Love's Fury (Viking's Fury #1) (7 page)

“Remember the Israelites as Moses led them from captivity in Egypt?” he asked.

She nodded.

“How quickly did they forget God’s mercy and turn to idolatry and fornication? We, too, have failed somewhere along the way. We cannot question the Lord’s will. Nor can we doubt it and hope to receive His favor.”

“But my father remained one of the most pious men I’ve ever known. If it wasn’t for me, he would have taken vows, joined you in service.”

“Aye,” Andrew whispered. “And would have been a welcome addition. But he loved you more.”

She felt responsible for his death. If she’d never been born, perhaps her sire would have been somewhere else during the raid. Spared. Out of respect for the elder, she kept her lingering doubts to herself. “My father directed me to save these manuscripts.” She unfolded the cloak, revealing the scrolls.

The monk rubbed his nose. “Did you look at these my child?”

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t betray my father’s trust.”

He accepted the bundle. “There’s nowhere safe to hide them, not even here.” His gaze swept the alcove. “Ivarr sent a list of demands to Father Joshua this morning. The sanctuary, even our quarters are to be searched. This uprising has set us back a century. Aelle acted before he considered the consequences.” He sighed. “And look where he is now.”

His mutilated carcass was nailed to a post beyond the courtyard to serve as a deterrent for anyone else tempted to lead a rebellion.

“Prince Ivarr has gone as far as to forbid more than two Saxons to meet in the public thoroughfare. Until we’ve regained his favor, everyone is under suspicion. Men, women, and children alike.”

Any freedoms they’d enjoyed since the Danes first invaded were now gone. So much for faith. So much for tolerance. “What are you saying?”

“The best thing you can do, my child, is leave York. Take these books with you.” He offered them back.

“You haven’t learned of my fate yet.” She stared at the stone floor, ashamed. “I’ve been claimed by a Norwegian captain under Prince Ivarr’s command.”

He coughed, then grasped her arm. “Did he…”

“No,” she answered, looking up. “I told him I’d rather die.”

The priest’s cheeks turned red. “These heathens are an abomination—Cain’s offspring—scattered to the four corners of the earth after God cursed his murdering soul.”

“No matter who their forefather is,” she observed, “I’m afraid my fate is sealed. These blessed texts will be no safer with me. Please,” she pleaded, “keep them.”

He refused, pushing the books into her hands. “Sometimes blessings come from what appear to be misfortunes. Keep these, Silvia. Hide them amongst your personal effects. Don’t read them until the Lord has revealed the appropriate time. Swear on everything holy, promise me you’ll abide by what I say.” The monk’s green eyes widened.

She felt a prick of fear. “I swear.”

“There’s still time for me to take your confession.”

She hugged the scrolls to her chest. Confession? In the middle of a bloody war? Not a physical battle, but the one raging inside her heart. Hatred and doubt—dark thoughts of death. How could she declare these sins?

“Kneel, child.”

Reluctant to do so, she slowly prostrated herself. “What do you want me to say, Father?”

He stared down at her. “Your heart is burdened. Don’t fear God’s retribution.”

“When the beast kissed me, I felt something…” she blurted.

Father Andrew rested his chin on his fist. “Continue.”

“A sensation I’ve never known. And then I kicked him between the legs—wishing him dead. Begging to take my own life.”

“All perfectly natural reactions to the shock you’ve suffered.”

“Priest,” a voice echoed from somewhere in the nave.

“Ivarr’s men.” He held his finger to his mouth. “You must follow the hallway to the cloister and exit through the back door. Do not stop for anyone. Go.” He helped her climb to her feet. “Remember what I told you. God does not abandon the innocent.”

Silvia started for the heavy, wood door that opened into the corridor. She’d snuck into the monastery many times as a girl, only to be greeted by the men who’d grown to love her as a favorite pet. They’d gone as far as to feed her sweet bread and warm milk before they pretended to chastise her and sent her home.

“Father?” she called over her shoulder.

Andrew smiled.

“I’ll never forget you.”

“Aye,” he said. “Go with God.”

*

Konal trudged toward
the cottage, carrying the coarse bag containing Ulf’s severed head. The bloodthirsty wench would get her payment. And he’d collect his. He’d gone too long and come too far to let her win. He kicked the door open and then walked to the hearth. He dropped the sack on the table, knocking mud off his boots. He’d drank too much ale—eaten too much meat—and killed a man because that man coveted the woman he hadn’t bedded yet.

“Silvia,” he yelled, staring at the stairs.

“Milord?”

“Come and see what I’ve brought you from Prince Ivarr’s feast.”

Her door creaked open. “I’m not hungry.”

“Do you think I brought you scraps from his table?”

“I care little for anything you have to offer.”

“Downstairs.
Now
.”

She didn’t come quietly, her slippered feet echoing nearly as loud as his boots on the hard floor. “Why have you summoned me?” She gasped at the bloodstained bag. “What have you done?”

Konal plopped down in the nearest chair and then propped his feet on the table. “The proof you demanded.” He gestured toward the sack.

She covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“You dare retreat after everything I went through to find the man who murdered your sire?”

