Love's Fury (Viking's Fury #1) Page 6

  After several moments, she climbed to her feet and wobbled abovestairs. The few dresses she owned were sprawled across her bed, her slippers already packed. Feeling her throat constrict, she collapsed on her destroyed mattress. The sobs came in long, violent waves. Why has God forsaken us? She rolled onto her side, staring at the ceiling. Father Andrew told her with unmitigated confidence that God does not abandon the innocent. No, she thought, He just lets them suffer and die.

  Sorrow uncoiled inside her stomach and she cried out again, unashamed of her sorrow. She tucked her knees under her chin. Nothing could have prepared her for this. Even her chest ached. “I want my father.” There must be something she could do to find relief.

  Before she had a chance to decide, the door opened. No. Please don’t come in. Her bedchamber remained her only sanctuary, the one place she could seek shelter from the Danes. She closed her eyes, pretending she didn’t hear Konal.

  “Valkyries ikke gråte, slåss de.” His voice was deep and comforting.

  What did he mean by Valkyries don’t weep, they fight? Konal swept her off the bed, cradling her. When she looked at him, his eyes reflected her own sadness. This wasn’t the same man who abandoned her on the stairs a few minutes ago. Too exhausted to care, her head rolled against his chest.

  “La meg trøste deg, vise deg en side som du ikke visste eksisterte. Jeg føler din smerte. Har mistet kjære kan tider. Tårer er den samme i alle språk.”

  She didn’t want to find comfort in his arms.

  He whisked across the room, then settled in the same chair he’d thrashed her on yesterday. His big, warm hands began messaging her all over. Reminding her just where and with whom she kept company. And though she despised him, the more Konal caressed her, the harder it was to hate him.

  Chapter Eight

  An hour later, still entombed in his arms, Silvia raised her head. Konal hadn’t moved from the chair—he didn’t want to. Providing what relief she needed seemed the natural thing to do. Too often, he’d heard the weeping and gnashing of teeth after battle. Viewed the wives and children, mothers and fathers of the slain from a distance, fortifying his heart so their suffering didn’t affect him.

  No longer.

  His gaze drifted from the window to her face. Her slender fingers were fanned across his chest. For whatever reason she chose to stay, he didn’t fully comprehend. Grief crippled the greatest of warriors. A woman’s heart, no matter how bent on vengeance, couldn’t withstand the same beating as a man’s. And tears sounded the same in any language.

  When he’d heard her sobs, his heart bled for her. More than he cared to admit.

  Curse his vulnerabilities.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” he started. “Believe me, if it was up to me, all the unnecessary bloodletting would have been avoided.”

  She wiped away the last of her tears. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”

  “No,” he said. “But I speak truthfully. I’m not the sort of man who favors death over negotiation. Norse blood was spilled, too.”

  “The incomprehensible cries from those men on the gallows still haunt me.” She straightened, still perched on his thighs. “What nightmares await when I close my eyes?”

  The dark wisps of hair framing her face reminded him of silk. So strong was his urge to touch one, he had to fist his hand. Her composure would dissolve like honey on his tongue if he touched her intimately. “Time is your only benefactor.” He nudged her to her feet. “Distance helps, too.”

  He found himself constantly struggling to find the right words to say. “When we bid farewell to our loved ones,” he added, “tears do nothing to aid them. Celebrate your sire’s death. He died protecting what he loved most.”

  “How do you know what my father loved?”

  He stretched his arms wide. “Every space available in this house is packed with papers. As a scholar, he revered wisdom. I cannot think of a more honorable death—surrounded by the things you admire.”

  “Does that mean you wish to die in a brothel?”

  Without exception, her scornful words battered his heart. “There is only one way for a Norseman to die.” He refused to discuss it. “The hour grows late.” He stood. “Finish your preparations. I expect you to be ready to leave within the hour.”

