Blind Mercy (7 page)

“What’s going on inside that head of yours?” Tyr queried.

She preferred to keep her thoughts to herself. Looking over her shoulder she said, “Put me down.”

He did.

“Forget about leaping.” He grabbed her by the arms and gave her a firm shake.

How could he read her thoughts? Why did he ignore the fact that her teeth were chattering and she looked like a wet rat? Busy with their duties, the crew paid her no attention. Weren’t they interested, even in the slightest, to know what a female was doing on their ship? Embarrassed and a bit enraged by his neglect, she raised her hand.

Tyr snatched her by the wrist. “You’d strike me in front of my men?” He showed no change in expression.

Even she didn’t know if that’s what she really intended to do. Thoughts whipped through her mind like the wind. She cleared her throat. Did she need to spell it out for him? “You took advantage of me by bringing me onto this ship.”

He crossed his arms over his sculpted chest. “If that’s your honest assessment, I must disagree. I question
who
took advantage of
whom
.”

Shrill whistles sounded from behind.
Maybe Tyr’s men were covertly watching after all
. Rachelle twisted around and glared at the handful of sailors who stood within earshot. She’d be damned if she was going to provide more entertainment for these cretins. Biting her tongue, she flung her hands on her hips. “Who would believe that?”

“One look at you and my men would fully understand the challenges I faced.”

Laughter and humiliation were her newest companions. Ones she refused to live with. She gestured at the water. “I’ll jump.”

Anger flashed across his face. “If I can’t trust you to stay onboard, I’ll tie you to one of those benches.” He pointed to an empty space between two rowers.

Both men stood, revealing large symmetrical bodies. One patted the crudely made pew with his hand. His salacious grin made her insides squirm. Pouting, she pivoted on shaky legs. Empty threats hadn’t inspired Tyr to be kinder or forced him to be honest with her. Why was she here?

Turning back, she stared at him unflinching. Nothing about this arrangement made any sense. She’d escorted him to the beach and watched him swim. What had brought him back? She intended to find out. For now, fearing he’d follow through with his threat to strap her down, she decided to apologize. Uncle Henry often advised her to
pick her battles wisely
.

“I’ll do whatever you ask,” she said.

For now.

“Good.” He latched onto her arm. “Your lovely backside would have gone numb sitting beside Wulfgar and Onetooth for a solid week.”

All the same, he dragged her to the designated seat. Prepared to find Onetooth’s mouth in a terrible state when he smiled, she unexpectedly discovered a perfect set of teeth. Much to her surprise, he was missing his left eye instead. She gasped.

Humored, the mature Viking said in English, “My nickname has the same effect on women everywhere.”

“I see—” She covered her mouth, ashamed she made any reference to seeing anything.

Onetooth chuckled. “Laugh at my expense.” He scooted over to make room for her. “Sit. I kept it warm for you.”

Unsure about his easy acceptance, she still plopped down next to him.

An hour after lifting anchor, the ship rocked rhythmically on the waves and lulled Tyr into a half dream, in which he openly mourned his brother and countrymen. How many of Odin’s Berserkers had perished? These legendary warriors fought audaciously—with all-consuming bloodlust and blind fury. Allfather depended on them to guard the old ways. With depleted numbers, a new generation would need to be chosen and trained. Until then, who would defend the old religion?

The answer came. He’d have to realign his priorities and play a bigger role in regional politics. Something he didn’t want to do. His heart pounded. Unlike his father, Tyr preferred privacy. Although he was a seasoned diplomat and actively participated at the Thing every year, he still valued solitude.

Stretching, he sat up. Destiny had cast her net wide and caught King Hardrada. Now, everyone would suffer the consequences. Snapping his fingers, a thrall appeared seconds later, holding a white linen shirt. He stood and dressed. Damn Hardrada’s black soul—the after effects of this defeat would be felt for decades.

Sharp instincts gave Tyr a distinct advantage in war and politics. But it set him at odds with the royal family and drove a wedge between him and his father. His sire, the legendary Jarl Randvior Sigurdsson, commanded by Odin to abandon his lands and establish a new home, had complied without question. Tyr believed the gods should be beholden to a greater power—they too deserved to be tested. A man’s future was his own. And blind faith in any deity represented one of two things, fear or mental incapacity.

