Blind Allegiance (Viking Romance) (The Blind Series)

by Rand, Violetta

  She blushed at the compliment. Drunk or not, she wanted more.

  Against her wishes, he sent her upstairs without a proper good night. She looked back and met his gaze unflinchingly as he leaned against the wall, eyes hard, face brooding. Her blood thundered. He had deliberately sparked her desire and sent her away thirsting. This was no reminder, but a warning. Randvior Sigurdsson knew exactly what he was doing, removing lingering thoughts of Ovesen from her mind.

  Katherine greeted her and she shared the joyful news.

  “A pity you are forced into such an arrangement after your sire—”

  “He loves me . . .” Noelle didn’t want her only friend to disapprove of this match.

  “Did he tell you so, my lady?”

  “Yes, many times.” Although primitive, blood oath remained a form of betrothal in England. Mostly in the northern regions where clans still occupied untamed swaths of land.

  “A pagan ritual is no substitute for a true Christian betrothal.”

  Katherine risked much, speaking so boldly. But Noelle had always encouraged her to speak freely. “I’m not a simpleton,” Noelle snapped. “I did what I must to protect myself and my family’s interests. I admit that I possess feelings for him, how deeply they go I cannot say, not yet. And could my father have done any better?”

  “Your noble birthright is squandered on a barbarian. I’m sure your father—”

  “Lord Sinclair never considered my personal feelings in anything, especially in selecting a husband. I admire my father’s accomplishments, but he needed gold to pay off his debts more than he needed a daughter.”

  “But the jarl is not obligated to the English crown or even our Church.”

  “I know.” Surprisingly, she felt relieved by this fact. “Somehow, I prefer it that way.”

  Randvior dismissed his slaves after midnight. His unquenchable thirst was driven by an increasing hunger for Noelle. He’d drink until he collapsed or ran out of wine. Whichever came first didn’t matter. Better she not see him this way. Better she not know the new depth of his dark obsession for her. Their blood oath changed everything.

  Brandon refused to let him stew and slapped his back, making him choke down the ale in his mouth.

  “How many lasses are weeping bitterly this very night because the mighty Randvior has finally chosen a wife? Even more hearts would have trembled if the lady had selected me as husband.”

  Randvior snorted. “And how many heads would have been dislodged from their bloody necks if she had chosen you?” He tore off a hunk of bread and dipped it in a bowl of broth.

  “Many,” Brandon indulged. “Too many to count.” He chucked Randvior on the chin.

  He smiled before he wrestled Brandon’s hand to the table. He held it down in challenge.

  “Ye desire an arm wrestling contest?”

  Randvior’s face split into a heady grin. “Aye,” he said. “But I’d prefer to save the weakest man for last to make it fair. Bring me one of those young bucks first so I might demonstrate my superiority for you, my friend.”

  Brandon espied the group of eager boys who perked up the minute the informal challenge was made. They gathered along the front of the stage. Traditionally, anyone who defeated the jarl in sport would be granted a reasonable request. Fald Ovesen, who still sat nearby, laughed delightedly and pointed out his eldest son.

  “Not a skilled talker,” Fald observed, “but he speaks well with his fists.”

  Randvior grunted. What happened in the bathhouse between him and Sveinn would remain private. However, he wanted nothing more than to purge the rage from his heart. He could easily torture the man for hours before he felt any relief. He chose Sveinn as his opponent.

  Strict rules applied to arm wrestling matches, no matter how informal. Brandon would act as referee and appoint seats for the challengers. Massive right hands folded together across the high table.

  Brandon circled, checking their form from every angle. Upon final inspection, the Scot straightened their wrists until he was sure neither had a starting advantage.

  On the count of three, Brandon whistled and the match began. Sveinn displayed raw skill first and locked Randvior’s wrist in a vulnerable position. Randvior indulged the younger man by allowing him to dominate and spend his strength early. Each time Sveinn attempted to slam his hand down, Randvior forced him back to the starting position.

  He grinned as Sveinn dug his long fingernails into the palm of his left hand and drew blood. He loved competition for the sake of a fight and twisted Sveinn’s wrist so hard it cracked loudly as he banged it down in decisive victory. The sickening sound drew the boy’s worried father to the tableside. After a quick inspection, it was realized only to be a severe sprain.

  Fald seemed relieved. “It’s a long ride home and my son requires rest and time to mend his pride.”

  “Aye.” Randvior agreed. “Go with my blessing.” He greatly appreciated Fald, but his son deserved the sharp end of his sword.

  Chapter 14

  The Weaving Room

  Compelled by tradition to leave Noelle untouched until their wedding night, Randvior avoided spending any time alone with her. Days blurred into weeks. And although Noelle enjoyed improved eminence in Randvior’s house, Lauga continued to encourage the women to treat her as an outsider.

  She searched for ways to keep herself entertained. Conversations with servants and reading books helped some. But she had grown dependent on their daily lovemaking on ship and the days before their betrothal to help keep her thoughts off home. Now, only his eyes spoke intimately to her. Thankfully, they spoke a language she understood—they always undressed her.

