Blind Mercy Read online

  Table of Contents

  BLIND MERCY

  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

  BLIND MERCY

  The Blind Series - Book 2

  VIOLETTA RAND

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  BLIND MERCY

  Copyright©2014

  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 prior 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: 978-1-61935-384-8

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

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

  To Rudy Nino—years

  and distance make no difference . . .

  Acknowledgements

  Much love to my husband, Jeff, for all his support. Without you, none of this would be possible. Hugs and kisses to Simon, Gretchen, Mason, Bella, and Ivan—the greatest pets in the world.

  Thanks again to Soul Mate Publishing (Debby) and my wonderful editor, Cynthia Brannam, for believing in Vikings.

  My deepest appreciation to Meredith Mix, Carol Cork, Collette Cameron, Jessica Jefferson, Johnny Read, J.J., Victoria Vane, Rudy Nino, Daniel Skrzynski, and Ross and Valerie Reed. Listening is the greatest gift you can give a writer.

  Prologue

  York, England

  AD 1058

  Rachelle Fiennes couldn’t banish the sorrow caused by her parents’ brutal deaths from her mind. When the cart carrying their bodies arrived a week ago, Rachelle’s life spiraled onto a path of destruction. Nothing would ever be the same. Her spirit died that day—hope forever lost.

  Now, she spent every morning outside in the garden, while priests and servants came and went at all times of the day. Her mother’s dishes and jewelry, her father’s beloved collection of scrolls, their horses, and clothes—anything of value—were being appraised. They’d likely be sold to pay debts and ensure her place in the nearest covenant. Nobody cared if another daughter of the lower gentry was offered as a bride for Christ.

  Because her parents had gifted her with freedom and knowledge, she knew more about the travails of the world than any child her age should. And she understood why the holy men who lived near York worked diligently to place her in a religious house. To make right what sins her father had committed. For years, her sire had warned all who would listen that the Pope no longer served Christ, only his own selfish ambitions. Her father also taught that it took more than mortar and stone to constitute a church. The clergy didn’t hide their disdain.

  Revenge comes in many forms. And Rachelle feared there was no one to speak on her behalf. Or to protect her interests. Why hadn’t her parents discussed their future plans for her or appointed a guardian? Surely, her father’s modest assets could provide a living until she reached marriageable age. But it was too late. Secret plans were in motion—she overheard the whisperings of her servants.

  A stranger arrived suddenly and Rachelle stood up so she could catch a glimpse of him. Short and muscular, he appeared overweight, but respectable in his military uniform. She eyeballed the sword at his hip. Marveled at his confident stride. He didn’t tether his stallion, but instead, rushed to the front of the house. “I’m looking for my niece, Rachelle Fiennes. Is she here?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. Niece? Did she have an uncle? She stared, harder. He looked nothing like her father or mother. But her curiosity always overrode her fear. She sprinted toward him. “Uncle?”

  Upon hearing her voice, he turned sharply. Eyeing her head to toe, a sad smile spread across his somber features. “You favor your mother, child. Come here.” He spread his arms wide.

  For a split second, a sliver of joy coursed through her. She went to him. His embrace was what she needed. “I apologize for missing the funeral,” he started. “I was north when I received the tragic news. I’ve been riding for two days.” He released her and drew back to look at her again. “You must tell me everything. Did the presiding priest honor your parents? What arrangements have been made . . .?”

  She tried to listen carefully to everything he said, but his voice became little more than a hum because she still couldn’t believe God had answered her prayer for a savior so quickly. Although her uncle didn’t fit the description of the great warrior she’d described in her pleadings, nevertheless, he wore a uniform and carried a sword.

  How could she ever forget the funeral?

  The parish priest assigned to perform the service glared at Rachelle as he approached the cart transporting her father and mother’s bodies, now prepared for burial. Those dark slits for eyes moved rapidly over. She recognized a liar’s eyes. And that friar was here out of duty, nothing more.

  When he signaled the small crowd to follow him inside the sanctuary, she lowered her head and waited for everyone to get in line so she could stay as far away from the cleric as possible. Squaring her shoulders, she permitted her maid to pull her along until they passed the baptismal area, entering the nave. By the time she reached the front of the room, the priest was already seated in the presider’s chair. She sat rigid on the provided bench and surveyed the room.

  A wood crucifix hung high on the wall behind the altar, Christ’s body carved in silver, his crown of thorns in gold. Two narrow windows, hardly wider than arrow slits, were hewn in the gray stone on either side of the cross. The sparse light that filtered through made the space more dismal. Besides the ornately carved lectern to the right of the altar, the space was plain.

  This wasn’t the sort of place she’d imagined saying farewell to her parents. They deserved so much more.

