Chapter One
Meeting
Eight Years Later
Stamford Bridge, Northern England
“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 aere for Odin. Til minne om v?re forfedre. ?delegge v?re 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 jaevla 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.
Dismounting, 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.
Drying 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. Having 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.
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.”