Blind Mercy

by Violetta Rand

  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?”

  He nodded.

  Sympathy disintegrated when she imagined her uncle in the same condition. This savage and his brother deserved to die for what they’d done. Unable to control the sudden surge of outrage, she blurted, “Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot!”

  She wanted to despise him. But the longer she stared at his slain brother, the more impossible it became to stay angry. She didn’t possess a cruel heart, only a broken one. Compassion crippled her. If he had wanted to kill her, she’d be dead. That much she knew.

  He laid the body out, then focused all his attention on her. He came to her unthreateningly, making her insides squirm. “What do you want?”

  The Viking lifted her to her feet.

  Chapter 2

  Choices

  Tyr Sigurdsson leveled his gaze on the woman. The wench possessed a melodic voice and gentle demeanor. He tapped the hilt of his sword while considering what to do. Her sudden appearance meant something—it had to. And right now, he couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes. Odin had already abandoned his king. Harald Hardrada had acted impetuously for too long. After his household converted to Christianity, he’d opened himself up to the wrath of the gods. Tyr would be damned if he’d do the same.

  Hardrada’s fatal decisions had changed the outcome of this war. Six months ago, after the king appropriated assets from the southern lords to finance this invasion, Tyr volunteered to supply ships and men against his better judgment. He took the same oath as all the northern jarls, swearing allegiance in trade for an extension of an old treaty shielding the Trondelag from Christian interference. It bought his territory some time. Nothing more.

  Now, the deadweight of his failures would burden him for the rest of his life. His twin brother’s death—his punishment for participating in this unjustified attack. But what should he do with this little intruder? The longer he waited here, the greater his chances of being captured or killed. He had important matters to attend to before he could return to his ship. The last thing he needed was the added responsibility of a wayward wench. A Saxon bitch at that.

  Staring at her, he nearly forgot himself; her heart-shaped face and feminine charms didn’t justify his hesitation to kill her. Neither did it explain why the gods let her find him. His body disagreed as he stifled an animalistic growl threatening to come out. Weeks without a woman made him overly susceptible. Her presence alone threatened his self-control. The sweet fragrance lingering in her dark curls had overwhelmed him when she’d discovered him on the field—the shear memory wreaked havoc on his body.

  How could he crave intimacy in the middle of a bloody war? What did that say about him? Man or woman—she’s Saxon—and that’s reason enough to slit her throat.

  Shaking it off, he puzzled over why she didn’t run. No fear showed on her face. Her unusual bravery impressed him. It would be wrong to snuff out the life force that animated those beautiful eyes. Perhaps a legitimate reason to keep her alive, yet he needed something more substantial to appease his brutal sensibilities.

  By now, most women would have begged for mercy. Instead, this one prayed, condemning him. Those words she’d spoken, eye for eye . . . it surprisingly affected him. Truth always hurt. His heart had never been invested in this fight. Why he survived and thousands of his brethren perished, he’d never know. Nearly choking on his next breath, he set his regrets aside. After he dealt with her, he’d commit his brother’s spirit to Odin. Maybe if he donned the cloak of ruthlessness all Norsemen were unfairly accused of wearing, he’d scare her away. But how long would it take her to report him?

  Time. He needed more blasted time.

  Talking might convince her to flee. He’d avoided speaking directly, up to this point, because he wanted to observe her. He expelled an exasperated breath and grudgingly faced her. Her cool gaze searched the field. The resoluteness in those wide blue eyes made him realize he couldn’t hurt her. Stegir’s blood already stained his hands. And he’d not mar his brother’s memory by killing a helpless female.

  She addressed him. “We shall work together to bury your brother. And when we finish, I’ll disappear and tell no one we met, if you let me go.”

