Chapter Thirteen
Rules of Conduct
The weather steadily worsened over the next few days, but snow and freezing temperatures didn’t keep Rachelle from visiting the clearing daily.
As promised, Tyr’s guards didn’t interfere.
On the fifth evening, after kneeling in the snow for too long, she was chilled to the bone.
She hastened to her bedchamber, where a roaring fire lured her to the hearth.
She retrieved a fur from a chair, wrapped it about her shoulders, then stared into the flames.
Every time she gazed at the cross, it transported her back in time.
The height of the old tree reminded her of the lofty altar in Holy Trinity Church.
Nothing had ever made her feel so inconsequential.
She’d visited the church often enough before her father withdrew from public worship.
She quivered. Having a place to pray now gave her a sense of peace.
God’s spirit filled every corner of the earth, even the vast wilderness in Norway.
Tonight, Uncle Henry and her dearest friend, Mercia, were the only beneficiaries of her thoughts and prayers. If Christ would spare them, she’d do anything. She concealed no secrets in her heart. No deceit. Why shouldn’t her request be granted? Mercy … Please, God, have mercy on my family.
Expecting a late meal, she licked her lips in anticipation when someone tapped on the door.
As she turned, it opened without invitation.
Seeing Frida carrying the tray made her lose her appetite immediately.
Why was she here? Who sent her? Angry at this avoidable humiliation, she glared.
The household vibrated with gossip. Onetooth shared everything he overheard on his daily visits.
Tyr recently banned Frida from his bed; the woman cursed Rachelle whenever someone would listen.
Of course, Onetooth spared her the particulars, but she couldn’t understand why the jarl ended the affair.
The maid curtsied, then placed the platter on the table.
Rachelle dragged herself from her sour thoughts. “Why are you here?”
Arrogance lit Frida’s eyes. “To serve you, why else?” she asked mildly.
There was a dull pain behind Rachelle’s eyes as she pictured this woman making love to Tyr.
Kissing and caressing him in all the same places she’d touched.
Benefiting from his affection and ardor the same way she had.
Unaccustomed to jealousy, Rachelle tried to deny any attachment to Tyr.
What right did she have? She’d rejected him, fled the bathhouse without explanation.
Still, her gaze ran hotly over Frida—involuntarily assessing her.
She embodied all the feminine qualities associated with Scandinavian beauties …
fair-haired and tall. And her sexual prowess surely made her more attractive to men.
How could Rachelle ever compete with her?
Apparently, virtue wasn’t as valued in Norway as in England.
Women freely chose lovers from amongst Tyr’s warriors.
There were no repercussions, not from what she’d witnessed.
And Tyr didn’t hide his appetite for women.
He brazenly admired them. This one had shared his bed more regularly than any other.
Distance was the only solution—she must escape.
But how? Famished, she surrendered to the tempting aroma of freshly baked bread.
She walked to the table and sampled a piece.
Her penchant for self-doubt was wearing her nerves thin.
“I’m not truly welcome here,” she commented, turning to Frida.
“I’m confined to these rooms. I rarely go outside.
A maid visits in the morning and before I go to bed.
Other than Onetooth, you’re more familiar than anyone else.
So, tell me the truth, why did you come here? ”
“To meet you.”
Rachelle leaned forward. She could find no malice in that.
Curiosity had driven her to do many careless things throughout her life.
Perhaps this woman’s broken heart inspired her to come.
Another reason she’d not treat her with disdain.
Women had little room to maneuver in a man’s world.
Where they found opportunities to satisfy their needs, they must do so.
The icy reality of their mutually unfortunate circumstances became clearer. “Are you disappointed?”
A thin smile creased Frida’s lips. “My disappointment or suffering is of no importance. I’ll only admit that you’re more attractive than I first thought.”
Must it come to that? Men competed for respect and to prove their superior fighting skills and strength. Must women think only of physical beauty where their rivals were concerned?
“Hard-won praise,” Rachelle observed coolly. “What could we possibly have to say?” Should she confess that Tyr’s kisses made her wild and vulnerable? Or that he’d asked for her hand in marriage while in the heat of passion?
“That depends on you, milady.”