  He walked to the door and then turned back. “Somewhere along the road, we’ll stop and sacrifice in honor of your father.”

  “Is blood all you think about?” she asked. “Why not take the severed head you presented me with? Surely your warmongering gods prefer human flesh over some innocent creature’s skin.”

  He laughed, fascinated by her strength and resilience. “Whatever man is fortunate enough to take your virtue,” he said. “For his sake and yours, I pray he’s deaf.”

  *

  Silvia slammed the door shut behind Konal. His biting speeches were wearing her down, and so were his hands. Between her flashes of grief and outrage, she had begun to see the kind of man Konal truly was. Though she hated him for the sake of her people, he was unlike any other man she’d ever met. A conquering enemy with half a heart and great restraint.

  But whenever she felt herself softening, she remembered the beloved priests imprisoned in the church. The torched scriptorium. The violent deaths of her people. How Saxons weren’t permitted to meet on the streets. But not by Konal’s hands. He’d revealed his feelings, why he preferred negotiation over bloodshed.

  Quietly, she shoved her gowns in the leather bag she often used when she traveled with her father. Then, after checking to make sure Konal wasn’t at the door, she knelt and removed the scrolls from their hiding place underneath her bed. Still wrapped in her cloak, she fitted them between her clothes, adding scraps of material from her sewing table on top.

  On the far wall, sitting on a shelf, she found her jewelry box which contained what little treasures her mother had left her. She opened it, finding an amber and silver bracelet, a matching necklace, and a gold ring she slid onto her right index finger. A gift from her sire and the monks upon reaching her eighteenth year. The plain band glowed against her pale skin. She stared at it, remembering the joyous celebration, only a few months past.

  How her father fawned over her, reminding her she could read and write better than most men, cook and sew, but how no man in York showed any interest in her. Her father teased her often about it. Too intelligent and beautiful for them, he said, only a prince is worthy of my daughter.

  She’d wear the ring with pride.

  Draping the heavy bag over her shoulder, her gaze swept the tiny room a last time. Something deep inside told her she’d never see this place again. All the better, for even her father’s spirit had fled their home, the happy memories made here forever destroyed.

  She admired the tapestry of the Holy Mother tacked on the wall above the table, the place she’d spent much of her time reading, praying, and dreaming of her future. Now, she felt as if her soul was being suffocated. New tears threatened to spill, but she swallowed the pain, remembering what Konal had told her. Valkyries don’t weep, they fight.

  Because of that, she’d put aside the idea of killing herself and would willingly leave behind her old life. She shut the door and headed belowstairs, welcomed by a set table. She dropped her bag where she stood and then walked slowly to the kitchen. Konal held a trencher of smoked fish and bread.

  “Tis easier to travel on a full stomach,” he said, easing by her. “I’ve packed the rest of the food and some linens. I found herbs and ointments we may have need of. And…” He placed the platter on the table. “A pair of silver candlesticks.”

  “You cannot take them.” She followed him to the table. “They belong in the sanctuary.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “Did you steal them?”

  “I’m no thief.”

  “Then I will keep them safe for you.” He tore a large chunk of bread off the loaf and sat down. “Where is the coin purse you offered me before?”

  Had she given him too much credit?
Would the man take everything? “Tucked away in a place no one will find it.”

  “You’ve no need for money.”

  “Then let me donate it to the church.”

  He nearly choked on his wine. “You humor me, woman.”

  She claimed the chair opposite his, careful not to look at him as she helped herself to the much needed repast. Why did he want her money? Surely a man of his rank and success already possessed great wealth.

  “The coin,” he reminded.

  “You’d take everything I have left in the world?”

  A smile twitched at his lips. “Only for safekeeping,” he said. “From what I remember, you have enough silver to buy passage on any ship. I prefer you to stay where I can protect you.”

  Or to take advantage of her. “Since you leave me no choice, I will fetch the money for you, milord.” She obediently hurried to her bag, hoping he wouldn’t look inside it and discover the scrolls.

