by Kris Tualla
She froze mid-step.
Cropped light brown hair swung around his chin, shining like melted gold in the candlelight. Logan’s barbering around the stitched gash revealed an expressive face with classic Nordic structure: a high brow, prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw. Deeply set and intense, his pale-jade eyes were framed with crinkled lines and straight brown brows.
Rydar smiled a little, the uninjured cheek lifting higher than the other. His strong features were far beyond Grier’s expectations; there had been no hint of the bonny countenance hiding behind the unkempt beard. Her heart thumped as if to push her toward him.
“Good aften, Grier,” he said in a deep voice that somehow floated up to her.
“G-good eventide, Rydar,” she stuttered. Running her elbow along the wall to keep her equilibrium in the presence of this unexpectedly compelling man, Grier continued her descent until she stood before him. Somehow he was taller than she realized. Six-and-a-half feet, she guessed. The incongruent scent of rose soap wafted from this towering, masculine, creature.
Grier tugged at his ill-fitting doublet to draw his attention away from her face, which was suddenly quite hot.
“Ja. I giant,” he shrugged.
A surprised laugh burst from her.
Rydar’s brow dipped. “Giant? Aye?”
“Aye,” she assured him. She wagged a finger. “And you’re a smart one, ye are. I’ll have to keep my eye on you, and that’s sure.”
Confusion twisted Rydar’s expression. His mouth opened and closed, but he frowned and didn’t speak. His gaze dropped to the clothes draped over her arm.
“Oh! These are for you!” Grier lifted the bundle.
“For my?” Rydar turned and hobbled back inside the Hall. He stopped beside his pallet and laid the crutch down. Balanced on one foot, he pulled Logan’s doublet over his head while Grier set the clothing on the cot beside the crutch. Rydar selected the pale green tunic and slipped it over his oft-repaired shirt. Grier blinked.
It did match his eyes. And somehow, they grew greener.
Rydar looked down at the length of the skirt and sleeves. “Good!” he blurted. “My good!”
“Aye.” Grier walked around him. Though his wide shoulders still stretched the fabric a wee bit, the fit was much improved. “It’s bonny good.”
“You!” Rydar pointed his finger at her. “You good, Grier. Takk du.”
His words thawed a small corner of her grief. Grier felt it melt away, carrying with it a scrap of her pain. She smiled at the beautiful, gaunt giant and murmured, “You’re welcome.”
Chapter Five
May 16, 1354
The front door to the keep slammed open.
“Grier? Rydar?” Logan called out. “Are ye about?”
“In here!” she called from the kitchen. Rydar turned from the fish he was cleaning for supper.
Logan’s breadth filled the room’s narrow entry. “I’ve brought guests. Might we greet them in another chamber?”
“We can no’ use the Hall, Rydar has it. I expect the dining room might do.” Grier untied her apron. “Who’ve you got?”
“Malise and her old aunts.”
She frowned at the uncomplimentary designation. “The ones from the Shetlands?”
“Aye! And the same!” Logan disappeared.
“Shetlands?” Rydar’s eyes lit with interest. Grier would not have counted it possible that they might glow so intently with their color so pale. But they did, for a moment stealing her intent.
“Um… Aye.” she beckoned him. “Come with me.”
Rydar wiped his hands on a towel, sniffed them, and made a face. Then he wiped them again, stood on one leg and tucked his crutch under his arm.
“Aye. Come with you,” he said in his strange guttural lilt. He repeated everything she said and was quickly gaining simple language. He hobbled after her to the more formal room.
“Ach, I forgot! Sit. I’ll be right back!” Grier pointed at the heavy carved chairs arranged around the polished table.
“Forgot. Sit. Be rett back. Aye,” Rydar said, and sat. A faint grin brushed his confused countenance. His eyes never wavered from hers as though he could absorb her meaning if he only stared at her hard enough. So many times in the days since they rescued him, she would turn unaware and catch his pale gaze. It always made her belly flutter.
Grier hurried back to the kitchen. She procured a tray, six mugs and a pitcher of cooled beer. She was on her way to the dining room when the front door opened and Logan ushered in his young love and her old aunts. At the least, that’s who she assumed they must be. Bright sunlight poured in behind them and obscured their features.
