In the Norseman's House: Book 3: Rydar & Grier and Eryndal & Andrew (The Hansen Series - Rydar & Grier and Eryndal & Andrew)

by Kris Tualla

  “I’ll see that the food is sent up straight away. Ye’re working hard as well, I ken.”

  Eryn sighed and reluctantly stepped away from Drew’s ministrations. “Thank you. That would be greatly appreciated.”

  She gave him a quick kiss and hurried back up the stairs.

  Grier was no longer lying on her side, but was now propped against the headboard of the massive bed. The hem of her chemise was tucked up under her bosom, and the midwife was spreading linen towels under her bottom.

  “Did you calm them?” Grier’s expression was intense and her voice raspy.

  “I did.” Eryn crossed to Grier’s side. “What can I do for you?”

  Before she could answer, Grier closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

  “Go on and push,” the midwife urged. “He’s in the birth canal.”

  Eryn sat on the bed next to Grier and supported her shoulders. Grier’s face turned a startling shade of red as she bore down, long and hard.

  “Good. Good.” The midwife looked at Eryn. “I can see his hair.”

  Grier paused in her efforts, panting a little. “What color is it?” she huffed.

  The midwife chuckled. “I’m not certain. It could be red, or it could be brown.”

  Another pain gripped Grier and she leaned against Eryn.

  “Push your boy into the world,” Eryn murmured. “I want to see him before we leave.”

  Grier pushed longer this time. Eryn was impressed with the woman’s stamina, and realized that Grier was more intent on

  seeing the babe than Eryn could ever be.

  Two babes stillborn, though not uncommon, was no less tragic. Rydar wanted to reestablish the Hansen clan following the Death, and he needed more than one son to see that done.

  Eryn held her breath without thinking about it, willing the babe to emerge.

  “He’s crowning!” The midwife grinned at Grier. “One more push like that and his head should be out.”

  Grier nodded and panted. Her brow beaded with sweat.

  Eryn reached for a cool, damp cloth and wiped Grier’s forehead. “You are almost finished. Just one or two contractions should do it.”

  A knock on the door preceded a maid with a tray loaded with cheese, dried meat, and bread. Though Eryn’s stomach grumbled its desire, she couldn’t leave Grier’s side now. Sustenance needed to wait.

  “Here it comes,” Grier gasped. She pulled another deep breath and bent to her efforts.

  “Push,” the midwife urged. “Don’t stop. Keep pushing.”

  Eryn craned her neck, trying to see what was happening. As she did, the babe’s head emerged. Though the hair was wet and smeared with blood, it was definitely red.

  Grier collapsed against Eryn when she felt the head leave her body. The midwife began to wipe the child’s face and dry his hair.

  “His hair is most definitely red,” Eryn told Grier.

  Grier gave her a tired smile. “My husband must finally admit that it’s a bonny color.”

  Eryn chuckled. “It appears he will be surrounded by bonny proof.”

  The midwife straightened. “When the next pain comes, don’t push, remember.”

  “Aye.” Grier relaxed some. “It’s coming now.”

  The midwife focused on her task. With a few swift motions, the babe slithered from Grier’s body. The midwife rubbed the infant vigorously with a towel until the tiny child drew a breath and began to wail.

  Then she placed the babe on Grier’s belly.

  “Congratulations, my lady. She appears to be complete and healthy.”

  “She?” Grier lifted the infant to see for herself. “It’s a girl?”

  “And a beauty,” Eryn stated. “But she is rather large to be a month early.”

  Grier laid her daughter on her chest and began to caress the squalling little girl. “Aye, she is. Perhaps I miscounted…”

  “Shall I go tell Rydar?”

  “Aye.” Grier didn’t look at Eryn, but instead seemed enthralled with the surprising turn.

  Eryn gave Grier’s shoulders a last squeeze before she slid off the bed. When she passed the tray, she grabbed a chunk of cheese to quiet her stomach, and nibbled it on the way downstairs.

  Rydar met her at the foot of the steps. His expression was an equal mix of concern and relief. “I hear the cry.”

  Eryn stopped in front of her cousin, beaming up at him. “You have a healthy, red-haired, baby…” She paused, stretching out the announcement. “Girl.”

  Rydar’s jaw dropped. “I have datter?”

  “Yes!” Eryn laughed. “You have a daughter.”

  Rydar shuffled his fingers through his hair. He turned incredulous eyes toward Drew. “I have datter.”

  Drew’s cheeks split into a wide grin. “Congratulations.”

  Rydar’s gaze cut back to Eryn. “You say red hair?”

  Eryn nodded, still smiling like a fool. “You can come up as soon as the midwife finishes.”

  ***

  She did it. I have a daughter.

  Rydar accepted the swaddled bundle from the midwife and stared at his newborn child. A wave of emotions swept over him, with the urge to protect this little girl against all threats coming on the strongest.

  He looked at Grier. “She’s beautiful.”

  His wife looked tired but content. “She has my hair, mind.”

  “All of our children will probably have your hair,” he replied. “I must grow accustomed to that idea.”