  Bargaining for freedom. He nodded. She’d earned the right to live already. Shaking his head, he eyed the ground; there was plenty of tinder to start a fire. He needed to build a pyre worthy of his kinsman. Dragging her to an area sheltered by large rocks and trees, he left her standing while he started cutting branches and gathering kindling. He’d die before he abandoned his brother. And he’d never bury him like Christian fools did. Odin would catch Stegir’s ashes. The risk of lighting a fire didn’t matter. If his brother’s body wasn’t properly consecrated, his soul might get trapped between Asgard and earth. A fate reserved for cowards.

  As he worked, he occasionally stopped to check on the girl. She watched intently. Damn the gods, why didn’t she go? He’d given ample opportunities.

  As the pyre started to take shape, she confronted him. “Stop it.” She slapped the load of branches from his hands. “Do you understand what you’re doing? The army will come if they see fire. Burial . . .” She dropped to her knees, then dug her fingernails into the earth.

  More than a little shocked by her concern, he reached for her hands. One at a time, he brushed the dirt from her palms. This woman must be daft. She acted like a trusting idiot—didn’t want him to get captured. It did not make sense. Nothing should keep her here. Vikings and Saxons were as incompatible as fire and water. They stared at each other for a long time. Maybe she was afraid to be alone.

  Twigs snapped and he reacted violently. Securing her arm, he hauled her into the underbrush. He covered her mouth with his hand, while holding her down with his body. She struggled under his weight, but he couldn’t take any chances.

  “Rachelle Fiennes . . .”

  Tyr glimpsed three English soldiers on horseback. Unease settled over him as he realized the girl meant something to someone.

  “Lady Rachelle.” The call came again. “Where are you?”

  Tyr held his breath. Not quite dark yet, he hoped they’d overlook the half constructed pyre. Beyond this stand of trees, there weren’t too many places to hide. All three rode to opposite sides of the clearing, looked around, and then met up again. Seemingly satisfied they’d scoured the area thoroughly, they rode west, away from his escape route. Relieved, Tyr rolled off Rachelle. A beautiful name he knew belonged to the girl without having to ask.

  Time was a commodity he couldn’t afford to squander. Especially now, there might be search parties everywhere. As he pulled the disheveled girl to her feet, the reason for her odd behavior became clearer. She must be running away from someone, but that still didn’t explain why she hadn’t fought to get away from him when the guards were in the clearing. That part confounded him.

  Possessing a lord’s daughter might be beneficial; for a guaranteed escape and the potentia
l opportunity to collect a handsome ransom in exchange for her safe return to her family. Not opposed to the idea of gold after the financial losses he’d suffered in this war, he wondered if he had the patience for such an endeavor. As manageable as she’d been, it seemed too good to be true. His only hesitation came from his continuing state of arousal and limited time.

  What did he care? As long as he was in England, he was living beyond the grace of Odin. Another look at her crown of midnight hair, which reminded him of soft silky chords he’d love to get entangled in, nearly made him explode in his breeches. It had taken considerable effort not to bury his face in it when he straddled her before.

  Reaching inside his pocket, he pulled out a silver flask. He uncapped it, tossed his head back, and took a long swig. Women don’t belong on battlefields. Enjoying another drink, he stole a second look. Spirits did little to alleviate his suffering. Gouging his eyes out wouldn’t either; he’d already committed her face to memory.

  Laying his knuckles across his mouth, he wiped the excess liquid from his lips. Godforsaken, imbecilic English . . . Who allowed women to go traipsing about? She regarded him with a bewildered look. He offered her the flask. She accepted, and sipped daintily. The shock on her face after she tasted that liquid fire forced him to smile. She quickly handed the flagon back.

  “Thank you,” she choked out.

  “Aye, you’ll need it.” The words slipped out. Curse women. How easily they reduced a man’s mind to a pile of mush. Plans unraveled as easily as a ball of yarn when they were around.

  “You . . .”

  A wicked smile spanned his face. He bowed, appreciating the moment’s reprieve from sorrow.

  “You understand English?” Her jaw tensed.

  He should have talked to her sooner. “If a man can’t understand his enemies, how can he outmaneuver his foes?”