  Surrendering her money meant sacrificing her last chance of freedom, but she remembered why she’d chosen to cooperate. The Lord had protected her for a reason and delivered her into the care of a man with a conscience. Though her father’s death justified her doubt in God’s mercy, she’d wait to see what her future held.

  “Here.”

  Konal’s fingers lingered on her hand too long. “I’m pleased you’ve decided to obey me instead of fighting.”

  “If I remain submissive, will you promise never to force me into your bed?” The one thing she’d always resist.

  He smiled arrogantly. “Did you forget how I held you in my arms?”

  “Providing comfort to a grieving daughter cannot be misconstrued as attraction.”

  “In time, you’ll think differently.” He ran his fingers up her arm. “Whatever inspired you to sit on my lap doesn’t matter.” He tilted her chin. “Did you forget what I gave you this morning?”

  The severed head … she’d forgotten about it. “Is it truly the man who killed my sire?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Aye.”

  “No,” he admitted. “But the bastard threatened to harm you.”

  For a fleeting moment she’d hoped Konal had avenged her father. But how could he know—with the smoke and fire—and the Saxons fighting for their freedom… “Did you kill him?”

  “No.” he said. “My sword struck no one in the scriptorium. I reserve my skills for the battleground, not for men who bury their faces in manuscripts and wear women’s clothes.”

  “Robes,” she corrected.

  “Call their garments what you will.” He shrugged. “The White Christ surrounds himself with weaklings.”

  “My God is no coward.”

  He cupped her face. “Your indomitable spirit alone makes me think twice about him. But beyond you, I’ve seen no proof of his strength. Odin and Thor deserve my devotion. And I would die defending them. But your holy men flee like scared children instead of fighting.”

  Savagery pumped hot and fierce through his veins like blood. And there was nothing to say in defense of the priests, for Jesus commanded them to turn the other cheek. And to a man as brutal as Konal, that meant one thing—cowardice.

  Chapter Nine

  Konal ushered Silvia outside, there’d be plenty of time to debate about her god on the road. First, he needed to bid farewell to Ivarr, a man he’d grown fond of but never wanted to see again. Then he’d collect the five warriors pledged to Konal by the prince—additional reward for his service. Although Konal had gained wealth and a title, he wanted to go home. It had been months since he’d seen the ocean. And before he arrived at his new steading, he planned to ride to the fishing village of Filey, where he could stand atop the vast, red cliffs and gaze across the North Sea.

  Three horses were tethered to the trees near a storage shed by the church. He inspected them again; checking the saddles, making sure the horse carrying the supplies wasn’t overloaded. He patted the gray beast affectionately, scratching him behind the ear. “You must make an important decision,” he told Silvia. “Ride alone or with me.”

  Sunlight reflected in her eyes like tiny flames. “Alone,” she answered warily, gazing at the beasts.

  “In so choosing,” he said, taking a piece of rope off his weapon belt, “I’m forced to bind your hands.”

  She stepped back a few feet. “I promise I won’t try to escape.”

  He wanted to believe her. Despite his growing infatuation, he needed to remember she was a slave. Thralls would say anything to get what they wanted. “It’s for my protection and yours.”

  “No.”

  “Silvia. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Hold up your hands.”

  She refused.

  He raked his hand through his hair. “The time for defiance is over. There is no shame in accepting what you are. But you’ll feel the sting of humiliation if you continue to fight me.”

  Likely realizing her continued resistance was futile, she gave up and offered her wrists. Konal wrapped the rope around them several times and knotted it in the middle. “What happened to the girl willing to do whatever she was told?”

  “I am still here, milord.”

  “Good.” He lifted her onto one of the horses. “I give you fair warning. Keep a civil tongue when you meet any Danes. Or say nothing at all. Few would endure your bitter tongue.”