  “And your height.” Grier wagged a finger in his direction. “Look how long she is.”

  Rydar laid the babe on the bed and unwrapped her. Suddenly freed, the little girl startled, throwing her arms and legs surprisingly wide.

  The midwife tsked. “Now I’ll have to swaddle her again.”

  As she began to bundle the babe, Rydar sat next to Grier. He took her hand and kissed her palm, silently thanking God for the successful birth.

  He pushed an errant strand of red, curly hair from Grier’s face. “You didn’t expect a girl. What shall we name her?”

  Grier tilted her head. “Shall we name her after your mother?”

  “Agnes?” Rydar looked at his daughter, wondering if the name fit. It seemed to him that it did. “I like that.”

  The midwife handed Rydar the swaddled infant and pinned his gaze with her warning one. “Leave her be this time.”

  “Yes, madam.” Rydar stared down into his daughter’s eyes. “Welcome to the world, my little Agnes. Your mother is the most amazing woman in the world, and I cannot wait for you to become acquainted with her.”

  He leaned toward Grier and, with Agnes pressed between them, kissed his wife very, very well.

  July 16, 1359

  “As much as I would like to extend our visit, the ship will leave without us if ye dinna get on board,” Drew declared. “One last embrace and we’ll need to be on our way.”

  Drew spoke strongly to cover his own reluctance to leave. He never would have given the idea weight before this visit, but he and Rydar had become good friends over the last month.

  The Viking was more intelligent and capable than he appeared to be when he was shipwrecked in Scotland. Either that, or Drew never gave the other man a chance.

  Eryn, on the other hand, was a blubbering mess.

  She cried openly, hugging Rydar again and again. “I promise to write whenever the opportunity arises,” she promised.

  Rydar’s eyes misted. “We will do as well.”

  Eryn gripped Grier’s hand as the other woman remained seated in the cart which carried Drew, Eryn, and their trunks to the pier.

  “I truly have a family now.” Eryn wiped her eye on a tear-soaked linen kerchief. “You cannot imagine what that means to me.”

  “Eryn…” Drew murmured.

  “Yes. I understand.” She drew a deep breath. “There is something I want to say first.”

  Drew swallowed his sharp retort, saying instead, “Please be quick.”

  Eryn too
k his hand in addition to Grier’s. Her gaze ricocheted around the small group of adults. “I have a happy announcement to make.”

  Drew’s heart somersaulted inside his chest. Blood rushed in his ears. “Eryn?” he ventured. “Are ye—”

  “Yes!” Her eyes sparkled through her tears. “I’m carrying your child.”

  Chapter Twenty

  An excerpt from “A Prince of Norway”

  ~ Nicolas Hansen visits Hansen Hall:

  October 12, 1820

  Late the next morning, Nicolas, with Edvard’s blessing, explored the hodge-podge manor. Once inside the building, the transition from the ninth-century tower, to the fourteenth-century hall, to the modern eighteenth-century sleeping rooms and kitchen, was not as disjointed as it was on the exterior. Generations of mistresses had worked to make the interior décor seamless and inviting. They had done well.

  At the end of one windowless passage on the ground floor lurked an unusual door. Set deep into the wall, there were carvings all around it. Nicolas leaned closer to make them out. They appeared to be Christ with His cross; perhaps the ‘stations’ Sydney had told him about once. He was taken aback for a moment, considering that his predecessors were papists. Then he smacked his hand to his forehead: Martin Luther sparked the reformation in 1517, two centuries after this wing was built.

  Nicolas tried the handle. It was stiff and the latch clanked, iron echoing down the hall. He dragged it open and discovered a small chapel. The faintest smell of ancient rot underlay the cold, damp odor of stone. Wooden benches, black with age and use, sat in perpetual formation; faithful, waiting.

  Gravestones paved the floor. Centuries of shoes had worn away the finer details of the carved stones, but some information was still legible. Nicolas walked slowly to the front, engrossed in the names and dates he could decipher. The closer he was to the front, the older and more worn the stones.

  When he reached the railing that separated mere humanity from the priests, the stones were once again readable. He stepped over the railing—after all the chapel was obviously not in use anymore—and went to the very front.

  “Rydar Martin Petter-Edvard Hansen, born 1324, died 1401,” Nicolas read out loud. “I expect I am named for him.”

  He turned to the stone set alongside. “Belovd Wyfe, Grier MacInnes Hansen, born 1328, Scotland, died 1401.”

  These were the first, the oldest, graves in the chapel.

  “He built it, you see.” Lord Edvard’s deep voice, breathy with age, floated over the musty past to Nicolas. “He came home from Greenland after the Black Death. No one was left, so he reclaimed the land; brought it back from death.”

  Nicolas turned to face his elder relation. “Of course they had children.”

  “Seven. Five that survived infancy. Four sons and a daughter.” Lord Edvard pointed to stones along the outer wall. “They are all there, with their wives.”

  “So we have Scots blood?” Nicolas grinned, one eyebrow cocked.

  Edvard coughed a laugh, wheezing a bit. “It’s very likely that one of our own Viking warriors spawned her great-grandmother, don’t you know!”