  Most evenings they ate together and enjoyed the entertainment of traveling musicians who visited the hall to earn coin to support their families. She also took the time to learn the routine of the household, assisting the chambermaids with cleaning and laundry duties. However, the kitchen remained unapproachable. Lauga, who never seemed to want to go home, spent most of her time there planning the meals.

  The month of December came and the men slaughtered the weakest livestock and dried meat for storage. Slabs of venison, beef, pork, and mutton were hung or buried in deep pits, left for days or weeks to cure in mixtures of salt and herbs. A smaller building was used for processing fish. The men who worked there gave her strings of smoked white fish to snack on as she watched.

  Today, the women pickled vegetables and jarred fruits in the kitchen. Everyone worked together—even Randvior labored between the smokehouse and the great hall.

  One particular morning, a sharp rapping on Noelle’s bedchamber door wrested her from sleep. Katherine greeted the unannounced visitor. Randvior stood at the doorway holding a tray of food.

  “Come in, my Lord.”

  “You may leave us.” Randvior dismissed her and stepped inside.

  Noelle sank further below the sheets. He pulled the blankets back and stared down at her, clearly amused.

  She pinched her cheeks and combed her fingers through her hair to avoid appearing disheveled, hoping to win some time in bed with him.

  “No need.” He assured her. “If you wore rags and covered your face with ashes I’d still consider you the most beautiful woman in the northern hemisphere.”

  She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, patted the bed invitingly, and flashed her white teeth, pleased with herself. She needed to put an end to this ridiculous separation.

  The teasing obviously irritated him. “I’m only here to eat, and then escort you to the weaving room.”

  She stopped and looked at him dumbly. His rejection stung and she groaned mentally. Whether he wanted her or not, he was still too handsome to ignore. He motioned for her to precede him to the table.

  Fine—the window of opportunity to seduce him slammed shut. Well,
it had been worth a try.

  She allowed her displeasure to show on her face as she bustled ahead and chose a seat. And even managed to keep from yelling . . . although he had mentioned that torture chamber—the weaving room. It was where women gathered to work—apparently English women weren’t permitted. On more than one occasion, she overheard the gossip coming from the room, and most of it centered on her. No. She wanted nothing to do with it.

  “Has anything changed significantly in the past few weeks where an invitation to the women’s quarters will be considered a friendly gesture? I think not. They will consider it impertinence, and I look at it as an intrusion.” Noelle nibbled on a piece of cheese.

  He stared at her for a long moment and dropped his bread on the plate. “You will be mistress of this household soon enough. These women will serve you, and it’s time to establish your command.”

  “This isn’t a military exercise, Randvior.” She reached for the robe draped over one of the chairs.

  “Don’t put anything else on.”

  First, he cruelly rejects my invitation and now he wants to ogle me in my nightdress.

  She didn’t want to stay seated at the table with him any longer. The floorboards were very cold against her feet as she slinked to the bed to retrieve her slippers. She bent down to get them and couldn’t help noticing the look on his face. His eyes betrayed him.

  He blocked her pathway back to the table.

  “If I touch you,” he said while his eyes clung to her breasts, “I won’t be able to stop. And if I hear one more of those little gratifying sounds you make every time my hands make contact with your skin, I’ll come in my breeches.”

  She felt the color drain from her face. She didn’t appreciate the uncertainty he constantly caused her. First, he denied her any physical contact. Now, he could hardly contain himself. A tear of frustration wet her cheek. He quickly fingered it away.

  This time his face tightened in frustration. “I promise you every pleasure . . .” he couldn’t seem to find the words to finish his thought and shrugged.

  They returned to the table and finished breakfast in companionable silence.

  The windowless chamber located off the kitchen appeared to be as comfortable as any woman needed. Six warp-weighted looms were situated along the east wall and ten metal vats for dying were anchored to the floor along the south. Balls of bright yarn, segregated by color and texture, were stored in baskets near the looms. Women were already sorting or sewing. All activities ceased the moment Randvior’s hulking frame shadowed the narrow doorway. He pecked Noelle’s cheek before he nudged her inside.

  Distress gripped her as Randvior retreated, leaving her standing alone near the doorway. She counted sixteen females ranging in age from fifteen to sixty. Spending time with these women should be a positive experience because she’d likely be here the rest of her life. New kinswomen and friends to help her through the long months Randvior would be gone from their home.

  Little could be done to guarantee her contentment though. Men, even the jarl, were forbidden from this room—the only exception being an emergency. Noelle knew every form of sanctuary had its price and if she wanted to occupy a respectable position alongside these women, she’d have to earn it. But wouldn’t it be easier to let Randvior handle it?

  What was she thinking? If a man violated the rules, the women would retaliate by casting dark spells to make his prick wither or would spread malicious rumors that called his manhood into question. As ridiculous as it seemed to her, it could forever damage a Norseman’s reputation amongst the women. A superstition no man was willing to test.

  Lauga proceeded with her work while Noelle stood at the entrance. It came as no surprise and an irritating hush fell over the room. Say something, please. Anything. She’d settle for open insults if it encouraged discourse. People’s futures were shaped in this room—tenants rewarded or destroyed depending on Lauga’s mood. And as future mistress, Noelle would assume this responsibility someday. Only she would never destroy someone’s life based on factors they didn’t have control over. Including their birthplace.

