Blind Allegiance (Viking Romance) (The Blind Series)

by Rand, Violetta

  Table of Contents

  BLIND ALLEGIANCE

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  BLIND ALLEGIANCE

  The Blind Series - Book 1

  VIOLETTA RAND

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  BLIND ALLEGIANCE

  Copyright©2013

  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.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the priority written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-248-3

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  To my mother, Betty,

  for gifting me with the love of words and reading

  and Kelly Graham,

  for believing in me . . .

  Acknowledgements

  A special thanks and loved-filled appreciation for a husband who faced too many lonely nights and half-heard conversations while I typed away . . . Jeff, I love you!

  I am grateful to Soul Mate Publishing and my editor, Cynthia Brannam, for giving me a chance to fulfill a dream.

  Many thanks to Doug and Milisa Zornes (who not only listened, but cooked for me, too), Meredith Mix (who never gave up on me), Jackie Ivie, Carolyn Ellis (who always told the truth), all the wonderful and talented ladies in the RWA Alaska chapter who provided knowledge and support, Rudy Nino, Phyllys Callina, Mary Aho, Mindy Willis, Daniel Skrzynski, and Ross Reed.

  Prologue

  Orkney Islands

  October 6, 1011 AD

  Randvior Sigurdsson planted his feet in the sand and gazed eastward across the North Sea. He raised his war axe high above his head and saluted his forefathers. A yellow-tinged quarter-moon, haloed by rings of light and mist, loomed overhead like an apparition. It inspired the Viking to speak ancient verses to attract Odin’s favor. Only six days separated him from Norway and he desperately wanted to go home.

  Motionless, he closed his eyes and swore he heard his ancestors chanting the same praises to honor the old gods. Every night for the last three months, he’d walked this shoreline and surveyed the flat landscape. At times, he regretted establishing new steadings in the Orkneys—tonight seemed to be one of them. Barren hollows of sand and withering bushes stretched as far as the eye could see. The only redemptive qualities in these islands were the familiar scent of salt water and the brooding sounds of gulls.

  Sighing deeply, he turned and walked toward the flimsy lean-to he slept inside when he chose to stay onshore. As he neared the camp he shared with his men, he spied a few soldiers sitting near a roaring fire, passing wine around. They greeted him and offered the bottle. Randvior shook his head. No spirits tonight, unless they were the kind the gods sent as messengers in dreams.

  He kicked open the plank door and stepped inside the shelter. It was barely large enough to accommodate his bulk. He stripped off his cloak and lay down, stared overhead, and studied the brightening nighttime sky between gaps in the boarded ceiling. Thousands of stars twinkled above. He counted them one by one, as he’d often done as a child. And very slowly, his eyes grew heavy with sleep.

  In the middle of the night, Randvior’s dreams caught fire. He growled and cursed, challenged and defended, until he rolled off his cot and knocked himself awake. He tried to remember where he was exactly. The shelter was dark, but the vision of a woman’s face glared at him through the pitch. Almond-shaped eyes pinned him to the floor.

  He thought he remembered that beautiful face, crowned by a mane of honey-colored hair. She resembled one of Odin’s Valkyries, perhaps a match to the ones depicted in the tapestries in his hall.

  He sat up and she uttered a single word. Durham.

  But . . . why?

  Chapter 1

  Invasion

  Durham, England

  October 10, 1011 AD

  Dark clouds always gathered in Noelle Sinclair’s dreams. Hundreds of nightmares had played out in her mind since childhood. Why should tonight be any different?

  The smell of burning wood invaded her sleep. Smoke snatched her breath and she tried to purge her lungs by taking deep breaths. She ran for the great hall and all she could see were scorched rafters and floorboards. Guards scrambled to the battlements, while women and children fled the castle. She searched for her sisters among the people migrating outside.

  “Fire!”

  Noelle’s eyes snapped open at the sound of dire warning. By God, this was no dream! She flung blankets aside and rolled over, shook her older sister awake, and jumped out of bed.

  “What’s wrong?” Margaret asked sleepily.

  “The castle’s on fire. Get up, now!”

  Margaret scurried from bed and ran with Noelle to the windows overlooking the eastern edge of the castle. Through the swirling fog, Noelle could make out a tangle of men with torches and weapons in the courtyard below. She further scanned the shoreline where the North Sea pounded against the rocks and dunes. The castle was under siege and poorly defended. Most of the soldiers and her father were in Ireland, leaving only her brother and a skeleton army behind.