Had she heard correctly? Damnation. Did this woman have something of substance to share? “I’m exhausted and have no patience for nonsense.”
“Think whatever you want.”
For a servant, she spoke boldly. Rachelle sighed, then rocked side to side. “Thank you for the food. If you are quite finished—”
Frida sat down.
Remarkable. Rachelle saw a bit of her own stubbornness in her. “I didn’t invite you to stay.”
Frida’s laughter made her temper flare.
“I’m not accustomed to being treated so disrespectfully. Leave, or your master will hear about this in the morning.”
“Don’t be insulted,” she said. After measuring out two cups of wine, she offered Rachelle one. “I think we can help each other.”
Rachelle accepted the drink. Frida’s unwelcome presence strained her mind and body. But how could she dismiss her without listening first? “Tell me …”
She nodded. “I must make my peace with you first.”
“I have no real quarrel with you. Only bits and pieces of gossip I’ve overheard that tell me more than I want to know about you.
I cannot condemn you for disliking me. I’m a stranger.
And your master has locked me away without offering any explanation to his household.
Under the same circumstances, I too, would be suspicious and resentful. ”
“Your candor is appreciated.” The maid looked sincere. “Do you love him?”
Rachelle coughed. “I love no man.”
Frida’s eyebrows arched. “All women find Jarl Sigurdsson irresistible.”
The two stared at each other.
“I am not one of those women.”
“If that’s the truth, milady, we’ve more in common than you think. I’m acquainted with your circumstances. As I’m sure you’re aware of mine. Why shouldn’t we collaborate and bring about a happy ending for all interested parties?”
What did she mean by that? More empty promises from Northmen would only deepen her distrust for them. “Speak plainly.”
“If you agree to my terms, in two hours, a mutual friend will meet us outside and escort you to safety, away from the confines of this house. We’ll pack one of the satchels in the wardrobe with whatever you need. Freedom is only a short distance from here.”
Freedom? A concept she’d lost sight of weeks ago.
Even if she escaped, what would it be like at home now?
Tyr painted a ghastly picture of her homeland.
With the conquering Normans leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, what nightmare awaited her in England?
She looked around her suite, weighing the benefits of staying and going.
Both presented serious risks. If she stayed, it didn’t put her any closer to her uncle or any further away from Tyr.
She pressed her fist to her mouth. Think.
Hard. Tyr had spies on the ground in England.
If she gave them enough time, they’d likely find her kinsman.
That much she believed. She’d seen how capable Tyr’s men were.
However, the longer she waited, the greater the chances of finding Henry dead.
She sucked down her wine, wrestling with her conscience.
“I am unsure.”
“The choice is wholly yours,” Frida offered.
Fate had done her no favors, neither had that damned Viking. She shrugged. “I cannot decide. Serve me more wine.”
The maid blinked. “You need a clear head to make this decision.”
“I’ve been sober all my life. It’s done little to help.”
“I’m …”
Rachelle’s expression grew somber. She held up her hand. “Spare me your pity.” Her gaze flicked away, resting on the far wall.
The last thing she needed was more sympathy.
She’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.
Everyone, including these godless Norsemen, looked at her with regret and guilt in their eyes.
Receiving it from her romantic rival would only make her feel more ridiculous.
Life hadn’t been easy, but it was her burden to bear, alone.
She fought the urge to cry her frustration away.
Frida approached with the bottle. “I am obligated to serve you.” She refilled Rachelle’s glass with hesitancy in her eyes.
She savored the sweetness of the garnet-colored liquid, rolling it around in her mouth before she swallowed.
She tasted cinnamon and a woody flavor. Grapes couldn’t thrive in this harsh climate.
Where did they get this fine wine? Where did they find anything of quality in this frozen country?
The answer slithered around her. England.
France. Ireland. Scotland. All the places they ravaged and destroyed.
The solution to her predicament couldn’t be plainer—go.
A soft smile touched Rachelle’s lips as she set aside the half-empty cup. Home. It felt strange thinking it. “I accept. Although, I don’t know why I should trust you.”
Frida spread her arms wide. “Don’t question Odin’s generosity, milady.”