Blind Mercy

by Violetta Rand

  “Leave me.” A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  “Milord?” Frida’s big eyes searched his face.

  “Go,” he repeated gruffly.

  Frida touched him again, shaking her head.

  His jaw clenched. Didn’t she understand? After warming his bed for six years, she deserved his respect and he didn’t wish to hurt her. Tucking a stray hair behind her ear, he spoke softly. “Our relationship must change.”

  She jerked her hand away from his face. “What are you saying?”

  “I cannot share my bed with you any longer.”

  She laughed. “You’re confused.”

  That was the farthest thing from the truth. “No, I’m not.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “That girl doesn’t return your affection. I’ve seen resentment on her face.”

  That was about to change if he had anything to say about it. “Don’t mistake fear for hatred. And if I’m wrong about her, I accept that it might be too late to seek your favor again.”

  “She’s not suited for life here. So pale and thin—a Saxon witch.”

  His lips tightened at the insult, but he kept a grip on his temper. Rachelle possessed more grace and beauty in her fingertips than Frida possessed in her whole body. Not that he’d compare the two. Frida had given him years of companionship. Good years. And for that he’d be eternally grateful. But men change. And what he wanted now was a wife.

  “Imagine what the king will say after he finds out one of the great princes of Norway has fallen in love with a Saxon. You’ll be marked as a traitor.”

  If she were a thrall, he’d whip her. But Frida was a freewoman, paid to manage his household. “Go.”

  She gestured angrily. “Be careful what you ask for.” Her body convulsed as she stood up. “You’ll change your mind.” Her voice was as unsteady as her body.

  “Have you ever known me to regret a decision I’ve made?”

  She shook her head.

  “I mean you no insult.”

  “How else should I take it? You’ve dismissed me as carelessly as a whore.”

  “You put words into my mouth.”

  “Do I?” she asked morosely. “Amongst other things . . .”

  If he were sensible, he’d ignore that last statement. “I would never deny the pleasure we’ve shared. I made no promises, Frida. Neither did I declare my love for you. If I’ve misled you, tell me now.” No matter what he said or did, his former lover wouldn’t leave satisfied.

  With her hands clenched at her sides, she shook her head violently, Tyr accepted this as acknowledgement of his honesty with her.

  “Good.” he said. “I do not wish to strip you of your honorable position in my household or your dignity. Let us part peaceably.”

  Everything in his life had changed without warning. What else could he have done, made love to Frida once more and risked deepening her attachment to him? No. He’d made the right decision. Bedding two women at the same time dangerously complicated things. He refused to breed rivalry and hatred between females and have it overflow onto him.

  Frida left the room.

  On the following eventide, rage and passion collided inside Tyr’s chest after Rachelle entered the great hall draped in rose-colored silk. If he stared too long, she’d suck the life force out of him. Drifting casually around the room, while holding onto Onetooth’s arm, she ignored Tyr, reserving her brilliant smile for Prince Edwin. The Odin-forsaken maggot had the gall to invite her to the meal without Tyr’s permission. His eyes narrowed to slits as she approached the high table. She curtsied and finally looked at him. Curbing his temper, he folded his hands on the tabletop. That defiant glint in her eyes . . . This girl would be a thorn in his side for the rest of his bloody life.

  “You may sit.” Tyr directed her to the chair at Edwin’s right hand.

  Aaron was seated on Tyr’s left. “Look at her,” he droned near Tyr’s ear before Rachelle was settled. “Her shoulders are uncovered and her breasts—”

  “Shut up.”

  His cousin swallowed whatever remained of his crude observation.

  “She’s dressed appropriately for an eventide feast. Have you scrutinized the other women sitting at the tables? Look.” Tyr pointed at a woman sitting nearby. “Do you whir tiresomely in another’s lord’s ear concerning the attire of his wife and daughters? From the moment you first encountered Rachelle, your aversion for her has been exaggerated. Why?”

  Aaron shifted on his chair, took a swallow of ale, and spit on the ground.