  Her gaze still locked on the beach, Noelle caught sight of three, silvery-white longships anchored beyond the walls. Their blood-red sails snapped in the wind. She stared in horror as the pattern on the sails came into focus—the shape of a dragon.

  “We need to get outside,” she said, and gave Margaret a gentle push toward the door.

  Noelle grabbed a cloak from a hook, wrapped it around her shoulders, and thrust her feet into the first pair of available shoes. Exiting the bedchamber, Noelle led the way down the passageway, then descended the stairway that ended in the great hall. She halt
ed midway, and Margaret drew back, frightened by the spectacle of violence below. Swords and pikes, fiery torches and axes—a blur of bodies and faces awaited them. The smell of blood and sweat permeated the room instead of the familiar scent of bread baking in the kitchen.

  “What can we do?” Margaret whimpered.

  “Keep moving,” she answered, and gripped her hand.

  They reached the bottom floor. Men were fighting everywhere and the sound of metal scraping metal deafened her ears. She searched for a familiar face, someone to help them escape. Luckily, John, her father’s favorite captain, met them near the stairs.

  “Run!” He lowered his weapon and pointed.

  Noelle stumbled, but managed to sneak between two combatants. She looked over her shoulder at John.

  “Go!” he screamed.

  Before she could take another step, John collapsed. Noelle couldn’t move a muscle to help him. Her entire body quaked under the weight of his assailant’s steely stare—the man resembled a flesh and bone devil. Trembling still, she sprinted for the main doors with Margaret in tow. They made it to within a few feet of the entryway.

  Heavily armored men blocked their route and a flash of movement attracted Noelle’s attention. Another enemy charged from their right flank. His mouth hung open as he spoke words she didn’t understand. Heathen curses that made her skin crawl. She squared her shoulders and pulled Margaret closer, her sister’s heavy panting warmed the nape of her neck. The warrior’s mouth twisted into a cruel smile.

  “Easy,” Noelle whispered. She didn’t know where she found the strength to comfort Margaret as her own knees wobbled. Her grasp of reality threatened to disintegrate at any moment.

  Just as Noelle contemplated making another move, a battle axe swung and split the offender’s skull. Blood spattered across the front of her cloak and Margaret shrieked. Noelle dropped her sister’s hand and motioned forward. She lunged and cleared the doorway, catapulting down the stairwell outside. As Noelle’s feet hit the ground, she looked over her shoulder and saw Margaret had followed. They ran away as fast as they could.

  The forest was the only adequate hiding place nearby and these men, whoever they were, would be more interested in looting the keep than chasing down a couple of helpless females, Noelle hoped. They came closer and closer to the dark outline of trees on the west side. Her father’s lands stretched for many miles in every direction.

  Flickering light beyond the tree line concerned her. Were other women in the forest already? She sprinted ahead. They mustn’t provide a beacon of light for the invaders to follow. She burst through the trees and stopped in a small clearing to catch her breath. Margaret followed, wheezing.

  Ten women. But Noelle’s eldest sister, Ophelia, and other maids from the household were missing. More women arrived from the direction of the castle and Noelle turned sharply to inspect each one carefully. She took a torch out of a woman’s hands and threw it on the ground.

  “Put out all the lights,” she directed, and rolled the oiled wood with the tip of her shoe until the flame extinguished. “We must remain hidden as long as possible.”

  There should be more women here. What excuse would she offer her father after he returned from Ireland for failing to protect them? Raids to the north and south had increased over the last few years. If Ophelia and the others were harmed because Noelle had failed to execute their well-practiced escape plan, she’d never forgive herself.

  Fear quickly turned to agitation. She also didn’t want to give her brother, Brian, a reason to question her competence. Not only hers—any woman’s. In all creation, he claimed women were God’s only failure. Every unfortunate female bore the brunt of his judgment. Whatever it took, Noelle must rescue her sister. Pacing, she considered her options.

  She made up her mind and turned to Margaret. “Stay here. There’s no reason for all of us to risk our necks.”

  Margaret locked hands around Noelle’s arm. “Don’t leave me here,” she squeaked. “What would father say?”

  “Father’s not here.” Noelle wrenched her arm free. Nothing could interfere.

  Margaret’s round eyes bulged unattractively as she waited for an explanation.

  “Many women are in danger. And Ophelia is stubborn enough to stay behind to defend her dowry. Mother’s gold and silver candlesticks aren’t worth losing her life over.”

