Tyr whirled, gnashing out a curse, and shoved Aaron aside. “Breathe a bloody word before I’m ready and you’ll find yourself eating shite all winter.”
“You’d maltreat me for telling the truth?” Aaron glared at Rachelle. “Don’t look at me that way, wench—I’m sure your kinsmen had a hand in my cousin’s death.”
Tyr’s mouth twisted as he held his emotions in check. “You cannot blameherfor our misery.” Aaron needed a sharp reminder of his place and who provided his food and lodging, but now was not the time. Tyr seized Rachelle’s hand, leading her to the house. Guessing she craved a hot meal and sleep, he’d seek out the same pleasures soon enough.
Aaron’s threat embittered him. These werehispeople. Not his cousin’s. Or King Hardrada’s. What purpose was there in depriving them of a day of celebration? As they reachedthe backside of the house, a large crowd greeted him with a treasured verse.
Wind we, wind we such web-of-darts
as the young war-worker waged afore-time!
Forth shall we fare where the fray is thickest,
Where friends and fellows against foemen battle!
Tyr’s nostrils flared. Heat flushed through his body. Arrogance had cost many lives. Shame washed over him for despising his dead sovereign—but he couldn’t overcome it, or forget the king’s mistakes.Hel take Hardrada’s soul.
A war horn blared. Gunnar Jorgensen, the captain left in charge of his steading, brandished the ceremonial ram’s horn. It sounded three more times before he formally hailed Tyr. Thralls distributed horns brimming with beer to the men. A line of eager women offered smiles and embraced the soldiers.
Tyr sighed. The traditional warrior’s welcome—an overabundance of ale and sex. Something Tyr missed. Fixing Rachelle with a concerned stare, he wondered how far her Christian tolerance would stretch, watching this open display of drunkenness and ribald affection. Seeing no evidence of discomfort on her face, he returned his attention to the celebrants.
Standing inside thegreat hall, Rachelle immediately identified the seat of honor at the head of the room. The elaborately carved chair was adorned with flower wreaths and silver chains. Once Tyr crossed the threshold, women flocked to him, vying for his favor. They ushered him to the imposing seat. A tiny girl waddled forward, climbed onto his lap, then placed a crown of dried holly blossoms on his head. The crowd applauded. Tyr smiled in a way Rachelle had never seen. Even from where shestood, she saw the genuine warmth in his eyes. This is where he belonged. At home, surrounded by subjects who adored him.
Her chest tightened when an attractive blond helped the little girl down. Holding a polished horn, with insets of ivory and silver, to Tyr’s smiling lips, the woman laughed affectionately as Tyr swallowed. Reaching around her, he slapped the wench’s ample backside, sending her away in a flurry of giggles. Adding to Rachelle’s discomfort, she discovered lewd behavior in every direction. Men and women groping each other, drinking and laughing without thought of how shameful they looked doing it. This scene reminded her of Sodom and Gomorrah. She prayed holy fire wouldn’t rain down from heaven.
The hall was in complete chaos. Rachelle counted nearly a hundred people fighting for space to sit or stand. Tyr raised his hands and leaned forward.
“Thank you for your vigilance and loyal service,” Tyr praised them in Norse and English. “Tonight’s festivities cannot be in vain. Remember our brothers who sacrificed their lives in service to our country.”
Rachelle knew what he was doing. Let everyone enjoy a night of revelry before he broke their hearts. Once they learned the fate of their king, weeks of mourning were sure to follow. Taking advantage of the lapse in supervision, Rachelle decided to explore the hall. Stopping to admire the tapestries that decorated the walls, she lost herself in the resplendent images. Ancient scenes were depicted beautifully—bearded warriors battling wild beasts or making love to ethereal women in the most provocative poses. Heat suffused her cheeks. Could a man and woman really do that?
Grateful other items of interest arrayed the walls, she studied the collection of antique shields and swords. Marveling at curiously shaped knives, with jeweled handles and long pikes, she lazily ran her fingers along the stonework, then stoppedabruptly in front of a sword that differed from the rest. Smaller and prettily crafted, the thin blade gleamed coppery-silver in the light.Lady Noelle Marie Sinclair of House Sinclair, Durham, Englandwas etched in the steel.
She wanted to touch it. Dropping her gaze to the floor, she considered it. No one would see. Stretching out her hand, a loud cough stopped her. She froze.
“Don’t touch it,” Aaron spat. He slapped her hand as if she were a child reaching for a pot over an open flame.
Although his features resembled Tyr’s, they were sharper. Bitterness dulled his eyes. Did this man begrudge everything his cousin had achieved? Onetooth had told her Aaron coveted Tyr’s lands and women. And since she was the current focus of Tyr’s attention, she knew his cousin’s scorn would be directed at her.
“I beg your pardon.”
“You should plead for more than that.” He grabbed her by the arm.
This man was overstepping his bounds. Trying to pry his fingers loose, she gasped when he gave her a firm shake. She prayed silently for someone to intervene.
Onetooth appeared as if summoned by the Lord himself. His huge hand covered Aaron’s. “Let her go,now.”
There was something ominous about a man whose mere tone accomplished what most men would need to demand to get done. She didn’t want to be the cause of deeper friction between anyone, but Aaron was an agitator. Averting her eyes, she refused to acknowledge him until he released her. When he finally did, he smacked the wall under the tip of her nose, growled, and stormed away.
“Don’t worry about that sack of—” Onetooth heaved a long sigh. “You were admiring this sword?” He tapped the blade.
“Yes.”
“A beautiful piece…” He lifted the blade from the pegs. “A wedding gift from Tyr’s father to his mother, with her name inscribed.” He offered her the sword.
Rachelle admiringly ran her fingers across the words,Noelle Sinclair Sigurdsson. “Why would a warrior gift his bride with a weapon?”
“Swords symbolize the joining of two families. Randvior Sigurdsson worked tirelessly to help his young bride assimilate so she’d be welcomed by his kinsmen. It meant House Sinclair would forever be united with the Sigurdssons. As rare a gesture as I’ve ever seen.”