  She swallowed, visibly concerned. “What you shared earlier about the man you killed…”

  “Aye,” he said. “Several have expressed interest in you.”

  She lowered her head—ashamed by the idea of so many men noticing her. She’d always been chaste, not the kind of girl to draw attention to herself.

  “Don’t worry, Silvia. As long as you are with me, none will harm you. Now hold on to the saddle, I’ll lead you through the city.”

  “Please,” she begged, her gaze darting about the yard. “Don’t take me—I’m of no use to you. Let me stay in the place I love.”

  “Death sits on every man’s shoulder on this island—Saxon and Dane alike. How long do you think it will be before more ships arrive and strip your precious churches of their wealth and rape your women? How long do you think you’d survive?”

  Instead of pressing her for an answer, he mounted his steed, leaving her to consider his words. They turned north beyond the courtyard, rounding the crowd of people visiting the armory and food stands. Konal sniffed the air and frowned. Only in Saxon cities did he find the appealing smell of fresh bread mingled with the stench of shite.

  Thatched-roofed cottages lined the narrow road and children played wherever they could. Konal navigated carefully to keep the horses from trampling anyone. After a few blocks, he turned in the saddle to check on Silvia. She sat as straight and proud as a captive princess.

  Satisfied, he faced forward again and crossed under a stone archway. As if they entered another world, the grunts, curses, and sounds of battle greeted him. The open space was used for training. He slid off his horse, searching the enclosed yard for Ivarr. The two-story stone house in the background served as officer’s barracks.

  “Come to gloat?” A dark-haired Dane strutted over, sword in hand.

  Konal smirked, grasping his arm in friendship. “To collect you and the other men the prince promised me.”

  “And perhaps to unload your precious cargo?” His gaze traveled slowly over Silvia.

  “Pick another field to plow. The girl stays with me for now,” Konal said. He glanced at her, then stroked her leg, hoping for a smile. “Meet Jahn.”

  “Sir—”

  “Forgive her curtness.” Konal cut her off. “I’ve given her every reason to be unhappy.”

  “Aye,” Jahn acknowledged with a wide grin. “The bastard has a habit of disappointing women.”

  “Don’t be so critical,” Konal said, “or the girl will never accept me.” Konal tapped Silvia’s leg. “Time to come down.” He reached for her. “The prince wishes to make his goodbyes—he’ll want to see you, too.”


  “Like this?” She held up her hands, still ashamed.

  “No one will be looking at your hands,” Jahn assured her.

  Konal disliked what he was implying, but he couldn’t fault a man for admiring his little captive. Silvia slid into his arms and shivered.

  “I’ll stay with you,” he said as he set her on her feet.

  They entered the great hall in silence. Ivarr’s standards covered the walls, leaving no trace of the Saxon earl who once lived there. Half a dozen trestle tables arranged in the center of the room were filled with men. All conversation stopped when Konal approached the dais where the prince sat.

  “Tis good to see you again my friend,” Ivarr greeted. “I’m pleased to know you survived another night with the vixen.”

  The ensuing laughter from the crowd did little to help Silvia relax. Konal gave her a testy look, then bent his head in recognition of the prince. “We’ve reached an agreement, milord.”

  Ivarr eyed her hands. “One that involves a bit of rope.”

  “I prefer her sharp tongue over a blade.”

  “Small mercies.” The prince’s gaze was keenly focused on Silvia. “Are you distressed over leaving your home?”

  She tried to hide her shaky hands under her cloak. Konal draped his arm across her shoulders. “Don’t be afraid to speak,” he whispered. “Ivarr does you a great honor by addressing you directly.” He nodded toward the prince.

  “It grieves me deeply,” she answered.

  Ivarr stood. “You have my sympathies. This great city has suffered immensely. But if your brethren will once again trust me, I promise to rebuild it.”

  Konal didn’t know what to think. Rarely did his former commander recognize a Saxon as anything more than dust beneath his feet.