“Welcome to Durness Castle!” She dipped her chin; a bow was impossible with the laden tray. “Logan? Might you escort our guests to the dining room?”
“Yes! Of course!” He took Malise by the arm and led her forward. The aunts followed.
Grier placed the tray on the table and Rydar rose on one leg to serve the ale. When she objected, he placed his huge hand over hers.
“I hjelp you, aye?”
His touch was warm and firm and looking into his eyes so closely made her forget what it was she meant to say. She blinked and managed, “Aye. Thank you.”
He winked at her and her chest tingled in a very unexpected and pleasant manner. What on God’s good earth was that about? With more effort than was seemly, she dragged her attention away from Rydar and turned to greet her guests.
Her smile turned to stone. She resolved at that moment to murder Logan rather violently in his bed at the earliest possible opportunity.
Logan’s love interest, Malise, was an attractive fifteen-year old with thick chestnut hair and warm hazel eyes. She was shorter and curvier than Grier, but no doubt a good fit for Logan. The aunts, however, were an entirely different story.
Perhaps a hand taller than Grier, the statuesque sisters were garbed in high-waisted gowns of soft, expensive wool, one in deep blue, the other in heather green. Both had blue-gray eyes and pale golden hair, though one’s locks were streaked with silver. In defiance of their ages, both women were beautiful by anyone’s accounting.
Grier straightened, agonizingly aware of the tattered gray kirtle she wore. She wondered if Rydar would heed the difference in their apparel. But even if he didn’t, the aunts were women and they surely would. She smoothed her untamable curly hair from her brow noting that—even after the breezy journey from town—neither of the aunts’ hair was disheveled.
She would kill Logan slowly. Torture was most certainly called for.
“Logan?” Grier prompted, forcing her tone to remain as pleasant as she could in the midst of her uncomfortable humiliation and his looming dismemberment.
The young man pulled his eyes from the beaming Malise. “Oh, aye. Might I present Madam Hanne Larsen and the Lady Margoh Henriksen, recently of the Shetland Islands.”
Grier now managed a proper bow without the encumbrance of the tray. The aunts’ eyes passed over her from tresses to toes. Flickers of confusion and surprise passed between them.
“My cousin, the Lady Grier MacInnes,” Logan continued.
Margoh frowned. “You are the lady of the castle?”
“I am, Lady Henriksen.” Grier stretched her cheeks wide, hoping her grimace passed for a polite smile. She couldn’t stop herself from fingering the nubby fabric of her worn dress.
“Have we come at an inopportune time?” Hanne’s tone was frosty.
“No, Madam. I was cooking—it’s a turn that pleases me—and did no’ wish to sully a decent gown. We are quite happy to have you.” Grier faced her cousin. “Logan will you please continue the introductions?”
All eyes shifted to the young man. While Logan gestured toward the sailor, Rydar’s gaze bounced from mouth to mouth.
“Aye, of course. May I present our guest, Rydar Hansen of…” A blank look claimed Logan’s visage.
“Rydar? You’re from Orkney, are ye no’?” Grier assumed.
> “Orkney? I? No.” Rydar frowned, obviously puzzled. “I come fra Grønnland.”
“Greenland!” Grier blurted. “You sailed all the way here from Greenland?”
“Aye. Sailed all way here.” Rydar turned to the guests, bowed and placed a lingering kiss the back of each of the older women’s hands. “Det er min fornøyelse, fru.”
The women’s eyes widened.
“Du taler Norse!” Margoh exclaimed. “Hvordan er dette mulig?”
“Er jeg Norsk!” Rydar responded, smiling.
“Please make yourselves comfortable, will you?” Grier interrupted, flustered by the animated exchange she didn’t understand. “Might you care for a drink?”
“Thank you,” said Madam Larsen, the older aunt. Straight-backed and regal, she lowered into a chair and frowned up at Rydar.
“Lady Henriksen?” Grier held up a mug in question. Her distracted mind juggled shock at both the impossible distance Rydar covered in that small boat, and bewilderment over the odd yearning sparked by the harsh melody of his language.