  Nicolas laughed with him; jarring sounds in this somber and silent tomb. He turned back to the graves. Even though he was a staunch Lutheran, he crossed himself in imitation of his Catholic wife.

  “God has blessed you both abundantly,” he murmured. His throat tightened and he brushed unexpected tears from his cheeks. Being here, at these graves, moved him more than he would have thought possible. His connection with Norway thrummed through his soul, deep and insistent.

  “Rest in peace, father,” he whispered, touching the stone lightly. “You’ve done very well.”

  The next Hansen trilogy:

  Jakob Hansen,

  Renaissance Knight

  of King Christian II

  Part One: A Nordic Knight

  In Henry’s Court

  København, Denmark

  May 17, 1518

  “Spain? Why are you sending me to Spain?” Jakob Hansen demanded, adding a hasty, “Your highness.”

  King Christian glared at the knight. “The Order of the Golden Fleece. Have you heard of it?”

  “No, my liege, I’m afraid I have not.” Jakob shifted his stance to take weight off his aching leg.

  “It’s an elite order, made up of various sovereigns and noblemen from the whole of Europe.” The king adjusted his ermine-trimmed tunic. “I have become a member.”

  Jakob gave the king a nod of understanding. “And you wish me to accompany you to the gathering for your safety.”

  Christian snorted his disgust. “No, you nitwit. I am sending you in my stead.”

  “In your stead?” Jakob scowled. “Is that acceptable?”

  “Of course it’s acceptable. Such important men as these cannot be expected to abandon their thrones and their many responsibilities to meet in some stuffy cathedral for months on end.” Christian flipped a jeweled and dismissive hand. “They all send their most trusted knights, of course.”

  The king’s unanticipated compliment was admittedly satisfying. Even so, it didn’t make the prospect of the journey any more palatable.

  Jakob struggled to keep his irritation concealed. “When am I expected?”

  “You’ll leave in seven days. On the way, I want you to visit Henry in England on my behalf. I neglected to make a fuss over the birth of his daughter, Mary.” Christian squinted and stared at nothing. “I believe she has just passed her second birthday.”

  Jakob sighed his disappointment. “Am I to spend my days as a diplomat now, no longer a defender of the throne?”

  “Your leg pains you. And you are the only man I trust.” The king leaned forward, his stare intense. “These are my orders, Hansen. Do you think to disobey me?”

  “No, my liege, I am sworn to serve you.” Jakob bowed, hiding his murderous expression from his sovereign king.

  THE HANSEN FAMILY TREE

  Sveyn Hansen* (b. 1035 ~ Arendal, Norway)

  ***

  Rydar Hansen (b. 1324 ~ Arendal, Norway)

  Grier MacInnes (b. 1328 ~ Durness, Scotland)

  Eryndal Bell Hansen (b. 1327 ~ Bedford, England)

  Andrew Drummond (b. 1325 ~ Falkirk, Scotland)

  ***

  Jakob Petter Hansen (b. 1485 ~ Arendal, Norway)

  Avery Galaviz de Mendoza (b. 1483 ~ Madrid, Spain)

  ***

  Brander Hansen (b. 1689 ~ Arendal, Norway)

  Regin Kildahl (b. 1693 ~ Hamar, Norway)

  ***

  Martin Hansen (b. 1721 ~ Arendal, Norway)

  Dagne Sivertsen (b. 1725 ~ Ljan, Norway)

  Reidar Hansen (b. 1750 ~ Boston, Massachusetts)

  Kristen Sven (b. 1754 ~ Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)

  Nicolas Hansen (b. 1787 ~ Cheltenham, Missouri Territory)

  Siobhan Sydney Bell (b. 1789 ~ Shelbyville, Kentucky)

  Stefan Hansen (b. 1813 ~ Cheltenham, Missouri)

  Kirsten Hansen (b. 1820 ~ Cheltenham, Missouri)

  Leif Fredericksen Hansen (b. 1809 ~ Christiania, Norway)

  ***

  Tor Hansen (b. 1913 ~ Arendal, Norway)

  Kyle Solberg (b. 1919 ~ Viking, Minnesota)

  Teigen Hansen (b. 1915 ~ Arendal, Norway)

  Selby Hovland (b. 1914 ~ Trondheim, Norway)

  ***

  *Hollis McKenna Hansen (b. 1985 Sparta, Wisconsin)

  Kris Tualla, a dynamic award-winning and internationally published author of historical romance and suspense, writes with a fast-paced and succinct style. Kris started in 2006 with nothing but a nugget of a character in mind, and has created a dynasty with The Hansen Series and its spin-off, The Discreet Gentleman Series. Norway is the new Scotland!

  Kris is an active PAN member of Romance Writers of America, the Historical Novel Society, and Sisters in Crime, and was invited to be a guest instructor at the Piper Writing Center at Arizona State University

  "In the Historical Romance genre, there have been
countless kilted warrior stories told. Well, I say it's time for a new breed of heroes. Come along with me and find out why: Norway IS the new Scotland!"