  After the Funeral Liturgy was read, the meager procession moved outside to the burial mounds, where the bodies had already been placed in the ground. Performing a shortened version of the Right of Committal, Rachelle whispered her own prayer to sanctify their bodies. “Father, please don’t condemn my parents to eternal suffering for resisting these men who claim they love you. My father only meant to teach me the truth. He honored you every day—instructed me to always remember your glory . . .” Prayers finished, she crouched, then grabbed a fistful of dirt. Staring heavenward, she silently begged for someone to rescue her. A brave and loyal man to love her as thoroughly as her sire had loved her mother. She st
ood and crumbled the cobbled soil over both gravesites. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

  Goodbye . . .

  No other words came to mind. Sorrow had already silenced her.

  “Rachelle?”

  She snapped out of her trance and stared up at her uncle. “I’m sorry.”

  “Worry not, child.” He patted her arm affectionately. “We’ve time to get acquainted. Although I’m a poor substitute for my brother and his wife, you won’t be alone, that much I promise.” He took her hand and led her inside.

  The priests and servants stopped abruptly when they saw them. “My name is Sir Henry Fiennes.” His voice thundered like the archangel Gabriel. “I’m here to claim my niece and settle my brother’s affairs. Who’s in charge here?”

  Rachelle closed her eyes. Thank you, God.

  But somehow, she felt something was still missing from her life . . .

  Chapter 1

  Meeting

  Eight Years Later

  Stamford Bridge, Northern England

  AD 1066

  “Rally your men, Ivar.” Tyr Sigurdsson scrambled to gather his weapons. “We didn’t send for reinforcements. Look.” He pointed southward. “Those are English soldiers—”

  Before he could say another word, arrows rained down from the cloudless sky. Wise enough to keep his shield close, while others had abandoned their weapons, Tyr raised the wood and metal barrier above his head. Three arrows pierced it. Once the assault ended, Tyr snapped his head left, then right. His heart dropped. Nearly all his brethren were dead or injured.

  Curse the Saxons. How did their army get here so quickly?

  It didn’t matter. He needed to lead the handful of able-bodied warriors that remained across River Derwent to engage the enemy head on. Counting thirty men, he gestured for them to get in formation. He’d leave two behind.

  “Til ære for Odin. Til minne om våre forfedre. Ødelegge våre fiender!” he roared, raising his sword high. Everything he did on the battlefield was for Odin’s glory. Not himself. Not even for the thrill of victory.

  As swift as stags, they fanned out across the land.

  The stench of blood, piss, and smoke burned Tyr’s nostrils as he pushed his way blindly forward. The surrounding fields were on fire. A poor defensive maneuver that slowed his troops. He couldn’t see Stamford Bridge. Nor could he hear the river. But he remembered the distance. A thousand feet from his encampment.

  Norse battle cries echoed in his head, hastening his pace. Thirst for blood drove him like a madman. Clearing the smoke, he halted as if a deathblow had hit him. Only yards from the river now, he stared in amazement. The blasted English held the east side of the bridge. But a lone Norseman blocked their path across. The stranger pounded his fist against his chest, taunting the Saxons, daring them to advance.

  Two cavalrymen answered his challenge. With a sweeping motion, the Viking knocked them off their horses.

  “Du vil ha meg du jævla fitter, kom og ta meg,” the warrior screamed.

  Tyr grinned—strengthened by his countryman’s ferocity—filled with hatred for the cowards he faced.

  Think, damn it.

  How could he get across the river unseen?

  Upstream. That was his only chance . . .

  Fear and rage drove Rachelle Fiennes away from the safety of her home in the middle of the night. Fear for her uncle’s life. Rage for feeling as helpless as she had eight years ago when her parents died. The weight of her bewilderment nearly stopped her from climbing the rocky bluff overlooking River Derwent. Did she want to see the outcome of this war?

  She dismounted and let her horse stray, then staggered up the incline. Thoroughly exhausted from the long ride, she cupped her hand over her eyes. Her gaze swept the lowlands for any sign of life. Uncle Henry was missing, and hundreds, maybe even thousands of bodies littered the glen. Curse the Norse swine for invading again. After three centuries of subjugation and violence, the Saxons couldn’t accept defeat. That’s what worried her the most.

  But complaining would do nothing to bring her kinsman back. Only seeing her uncle with her own eyes would set things right.

  Unseasonably hot for September, sweat trickled down her forehead. Her damp gown clung to her body. Bloody, bloody hell . . . Heat and exhaustion made her irritable, but she needed to regain control of her emotions if she was going to get anything done. Gaze intensifying on the river below, she licked her parched lips. The water shimmered as tantalizingly as a golden oasis. Wondering if it had the same purifying powers as holy water, she considered diving in—if only it would erase the uncertainty from her mind. Faith and hope were the virtues priests lectured on. They claimed miracles only happened to ardent devotees.