“Yes, thank you.” Lady Henriksen’s gaze was locked on the tall Norseman. This sister was definitely not frowning.
“Please sit, Lady.” Grier placed the woman’s serving of ale in front of a chair. Rydar pulled the chair away from the table.
“Takk du,” Margoh murmured and sank seductively into the proffered seat.
“You’re welcome,” Grier and Rydar responded in unison.
Grier felt her face flame and Rydar gave her a wee grin. Determined to be a proper hostess in spite of the awkward situation, she pressed forward. “What brings you and your sister to Durness, Madam Larsen, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Plague,” was the succinct response.
“Now, Hanne! There’s no cause to be rude,” Margoh scolded. She fluttered her lashes at Rydar and gave an apologetic little shrug.
Grier disguised a derisive snort as a cough. Rydar’s amused gaze briefly touched hers.
“Why else would we leave our home, then?” Hanne retorted.
“To join our youngest sister, of course!” Margoh tossed Rydar a brilliant smile. Grier was certain he caught it. Her mood dipped unaccountably.
Grier turned to face Hanne. “I lost my Da. Logan did as well.”
“I lost my husband and both my sons.” Hanne glared at Grier, challenging her level of grief.
“I, too, lost a husband. But it was no great burden,” Margoh added. She turned her profile to Rydar and smoothed her hair, drawing his gaze to the graceful movement of her soft white fingers. “Are you married, Lady MacInnes?”
Grier was so fascinated by the woman’s skillful trifling that it took her a moment to realize Margoh now addressed her. She looked down at her work-reddened hands, knotted in her lap. The only way this encounter could be any more uncomfortable was if she were naked.
And her hair on fire.
“No, Madam. I was betrothed thrice. Plague took them all afore the vows were spoken.”
“Pity,” Hanne responded, her voice flat.
Grier pressed her lips together and considered the older sister. Had she always been so bitter? Of course, the horrors of the Death might certainly turn a person previously disposed to a happier constitution.
Even me, she realized with a start.
Logan ceased whispering with Malise and entered the conversation. “I was of a mind that, since Lady Margoh and Madam Larsen speak both languages, they might tutor Sir Hansen.”
“Oh!” Grier forced a polite smile. After that suggestion, Logan might not live long enough to even see his bed. She cleared her throat, stalling. “What a bonny idea.”
“My sister has no interest, but I’m willing,” Margoh offered. She blinked at Rydar and rested her fingertips against her throat. “Quite.”
“Have you asked Rydar?” Grier demanded of the grinning Logan. Unexplained irritation jabbed her toward rudeness.
He frowned. “No. And there’s no reason, then, is there? Why would he no’ wish to learn?”
Rydar leaned forward when his name was mentioned. “Hva er deg sir?”
“Jeg vil lære du Scots Engelsk.” Margoh cooed.
“Scots English,” Grier injected. Then more softly she added, “Learn my speak.”
“Aye,” Rydar agreed. He leaned back, satisfaction sculpting his expression. “Good.”
Grier challenged Margoh. “You’ll have to come here to do it.”
“Here?” The woman scowled. “Why?”
“He’s got a broken leg, hasn’t he? He can no’ be walking the mile into Durness, then, can he?” Grier explained to the obviously stupid woman.
“I suppose not.” Margoh made a pouty face, but then she turned to Logan and her voice became honey. “Will you fetch me?”
“Fetch you?” Grier yelped, incredulous. “Your leg is no’ broken!”
Margoh pointedly ignored her and pressed her case with Logan. “It would be a great boon if ye might be willing, Logan.”
Logan glanced at Rydar, then Malise. The girl smiled and dipped her chin, gazing at him from beneath long, auburn lashes. He grinned.
“I shall be very pleased to do so,” he answered.
***
Grier violently scrubbed the pottery mugs hardly caring if she broke one. The aunts’ unexpected visit was ghastly. Why hadn’t Logan told her what he meant to do? That he was bringing the aunts to the keep today? That he expected them to tutor Rydar? That, far from being old, they were poised and beautiful and dearly dressed and neatly coiffed and Norse-speaking and, and—available? And not just available, but the younger one seemed outright eager for male company. And Rydar’s company at that!