“This proves nothing,” she hissed. “Tis likely a Saxon head disguised as a Dane.”

“I told you before,” he said through clenched teeth. “Do not insult me.”

“I speak only truth—if you are so easily offended by it…”

“Open it.”

“No.” She folded her arms over her center.

“Now.”

She fingered the top of the bag then peeked inside. She stumbled back from the table. “My God.” She glared at him. “You killed one of your own just to prove your innocence? To earn the right to bed me?”

Konal came at her, but she darted under his arm, running to the opposite side of the table. They stared each other down. He pretended to lunge and she flinched. “You make this harder than it needs to be. I prefer a willing partner in my bed.”

“I hear sheep are overly submissive, milord. Perhaps I can fetch one from the shearing shed for you.”

“Someday you’re going to have to make a choice, Silvia.”

She frowned. “I already have.”

“The wrong one.”

She shook her head. “I have faith in my ability to make the right decisions. My father taught me well.”

He believed her. The wench undeniably had proven herself quick witted and determined. If she’d only surrender, he’d be kind. Giving pleasure almost satisfied him as much as receiving it. He stared at her throat. The idea of showering her with kisses whilst she squirmed underneath the weight of his body pleased him.

Circling the table, he caught her by the wrist. He yanked her so hard toward the stairs she stumbled.

“Leave me alone.”

He didn’t want to pity her, but something about her sad eyes stopped him. “We made a bargain.”

“Under duress.”

“No one forced you to challenge me.”

“No?” She stared up at him as if he’d lost his mind. “How can a man like you understand anything? I’d rather die than bed you.” She dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her face. “Nothing you say or do will change my mind.”

He opened then closed his mouth. Unknown forces moved inside him. He let go of her wrist, gripping her by the shoulders, instead. Everything she said cut through him like a dull blade leaving his insides mangled. “Curse you, woman.” He gave her a rough shake.

Looking away, she wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye. “What sort of man are you?”

The question caught him off guard. Did he even know the answer? The sort who takes what he wants. At least before he left Norway. Now … he sighed. Releasing her, he moved two stairs above her. “Get off your knees.”

Silvia slowly repositioned herself. She now sat on the lowest step with her back toward him. Neither spoke or moved for several moments.

“This can’t go on forever,” he said.

“I know.”

“You belong to me.”

“I belong to God.”

“Your god is a coward.”

She exhaled loudly. “Why keep me? I’ll
never
obey you.” She turned sideways, leaning against the wall.

Konal wrestled to keep his feelings under control. “If you refuse to submit, I’ll beat you senseless. Remember what I told you before? Don’t move unless I give you permission. Don’t think without my approval. Nothing has changed,” he growled. “Be grateful for what patience I’ve shown you.”

“Grateful?” She pushed a loose strand of hair aside. “For what? The thrashing? Stolen kisses. Or the humiliation I suffered in front of Prince Ivarr and your kinsman?” She raised her chin.

He slapped his hands on his thighs. “Be silent.”

“I hate you.”

Did she know the destructive power of hate? Realize how quickly it would consume her soul? “I don’t think you do.” Leaning forward, he grazed her cheek with the back of his hand. Perhaps she required a gentler approach.

“Don’t.” She jerked away, turning so she could see him.

“Silvia—” He squeezed her cheeks between his thumb and fingers. “Weigh carefully what you say next.” Defiance glittered in those solemn eyes. And for a fleeting moment, he considered setting her free. The wench wasn’t worth the trouble. But pride ruled Konal’s heart. Failure wasn’t an option. He’d tame this wilding if it was the last thing he ever did. “We leave tonight.”

Perhaps he should sell her. Better to sleep peacefully than worry if she’d slit his throat in the middle of the night.

With a sigh he stood, the anguish on her face not escaping his attention. “For tonight,” he observed, “your maidenhead is safe.” More undeserved consideration for a thankless girl.

“If we leave, I won’t get the chance to make sure my father gets a Christian burial.”

“It’s a waste of time.”

She glared up at him.

He studied her thoughtfully. From the thick lashes framing her almond-shaped eyes to her slim ankles. Nothing displeased him. Not even her sharp tongue. That could be dealt with. What he couldn’t ignore was the sheer revulsion she’d shown whenever he touched her. He recognized that hollow look. Bitterness. “The wood and paper inside the scriptorium fueled a fire so hot none of the bodies were recovered.”

She laughed. “Don’t lie, milord. I know your prince buried them in a mass grave.”

He looked at her coldly. “Nothing satisfies you.” Before he did something he’d regret, Konal stepped around her, leaving her on the landing.

*

Silvia buried her
face in her hands. Konal didn’t deny her accusation. Her beloved father had been thrown in a hole on unconsecrated ground. What afterlife awaited him? Endless wandering on the outskirts of Heaven and Hades, unworthy of either place? Dwelling on thoughts that did nothing but torment her, would not change her situation. But the memories were still too fresh to forget. After her sire thrust those scrolls into her arms, gasping for shallow breaths, she should have dragged him to the passage—braved the smoke and fire—attempted some sort of escape. A shiver went through her body as new tears blinded her.

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.