Now, a woman’s fate . . . Tyr’s gaze swept the deck. Watching her enjoy the company of another man provoked him, even if it was his oldest friend, Onetooth.

Should he try to distance himself from further relations with Rachelle? A female’s life depended on the men who protected her; his possession of her confirmed it. Comforting her went against everything he’d been taught by his elders in Norway. Regardless of his bloodline, a man's beliefs were the foundation of his judgment—the core of his intellectual capabilities. He’d known that all his life. Wisdom was more valuable than gold.

Temporarily forgetting his annoyance, he made rounds. By now, the vessel had cleared the cove and moved swiftly in open water.

“It’s too late for the last harvest celebration, but we’ll arrive in time for the celebration of Winternights and
Álfablót
, the winter sacrifice. And perhaps a hunt before the snow comes.” His words were meant to keep his men diligent.

Indulgences overdue, he licked his lips in the promise of his pleasure. A harem of females lived at his steading, with a flock of children running loose behind them. Not known as the sort of lord to forbid his men from enjoying the pleasures his household offered, the parentage of some of these offspring remained unknown. Still, he loved them all. Variety was his greatest pleasure in life. He lived by that belief, whether it pertained to statecraft or the bedchamber.

Nearing mid-ship, Rachelle’s feminine laughter had a perverse effect on him. Why did he bring her, a lapse in judgment? Perhaps an uncontrollable desire to have his way with her . . . no . . . she was more than a sexual conquest. When he had first cracked his eyes open to see who was standing over him on the battlefield, he thought Odin had sent a Valkyrie to escort him to Valhalla. The girl turned out to be flesh and blood. What delicious flesh to see, but damn her Saxon blood.

After stalking to a row of wooden boxes stored near the mast, he opened one. Taking out a large fur, he closed the lid, then faced the girl. If she was going to stay with him, he’d better consider her safety more. Slipping behind her, he covered her shoulders. She snuggled into it, welcoming the warmth. There should be dry clothing for her somewhere. As for shoes, he eyed his young thrall. His feet might be near the size of Rachelle’s. The boy could wrap his feet in strips of fur to keep warm. Anticipating colder weather, he didn’t want his precious cargo getting chilled.

Any encouragement Rachelle received from Onetooth, to make her feel more welcome within the confines of the ship, disappeared by the third day of the voyage. Today, Tyr amassed most of his men. He glanced at Rachelle. She hugged herself, knowing what must be done. He’d condemn only himself by sharing the news that Norway had no king. Having grown up in an officer’s home, she’d been exposed to many unhappy conversations regarding military affairs. The thrill of victory wouldn’t be experienced by these men.

Looking as dignified as he possibly could, Tyr began. “Every man is responsible for his own life. Limitless rewards are bestowed upon the man that girds himself with vigilance and wisdom and who keeps his eyes focused heavenward for signs from the gods. Hardrada’s men threw caution to the wind after we conquered York.”

The longer he hesitated, the more she noticed how his head dipped and his shoulders became a little less erect.

“I will not dishonor our brethren by recounting useless details—I’m not particularly interested in who was at fault—logic was abandoned in York. After King Harold attacked, most were not prepared to defend our position.” His voice was thick with regret. “A single warrior stood out amongst Hardrada’s forces. Raising his weapons fearlessly against our enemies, he alone held Stamford Bridge and prevented the complete annihilation of the army. What you deserve to know, need to know . . .” His head drooped. “King Hardrada is dead.”

A graveyard possessed more life than this vessel in the moments following Tyr’s pronouncement. Shock and confusion set in. Rachelle overheard heated words. Fists were raised toward heaven. Threats and curses were sworn against the Saxons. Shrinking back, she met Tyr’s steady and hardened gaze. Although she deeply respected his constraint, she couldn’t help feeling threatened. A lamb trapped in a lion’s den.

“Any survivors?” someone asked.

By God, she could feel Tyr’s suffering deep in her bones.

“Few,” he answered.

“What happens when we get home?” an oarsman queried.

“Norway will be partitioned between Hardrada’s sons, Magnus and Olaf, as the law permits.”

“If our treaty with Hardrada is nullified,” Onetooth started, “where will the children of Odin safely gather?”