  Had Tyr uncovered the truth? He admired Rachelle’s delicate features, which were more prominent tonight because she had arranged her hair to reveal her forehead, instead of wearing it framing her face. He understood why any man would struggle endlessly to resist her charms. Parted in the middle and braided into three sections on both sides, the smaller strands were intricately woven into two larger braids and knotted high on the back of her head, exposing her elegant neck. Tiny, well-shaped ears begged to be nibbled and kissed. No queen looked half as noble. A tear-shaped ruby, hanging from a silver chain, adorned her forehead—a jewel he had provided for her. Beautiful.

  He pressed Aaron. “Well?”

  Silence.

  He knew. Lust showed in his cousin’s eyes and he suspected Aaron wanted her for himself.

  Every time Rachelle’s eyes wandered in Tyr’s direction, her heart beat erratically. Suffering from terrible nightmares last night, the same brooding face she stared at now had filled her dreams. Hopefully, Prince Edwin couldn’t detect the tension between them. She foresaw the difficulties of the evening unless she could focus exclusively on Edwin and ignore everything else.

  “Good evening, Prince Edwin.” She curtsied.

  “I’m pleased to see you again.” He smiled.

  She scanned the table nervously, admiring the wonderful foods; roast duck, venison, cabbage and onions, peas and carrots, and fresh bread. A platter of cheese and berries was closest. The succulent food couldn’t distract her for more than a few moments.

  “Didn’t you sleep well last night? You look as pale as a snowflake,” the prince observed.

  “As well as can be expected, milord.”

  Those ravenous kisses she had shared with Tyr challenged her principles. And his naked body . . . what an irascible fool. Everything about their encounter frightened and surprised her. As she stared at his hands now, she shuddered to think how those fingers had blazed a trail across her flesh last night. Fear pummeled her heart like a pair of angry fists.

  Looking back at Edwin, she realized his attractive features couldn’t obscure Tyr’s superior looks. By God, she needed to change the direction of her thoughts before something regrettable happened. No matter what she did, she couldn’t stop the persistent moisture between her legs. It had started after Tyr stretched her across the bed last night. Something had opened inside her.

  Meaningful conversation might help. She eyed the prince. “Tell me again how you would change the political tides in the Trondelag if you were granted governance here.”

  He smiled, obviously pleased by her interest. “I’d unite these lands under a banner of peace. Welcome Christians and pagans and even Jews if they sought refuge here.”

  “Jews?” Rachelle sputtered.

  “Yes.” His eyes sparkled. “I would rescind any edicts my father made against the establishment of a Jewish community. Enmity serves no purpose. If I allow the population to expand, moderate taxes will raise the revenue I need to maintain an army and build a capital city.”

  “Incredible.”

  “Oppvåkning, milady, consider it an awakening of sorts. The success of any kingdom depends on prosperity.” He filled her wine glass. “The Semites are only the first outcasts I’ll reach out to.”

  This man amazed her. “If your ideas are tested, you’ll surely change the future of this nation.” She admired his courage and tenacity. “Edicts of expulsion against the Semites have been issued across Europe. Welcoming them to Norway
might be an ingenious move.”

  “I’m willing to try anything once,” Edwin said.

  From what she’d learned in her short time here, this country couldn’t settle disputes amongst its own citizenry. How would they manage a large population of immigrants? What aspiring ruler would risk so much unless he was directly inspired by God? She ate a piece of cheese and a handful of blueberries while she further considered him.

  False piety infuriated Tyr. Edwin’s putrid lies had the same effect on Rachelle as an aphrodisiac. She actually believed him. Open borders, inviting Jews and Christians to settle in the Trondelag . . . He imagined it with revulsion; bustling market places overflowing with dark-skinned exotics from the lands beyond Europe. Lands that belonged to his brethren would be confiscated and sold to strangers. Pagan holy sites would be dismantled. Norwegian women would be pledged in marriage to heathens. His anger festered.

