vulnerable and helpless. She prayed.
Grant me the courage to be merciful.
The greatest value her parents had impressed upon her was a charitable spirit. Murdering a dying man would do nothing to quell her pain. It would only deepen her own suffering.

Not knowing if he spoke English, she squatted next to him. “Where does it hurt?”

A large hand slid over hers, but he didn’t speak. Words weren’t necessary.

“I’ll stay with you.”

With an appreciative nod, he squeezed her hand.

Shocked by the amount of blood seeping from his chest, she assessed his condition. Hopeless. Without immediate treatment, he’d surely bleed to death and she didn’t possess the necessary skills to do more than offer comfort. The English chirurgeon wouldn’t help him. The only reason there was one on hand was because he traveled with the king. Men usually died where they fell. Tight lipped, she hid her growing despair, bracing for the inevitable. The last thing she wanted to see was another death. Not now. Not ever, if it could be avoided.

After what seemed a long time, his eyes fluttered open and he stared up at her. She returned a weak smile. What else could she do? Pray him into heaven?
Please . . .

Checking his pulse, she felt his spirit depart as he took one last gasping breath. She let go of his calloused hand. His death triggered bitter visions of her uncle’s own battle-worn body laying somewhere amongst this sea of corpses. It nearly claimed what little sanity she had left.

Cursing fate for leading these fiends across the North Sea, she didn’t know what to do next. A distressing voice inside her head kept telling her to give up and go home. But she couldn’t sit and wait for someone to bring word Henry had died honorably in action, making her an orphan for the second time in her life. She longed for darkness to conceal the death fields. Yet she realized with every passing moment the sun sank lower, she’d get trapped in the dark.

As if she didn’t have enough troubles to contend with, she couldn’t remember which direction to go. Kicking at the ground as she walked, she struck something solid. Surprised, she looked about. A cache of weapons and dozens of half-clad fallen bodies surrounded her on three sides.

By the saints, how many miles had she gone? No Englishmen were lying on the ground here. Her emotions reeled. She swallowed her dread, knowing the departed couldn’t harm her
.
Yet, even in death, these savages were posed to strike. Eyeing them reverently at first, she realized these massive and bloodied beasts were just as threatening as she’d ever imagined. But why were they half naked? Only one reasonable explanation existed. However, enough time hadn’t passed for grave pickers to strip them.

An unlikely explanation came to mind.

After the king’s messengers arrived in her village to recruit for reinforcements yesterday, they’d described in great detail how countless longships had landed along the east coast and invaded York without resistance. What they reported next was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. According to the crown’s agents, the Vikings were so elated from their victory, they declared a holiday. In the heat, they'd stripped to go swimming, then lounged on the west bank of River Derwent. The king’s army had caught these reckless bastards unprepared.

Grateful they were dead, she turned. Too many distractions had veered her off course. West. She should head west. Her gaze darted across the field. Her body cringed the moment she identified a corpse in full regalia between two bare-chested warriors. Chainmail ended above the most powerful set of thighs she’d ever seen. A brightly colored gonfalon, embroidered with a raven clasping a laurel wreath in its beak, covered his breast. A polished helmet rested beside his left shoulder. She couldn’t stop staring. There was something eerily unnatural about him. Ash blond hair framed his lean face. It didn’t feel right. And unless she was hallucinating, the corners of his full lips were curved upward.

Men don’t die with smiles on their faces.

Feeling desperate, she wished soldiers, or even the thieves who usually swarmed the fields to strip the vanquished of their earthly possessions, were here to keep her company. She shimmied closer, then kneeled. Dust and grit and blood covered his body. But there were no visible wounds. No reason for him to be dead. Had she overlooked something? Maybe this monster died of something invisible to her inexperienced eyes.

A groan escaped her lips as she shyly fingered the handle of the bloodstained axe at his hip. Only a heathen would carry such a deplorable weapon. A shield painted to match the banner he wore was gripped tightly in his right hand. Why were his weapons sheathed if he was killed during battle?