“As long as breath remains in my body, we will continue to thrive in the Trondelag. I’ll never bow to the cross as our forefather, King Olaf, did. His transgressions died with Hardrada. If Norway faces war again, I’ll be the first to raise my sword in her defense. Our sovereigns will face violent opposition if they try to forcibly convert us.
Sancta Sedes
will never enjoy episcopal jurisdiction over our lands, or the people who seek religious freedom there.” He cocked an angry brow at Rachelle. “No man wearing the holy robes of the Church will ever be welcomed in my home—unless he’s dragged there in chains.”

She felt as small as an insect in his shadow. Tyr’s hostility made him seem a hundred feet taller. Deadly, more and more like the maddened wraith that butchered those men in the moors. The little cross pendant, hanging on a gold chain around her neck, seared her skin. A precious gift from her mother, she refused to take it off. Swallowing hard, she prepared for whatever came next.

“The English crushed our army, not our hearts.” Tyr pounded his right fist against his chest. “We’ve prospered keeping the old ways, venerating Odin, and remembering our blessed ancestors. For countless generations, we smashed our enemies—burying their brittle bones in unmarked graves, condemning their spirits to roam the earth as nightwalkers. We are feared and revered, loved and despised across three oceans. Don’t be troubled my brothers, even Odin’s children don’t know when
Ragnarǫk
comes. Lives will be lost. But remember, some shall be spared. Death in battle is our duty.”

“Overly disparaging, don’t you think?” Saffron colored eyes dominated the lean, but attractive face of the man who dared interrupt. He wore a green and gray tartan over a long-sleeved linen shirt.

Rachelle couldn’t believe a Scotsman was on ship.

“Not everyone has an open invitation to Valhalla.” He maneuvered dramatically around the
jarl
.

Tyr’s face tightened. “No,” he agreed. “And not all Christians are hunted down like swine in the Trondelag. Perhaps I should have kept the old tradition alive whilst we were in England, cousin, and skinned you alive and nailed your bloody carcass to the church doors in York.”

Onetooth joined Rachelle. She looked at him in question.

He patted her hand. “Don’t lose any peace over them. That’s Aaron McNally, the
jarl’s
patronizing cousin, first son of his departed uncle, Brandon McNally. They grew up together in Scotland.”

“Is he . . .”

“Aye.” Onetooth’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “A bloody Christian.”

“And the threat—”

“Masculine posturing, nothing more. Aaron is a leech who takes advantage of Tyr’s generosity. Instead of pledging fealty, Aaron meddles in all things sacred and political even though Norway isn’t his homeland. He prefers to sow seeds of discontent over hard work. If ever a man deserved to have his black heart ripped out . . .” Onetooth swallowed his last words. “Disregard everything Tyr said about nailing his useless hide to the church doors.”

“Aren’t most legends based on truth?”

The oarsman regarded her, then answered. “You’re a witty one. I admit there’s truth in it. A century ago, enemies of the church were indeed punished that way.”

She jerked upright. Her tutors had conveniently forgotten to share this piece of history with her. Then another man came forward.

“Stegir?”

Cringing, Rachelle groaned at Tyr’s reaction.

His shoulders slumped. “Dead, goddamn it. Dead.” Appearing defeated, he said, “I’m finished speaking.” He stormed away.

She sighed and turned to Onetooth. “I pray he has more brothers.”

“Two,” the henchman answered.

She smiled ruefully. “Why doesn’t Tyr live with his family in Scotland?”

“Ah,” Onetooth sighed. “He chose this life over a Christian one. Although his mother and siblings prefer the new religion, he followed in his sire’s footsteps. Praise the gods. He traded his inheritance in Scotland, Ireland, and the Orkneys for his lands in Norway. Without him, Odin’s legacy would have disappeared. And now, he’s one of the only chieftains powerful enough to afford the high taxes Hardrada imposed on all the pagan families to avoid severe criminal penalties.”

She looked up at Tyr’s menacing form. He’d moved away from the crowd and was staring overboard. Beyond her own fatigue and heartache, the
jarl’s
pain squeezed her heart, too.

Minutes later, she didn’t hear Tyr approach. Onetooth coughed, looking uncomfortable.

“I’ll provide the history lessons, old friend,” Tyr said.

She ran her tongue over her dry lips. A warning. Onetooth lowered his head, then left them standing alone.