  But Tyr always gave recognition to whoever deserved it, even to a devious bastard.

  Two courses of light fare had hardly taken the edge off Tyr’s monstrous appetite. His stomach moaned. He craved strong meat. And if Edwin was truly the visionary he claimed to be, he knew a way to test his tolerance. Slamming his fists down, a thrall served him ale. He laughed at his own cunning while he drank greedily.

  Edwin and Rachelle stared at him.

  The sudden change in his behavior stopped their conversation short. Good. And now he’d put an end to their flirtation. “Serve the main course.”

  Unable to mistake the aroma of the food, the guests clapped as thralls appeared with sizzling horseflesh, skewered on long metal rods. A traditional meal from ancient times meant to unite Norsemen. The prince’s face twisted with revulsion after a plate of meat was placed in front of him.

  With one strike, Tyr could crush his skull. Instead of resorting to violence, he’d devised a much more effective way to dispose of the prince. Picking up a skewer, Tyr bit off a large piece of meat. He watched Rachelle nibble delicately on her own serving. By Odin, he loved her. Dipping a piece of bread in thick brown broth, he noisily sucked the juices from the crust before he consumed it in one bite. Atrocious table manners were useful. He studied Edwin between sips of wine. The coward hadn’t touched his food.

  “Is there something wrong with the main course?”

  The horseflesh was swimming in garlic and onion sauce. “Nothing at all,” Edwin lied.

  “Do you prefer something more delicate, perhaps leg of lamb?”

  Edwin leapt to his feet. “Are you calling me weak?”

  The prince’s guards swarmed to the front of the room. Onetooth jumped up, holding his battle-axe. Rachelle gasped, then dropped her linen on her lap. She threw Tyr a piercing look. Amused by Edwin’s reaction, he disregarded her. She’d hear the truth soon enough.

  “Why do you tempt my displeasure, Jarl Sigurdsson?”

  “I never intended to make you uncomfortable, Prince Edwin. You’ve spent two days sharing your vision for a renewed Trondelag. You condemned your father’s traditions and offered an array of ideas that might earn any other man a death sentence. You speak prettily of tolerance and unification. You claim to care little for what gods men worship. Pagan, Christian, or Jew. Some might believe such lies. If your intentions are true, eat with me.” He left no room for refusal and leaned in so only Edwin could hear his next words. “You’ll die before you get between her legs.”

  Edwin swore. “Is that what made you angry?”

  Tyr’s heart pounded. “Your father never compromised. Although I disagreed with him on many issues of importance, he was a man of purpose. The north provided security for him and he knew the only way to keep us in his ranks was to turn a blind eye while we worshipped Odin. He did so out of desperation. And I respected him for it.”

  “My father was a tyrannical beast.”

  The formal mourning period for King Hardrada had barely ended. And his son dared to publicly deprecate his name. Angry words flew from the crowd. Edwin’s insult provided the damning evidence Tyr needed to disprove his claims.

  “You’ve taken advantage of your position.” Tyr stood, then pushed a full trencher in front of the prince. “I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself. Eat with me and I’ll be the first man to welcome you.”

  Edwin refused. “This unclean food is forbidden to all Christians.”

  “By what authority?” Tyr harpooned a chunk with his knife, then held it up. “Pope Gregory, whose corpse is rotting in the earth? Why concern yourself with a holy man whose body is fodder for worms. Eat as proof of your dedication and I will bend my knee in support of your claim. Recognize Odin’s authority, admit Thor’s spirit still roams this sacred land, and condemn the destruction of the Holy Oak in Hesse—renounce your faith in the White Christ and beg our forgiveness and I might let you walk out of here.” In that moment, Tyr sensed the strength of Allfather’s presence.

  Edwin shoved the plate aside, then drew his sword. “You question my honor.”

  “Honor,” Tyr scoffed. “Liars have none.”