The kitchen door opened and Logan strode in on a damp evening sea breeze. He stared at her, his brow lowering.
“Why are ye so wroth?” he chided. He dropped an armload of wood by the hearth. “Atween the two of us, it’s I who has reason to be wroth! A laird should no’ be required to carry his own firewood!”
“Then hire a manservant, why don’t you?” Grier snapped.
“Ye ken as well as I that there are no suitable prospects!” Logan retorted. “They’re all dead!”
Grier spun to face him, pushed beyond furious. Her cousin had aptly named her hopeless estate, and yet he had no idea.
“Aye! Open your damned eyes, Logan!” she shouted. “The suitable prospects are all dead!” She threw the sopping dish towel hard at his face and ran from the kitchen.
Passing Rydar in the hallway without acknowledgement, Grier hiked her skirt to her knees and took the stairs two at a time. She slammed the door on her sleep chamber and dove onto her four-poster bed, smashing her face into a feather pillow. She screamed against the cushion without words. She screamed until her abused throat burned so badly she was forced to stop. Then she cried, heartbroken and overwhelmed by loneliness.
When the Death surrounded her, she thought a merciful God might take her as well.
But no, He left her here.
Here to help others through their losses, bury their dead, and keep on living. Here to watch over her father’s erstwhile estate until Logan brought home a wife to supplant her. Here to rescue errant sailors who washed up on her chyngell in dire need of her skills.
Here to host old aunts, apparently, while they tutored her errant sailor.
“The ‘old aunts’ my sweet white arse!” Grier sobbed and punched her pillow. “The younger one just about swived him right there on the table! And now she’ll be with him regular, teaching him Scots English.” That prospect rested in her gut like a wave-roughened boulder covered with barnacles.
The room darkened as the day died. Her ire dissipated with the fading light. Keeping it alive simply wasn’t worth the effort required.
At least the lessons will be here in the castle, she devised. I might learn Norse in the process, should I like.
She threw the pillow aside and sat up straight.
That was the answer! Learn Rydar’s language! Not th
at the blond cow would likely invite her to join them. But she couldn’t be rude enough to ask Grier to leave, considering it was Grier’s home and hospitality that the she-snake was enjoying.
Her jaw dropped open.
Cow?
She-snake?
Grier flopped onto her back with an exasperated groan. What, in God’s good name, is wrong with me?
Chapter Six
Rydar lay on his pallet in the dark hall and watched a thinning log until it collapsed in two pieces. All that remained in the fireplace was a rough heap of glowing orange and red chunks supported by black skeletons; discarded bones of the satiated fire.
The death of the fire was of no concern to him. Since awakening in this keep, he hadn’t experienced hunger or cold. Was he truly in heaven? He was, if Grønnland had been hell.
He shivered at the thought of the windswept wasteland of his adopted home. Jagged peaks stared down on uninhabited meadows of coarse grasses; food that was nearly indigestible to the bony cattle and bleating sheep who spent their short lives searching for sustenance there. When the miserable animals succumbed to the land they were butchered, but their scant flesh was tough and lean.
Then the dark winter came, half the year long. Windy, iced and unforgiving, it forced even the livestock into their longhouses. After lying down for months inside, the animals had to be carried outdoors when the snow melted. With his pampered youth spent in a castle in Arendal, Norway, Rydar never became accustomed to the smell and filth of sharing his roof with his food. There was a time he believed he would never be clean or warm again.
Or his hunger satisfied. Growing tall and lanky and outstripping his family’s supplies, Rydar’s teen years encompassed a constant search for meat. He hunted with a bow, killing arctic hares or an occasional fox.
Sometimes, his forages took him close to the skraeling.
Like those before him, he didn’t deign to speak to the squat, dark people who had slits for eyes, but he watched them at times. He followed their example and fashioned a tethered spear with a sharp boned point. Rydar practiced purposefully until he could stab a silver glint deep underwater and pull up a fat cod. On good days, he caught breeding salmon.