  Instead of worrying, she admired the expansive space. Decorative columns were positioned near the looms and she walked over and leaned on one for support. Colorful tapestries similar to the ones in the great hall covered the walls. A granite hearth and bookshelves with two couches where someone could curl up with a book looked inviting.

  “Do daughters of English lords weave?” Lauga finally acknowledged her presence. “Or are your hands too unskilled to fashion garments for Odin’s children to wear?”

  At this point, Noelle would feast on what scraps Lauga was willing to throw at her. “I’m skilled in the arts of weaving and sewing. My work graces the rooms of my father’s castle. Direct me, and I will do whatever you ask.”

  Lauga nodded. An imbecile could stitch a shirt. Simply voicing her accomplishments would do little to impress the ice queen. Noelle tried to keep her hands from fidgeting as she waited for her future mother-in-law to respond. Gratefully, her words had captured the interest of some of the women, because they too waited for Lauga to speak. A small victory, she’d take it.

  Unable to refuse her offer, Lauga began. “The looms are occupied for the day,” she said, “but if you are capable, you may sit at that table and work.” She pointed across the room.

  A linen overdress, dyed the boldest shade of purple she’d ever seen, awaited someone’s skilled hands. Noelle admired the garment, a sweet design with intricately embroidered rosebuds sewn along the shoulder seams. She sat and continued the pattern of red and yellow buds, adding a personal touch by stitching leaves on the stems of the tiny blossoms. She worked for hours, happy to use her skills.

  Margaret had always warned, idle hands are the devil’s tools, and Noelle couldn’t agree more!

  By late afternoon, Noelle finished the dress and several women gathered around the table to see. Humbly, she accepted their praise.

  Thralls set out trays of food on the tables. The midday meal had come quickly and consisted of bread, cheese, fruit, and wine. Noelle allowed Lauga to be served first to keep peace.

  The quality of Noelle’s embroidery was the subject of discussion during the meal. Five women sat with her and passed the gown around for closer inspection. Noelle sipped at a glass of water while she listened nervously to their chatter. Lauga’s tolerance must have been stretched thin because the woman glared ceaselessly in her direction.

  Noelle watched as she poured a glass of wine and nearly fainted when Lauga offered it to her. This was a stunning change of attitude and she accepted it without hesitation.

  “Randvior will be very proud of your work,” Lauga said.

  “This is the first opportunity I’ve had to contribute.” Noelle was wild with excitement. Had something so simple opened a door of possibility?

  Lauga returned to her table.

  Before Noelle took a drink, the woman sitting at her right tapped her fingers against her teeth. She leaned close and whispered in Noelle’s ear. “Never accept refreshment from her hand.”

  Noelle swirled the dark liquid and set the glass aside. “Why?”

  “I will only speak of this once.” The woman looked around paranoid someone would overhear the conversation. “Lauga will stop at nothing to destroy you.”

  Noelle gaped at her. She knew Lauga thought Randvior had betrayed her. Realized she didn’t want her here. But this tidbit of warning represented something much more sinister. How could she trust this stranger? Only three people besides her fiancé had made her feel welcome—Brandon, Unnr, and Aud. One woman. Noelle cursed her own naivety.

  Across the room, Lauga continued to mentor a young girl on one of the looms, seemingly unaware of the present conversation. Noelle’s heart sank in her chest. Something seemed eerily familiar. Another night . . . weeks a
go. There were serious gaps in her memory. But she clearly recalled a set of gray eyes and a brute of a man ready to commit murder.

  More memories came in small spurts. Terrible pain and her insides were mangled. She had vomited a dozen times . . . seen the leathery face of a wise woman who attended her. And then, the world went completely dark.

  “Have I stirred memories?” the woman asked.

  “Perhaps.” She clamped a hand over her mouth. Now she could see clearly . . . the glass of wine Lauga served her on the night of the feast. It didn’t take a scholar to figure out the rest.

  This confirmed all her suspicions. Her efforts at peace had all been in vain.

  She closed her eyes. “It seems I am an unfortunate victim of something greater than I would have ever imagined.”

  “Aye.”

  Noelle drummed her fingers on the tabletop. Wine from her private stock . . . She faced the woman again. “If I commanded you to drink this, would you?”

  “No, though I dare not admit it publicly.”

  Noelle rose slowly from the table. “I shall not forget this kindness.”

  She picked up the evidence, careful not to spill a drop. Randvior must be told. If he expected her to stay here, his mother must be sent away immediately.

  Noelle pounded angrily on Randvior’s bedchamber door. It finally opened and she shoved the glass of wine in his face.

  “If you doubted your mother, as I have always doubted her, why did you withhold the cause of my sickness for all these weeks?”

  His eyes surveyed her. “Baseless accusations are worth nothing, but if I catch her in the act . . .”

  “Hah!” Noelle’s lips twitched. “See this witch’s brew?” She shook her hand and some of the wine spilled out. “A special concoction your mother offered me today. The same poisoned draught she fed me weeks ago when I nearly died.”