  “You’re not qualified to be my judge.” Edwin turned to Rachelle. “This man speaks of truth, yet he withholds valuable information from you.” He grinned triumphantly. “A man that tells half-truths is still a liar.”

  Rachelle eyed Tyr. “What hasn’t he told me?”

  Tyr edged closer. The prince’s blade was inches from his throat.

  “The Normans invaded England and murdered your good King Harold at Hastings. The Saxons are no longer freemen.”

  Tyr lunged.

  Edwin’s weapon came loose as Tyr wrestled him down. The back of the prince’s head landed in a trencher of gravy. Tyr grabbed a fistful of hot meat from another plate and shoved it in Edwin’s big mouth. “Choke on it, you fucking bastard.”

  Edwin’s face turned three shades of purple.

  Onetooth intervened, grabbing Tyr’s shoulder. “Let him go, milord.” The captain pried his fingers loose one by one.

  Freed, Edwin flipped over. He spit the food out on the floor, gasped violently for air, then sagged to his knees.

  Scanning the hall, Tyr located the prince’s men. They were surrounded by Tyr’s personal guards. None of this bothered him half as much as the horrified look on Rachelle’s face after she learned the fate of her countrymen. Tears stained her cheeks. Words wouldn’t console her. And Tyr didn’t dare touch her.

  Uttering a heart-wrenching cry, she fled upstairs.

  Chapter 11

  Confessions

  Rachelle set the bolt on her bedchamber door, then collapsed against it. How quickly feelings changed. The pain churning inside her belly burned and ached. The man she had grown to admire over the last two days appeared to be as ignoble and thoughtless as everyone else. Edwin’s version of cruelty served no purpose other than to imperil Tyr’s respectability with her.

  She likened the two men to wolves fighting over the same bone.

  With no news of Uncle Henry, and no knowledge of what arrangements Tyr had made in order to secure her release, the hope of ever getting home evaporated. She suspected her captor never intended to let her go. It didn’t matter anymore. Because her kinsman never refused a fight. If he had survived Stamford Bridge, he’d likely marched south with the king.

  The implications of King Harold’s death were grim. If the Normans occupied her homeland, she’d pray for a merciless and swift death for all Saxons. Those beasts of prey shared bloodlines with the Norse. What atrocities would they commit to achieve dominion?

  She sniffled. The best she could hope for was his burial in consecrated ground. God had abandoned England. Banging her fists on the door, she prayed for mercy. Tears bled from her eyes. Her life was over.

  At Tyr’s signal, his guards surrounded Edwin’s men near the main entrance of the hall. Stripped of their arms, they didn’t protest. Onetooth held his position nearby, still using his body as a barrier between Tyr and the prince.

  “There will be consequences for this violence,” Edwin
threatened.

  Tyr grinned. “And what punishment will your half-brother Magnus mete out once he hears how you abused the power he vested you with? Using your birthright as a means to gain leverage against the legitimate princes of Norway is a crime. And if you’re threatening me with bloodletting, take your weapon and face me.”

  Still hunched over the table, the prince wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His color was improving. Straightening, he grabbed a pitcher of water off the table and gulped it down.

  “As for your mistreatment of Lady Rachelle—”

  “I’d never hurt her,” Edwin grumbled.

  Perhaps the first truth this man had spoken since his arrival. Tyr considered the severity of his situation. He didn’t fear reprisal from Magnus. Edwin disturbed the peace in his home and shamed King Hardrada’s memory. Beyond that, he emotionally terrorized a young woman under his protection. Those offenses alone were worth a few broken bones. However, if Tyr chose self-restraint and sent the bastard away unharmed, the indignity of having been force-fed horsemeat at the feast in front of a hundred guests would follow him wherever he went. That idea overwhelmingly pleased Tyr.

  “The girl is no longer your concern.” He waved his hand dismissively.

  As if Onetooth read his mind, the captain grabbed Edwin by the arm and hauled him away.

  “How can ye treat a king’s son with such inconsideration? Make amends before it’s too late,” Aaron hissed.