  “Is saving her from her own idiocy a legitimate reason to die, too?”

  Noelle stared. Listening to her questions was a complete waste of time.

  “Would father approve?” Margaret challenged. “And if you fail to rescue her, our sire may only have one living child to return to.”

  She actually thinks Brian and Ophelia are going to die. Noelle gave her a stern look. “Nonsense . . . I’d be more concerned if father returned and found all of his children unharmed and his castle burned with his fortune gone.”

  Margaret’s lips twitched as she crossed her arms over her chest. “No wonder father says you are the most disobedient daughter in northern England.”

  Despite the temptation to match her sister’s insult with one of her own, Noelle sucked in a deep breath. She shrugged and adjusted her collar. Not even the Almighty could talk her out of doing this. Ignoring Margaret’s continuing protests, she disappeared into the trees.

  Randvior Sirgurdson walked along the perimeter of the fore building overlooking the courtyard. Here the heaviest concentration of English defenders guarded the entrance to the castle, and here is where most of them perished. He acknowledged their bravery—never failing to recognize men who fought gallantly, although quite foolishly. Outnumbered five to one, at least forty broken bodies were being stacked along the back wall. He’d let the English bury their dead, only after the details of surrender were agreed upon.

  After he’d called for a truce, several skirmishes had broken out. His captains put an end to them nearly as quickly as they’d started. A complete waste of time in his mind; why risk his men’s lives if he could negotiate terms and bring the castle under his control without bloodshed. In the old days, he would have fought until the last English dropped. After fifteen years of raiding, he was exhausted—finished with pillaging and murdering. His father spent too much time and money on his education and training to piss it away.

  My sights are set on the future, where seafaring will be altered forever. Christian kings were uniting in an effort to defend against foreign invaders. Soon, Norway would face its own challenges—the White Christ had already claimed many converts in the south. Quick and calculated strikes yielded the most rewards now.

  Of course, it helped that the lord of this castle sired a known coward for a son.

  He left Aud Magnusson, his most trusted captain, in charge and headed for the great hall. There were many things to discuss. Gold, silver, and a ravishing beauty that caught his attention the moment she appeared on the landing inside the hall. Praise Odin for favoring him this night. He even considered exercising his excellent manners—taught by the best English tutors during his childhood. He could perfectly emulate the speech and behavior of the most refined English gentleman at will. What he never fully grasped was their effeminate nature.

  In spite of his limited patience, he entered the hall with good intentions. Confirm reasonable terms and go home. A huge commotion broke out somewhere near the back. He rushed past guards and women—pushed his way to the stairs. The dark bastard he recognized as the heir had a knife in his left hand and a woman’s long hair coiled around his right. She struggled to stand, but he kept her bent over in front.

  “What’s going on here?” Randvior queried.

  “This woman has no respect for authority. She’s a disobedient bitch,” Brian said.

  “Drop the knife,” he spoke dangerously low, poised for attack.

  “Take another step and I’ll cut the hag�
�s throat.”

  Constructed mostly of stone, the castle would survive a fire. But countless wood outbuildings, alcoves, rafters, and floors might fuel one for hours. The closer Noelle came, the stronger the stench of scorched wood. Men were scrambling in the courtyard still. Through the thin torchlight, she could make out bodies on the ground—some wearing her father’s colors and others dressed in chain mail.

  Getting inside was going to be a challenge. There were only two entrances—the main doors and the entryway along the north end. She hadn’t been to that side in a long time. The castle was a sprawling mass and the newest quarters to the north served as barracks for her father’s army, close to the cellar.

  Convinced she was out of danger at the present, Noelle emerged from the woods and hurried across the clearing. She stayed close to the wall while taking measured steps. Halfway around the wall it started to snow. Her feet were already freezing cold and wet.

  Loathing swelled inside her. Not knowing the extent of damage to her home was the hardest thing to accept, and now a throbbing headache threatened to slow her down. Whatever inspired men to conquer and take what didn’t belong to them didn’t matter, she knew greed and lust drove them to sin, and very little inspired them to seek forgiveness. These invaders were godless heathens, soulless barbarians.

  Noelle stopped and crouched to catch her breath. Part of her wanted to run into the open, waving her arms like a madwoman casting spells, and send them slithering back to their ships in fear. Only in legends . . .

  Noelle put her head in her hands and covered her mouth to stifle a scream. She prayed fervently for guidance and strength. She deeply regretted running away before knowing where her sister was. She had acted in haste and forgotten everything her father had taught her.