Every nerve in her body hummed. Rachelle’s inquisitiveness rivaled any cat. And why was she so fixated on this mongrel? She hated every man, woman, and child in Scandinavia.
Devils
. Imagining his eyes reflected brimstone and fire, she knew he could steal the soul of a God-fearing woman with one look.

Shaking her head, she crossed herself.
Enough nonsense
. But as she started to rise, she swore he took a breath.

Panic set in.

Were her eyes playing tricks on her in the failing daylight? A quick benediction would put her at ease. “Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .”

She stopped when the words didn’t provide the comfort she’d expected. Waves of guilt crashed over her. Christ commanded all to love their enemies. Didn’t this stranger have a mother and father—wife or lovers—children and slaves? They’d mourn him in the same way she grieved for her uncle. Even heretics deserved God’s grace.

Forgive my selfishness
—

An immense hand shot up, grabbing a fistful of her gown. “Help!” She tried to pull away.

He effortlessly flipped her onto her back. Rachelle thrashed and shrieked as he crawled on top of her. Straddling her chest, he covered her face with one of his massive hands, then tilted her head back. He held her down for what felt like eternity, shoved a wadded piece of cloth into her mouth, and let go. It tasted filthy. He slid off her, then tried to roll her onto her stomach. She bucked until he roared and latched onto her hair.

Then, she froze.

Would she be stupid for resisting or giving up? Either way, she’d forever feel guilty for admiring his face. Sage-green eyes bore into hers. They were beautiful, despite the rage distorting his features.

The best way to assure her survival was to roll over. So, she did. Then she heard a tear and he quickly bound her hands behind her back. Before she completed another rational thought, he turned her over again.

“
Vær stille
,” he hissed, leaning close.

She planted her foot in his shoulder. Her paltry kick couldn’t put a dent in that body. The sound of his feral laughter left her breathless. Rising to his feet, he glared down at her with unmistakable malevolence. She shivered, knowing that if she tried assaulting him again, he’d kill her. But that wouldn’t keep her from trying to get free. She manipulated her hands until her wrists burned against the binding.

She worked the gag loose with her tongue, then spit it out. “Don’t touch me again!”

“
Det er bedre ting å gjøre med de leppene. Kom her
.” The vicious snarl that came out of that attractive mouth sounded as threatening as a wild beast’s.

Rachelle shoved backward with her feet as he launched like an arrow. Any attempt to escape was futile. Latching onto her arms, he yanked her close, then covered her mouth with his. He swallowed her scream, raking his teeth angrily across her bottom lip. As his tongue forced its way into her mouth, she considered biting down. This wasn’t a kiss borne of lust, but a demonstration of his complete domination.

He needed to see she wasn’t the kind of woman who gave up easily. Finally, her hands broke free and she clubbed the side of his head. He roared. Grabbing her by the wrists, he wrestled her down. Wrath boiled on his face as he heaved a deep breath. Afraid to die, she quickly turned away. But when he didn’t strike, she carefully looked back. Angry eyes swept across her as violently as a winter gale. His features tightened with his grip until she squealed in pain. As if he’d gotten what he wanted, he grunted and shoved her aside.

Once standing, he ignored her presence. She leaned awkwardly on her elbows, watching him trek a few feet, then stop. He rummaged around on the ground. After a few minutes, she wilted at the sound of his mournful cry. He scooped up a body, then cradled it in his arms.

Opportunity came at the most ill-chosen times. Although she was too afraid to run away, if she could convince him to let her go, she’d swear to secrecy. This far inland, she’d find the army before he reached the coast. And it wouldn’t take long for the Saxons to hunt him down. She considered it a fair trade—her freedom for his.

He pointed at her. “
Se hva dette ubrukelige krigen har gitt meg, er min bror død, en forgjeves offer for din Hvitekrist som bryr seg ingenting for nordmennene
.”

She didn’t understand, but those words sounded abominable. He came closer, the body clutched tightly to his chest.

“
Bror
.”

She needed no interpreter for that word. “Brother?”