  She knew better. Gold purchased blessings, not devotion. Inhaling a sharp breath, she grimaced. Why hadn’t she stopped her uncle from leaving yesterday? His days of glory on the battlefield were long over, but he simply refused to stay home while the younger men marched to reclaim York.

  How could she interfere with a man who claimed he was born with a sword in his hands? She wouldn’t strip Henry of his honor. A hot chill crept up her arms. A Saxon victory would serve as a strong deterrent to stop future invasions. But at what cost? Vikings had purged these lands as thoroughly as a plague. Stripping the land of its wealth and draining the life blood out of women and children.

  How could she face tomorrow alone? After her parents were murdered by bandits returning home from London, she truly thought her life was over, until Uncle Henry had claimed her. Not exactly the hero she had prayed for that day at the funeral, but to her, he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. For eight years, he had invested in her happiness. Loving and adoring her as the daughter he never had. God gave them to each other and she doubted she could live without him. She had to bring him home.

  The village of Stillington was only ten miles north of York. Circumventing the town, she’d reached the river by late afternoon. Of course, she’d regretted it the moment she arrived. The fertile croplands and meadows she’d known since childhood were unrecognizable. Black smoke billowed as high as she could see and a fire raged along the west bank of the river. To the south, she sighted tents. Royal standards whipped in the wind. A glimmer of hope warmed her heart. King Harold was here. It appeared the battle was over, as men on horseback raced away from the encampment. She slowly made her way below.

  A sentry intercepted her immediately. “Who brought you here?”

  Mopping her brow with the back of her hand, she answered, “I came alone. I seek my kinsman.”

  “Women aren’t permitted near the battlefield.” He studied her critically. “Most of the troops rode north. The war is over. Look around.” He gestured with both hands. “We butchered the Norse. The king escorted his prisoners back to their ships.”

  Grateful for this good news, she forced a smile. “My uncle is from Stillington. He rode with the king’s herald in the middle of the night.”

  “So did a thousand other men.”

  “Can anyone help me?”

  He rubbed his chin, blinking several times. “Don’t these heathens scare you?”

  Fear was insignificant at this point. She hadn’t come this far to be turned away. “God led me here.”

  “Aye,” he nodded. “And the devil sent the bloody savages.”

  She understood his duty. But nothing would deter her. “Please . . .”

  “Most of the villagers went to York,” he said. “I advise you stay away. The celebration started as soon as King Harold departed. Drunkards—all of them.”

  Admittedly, Uncle Henry drank liberally. She could picture him raising his glass in triumph. Over and over again. “Where can I wait?”

  “Over there.” He pointed to one of the tents.

  “Thank you.”

  Walking to the canvas, she opened the flap. Inside, she found a field chirurgeon stitching a leg wound.

  “Grab the linens. Take care of the man in the corner.” He didn’t look up.


  Too tired to protest, Rachelle did as he directed.

  After tending injured men for hours, her hands froze. Horrible thoughts plagued her mind, erasing the image of her uncle enthralled with celebration. She couldn’t keep a steady hand. Setting aside a pile of bandages, she knew the only solution was to find her uncle. Going to a makeshift table with a pitcher of water, she washed her hands. If injuries didn’t kill these poor soldiers, infection would. After she dried her hands on the front of her gown, she left.

  Heat drained her energy the moment she stepped outside. Tears blurred her eyes. Glancing around, she hoped someone would send word. But no one who’d passed through the camp knew her uncle’s whereabouts. Every inch of her body hurt. Because she’d suppressed her feelings for so long, she couldn’t eat or drink. The longer she waited, the more reluctant she became.

  Young women didn’t roam battlefields? Damn propriety. In her opinion, war removed all rules. It transformed civilized people into animals. Besides, how could anyone fault her dedication and love? Relying on what mental fortitude she had left, Rachelle trudged away from the safety of the tents.

  After two hours of picking through bodies like a carrion buzzard, deep desperation set in.

  How far could a portly gentleman of advanced age get? She stumbled. Regaining her footing, she jumped back. That wasn’t a Saxon on the ground. Long braids and a scrubby copper beard covered the man’s rugged face. She cringed at the sound of his guttural groans and considered grabbing a weapon off the ground to finish him off. Hatred fueled her dark thoughts.

  Kill him. Now!

  She looked away. This heathen had robbed her countrymen of peace and prosperity. Again. Uncle Henry would undoubtedly tell her to lop off his godless head.