by Kris Tualla
“Why Roy wants high price?”
Smithy shrugged. “Ask him.”
Margoh sighed. “Are we off to Roy’s then?”
“If you don’t mind,” Rydar answered.
“And if I do?” she muttered, turning in the new direction.
The pair made their way back through town. When they reached Roy’s, his wife went to find him, leaving Rydar and Margoh alone outside the tanning. Margoh’s hands circled his waist and she leaned against him.
“I’ve missed you, Rydar,” she murmured. “You haven’t come for lessons in days.” Her head tilted back and her lips parted in offering.
Tucking his crutch under his left arm, he circled her wrists and pulled her hands from under his doublet. “Stop it, Margoh.”
“Ahem.”
Rydar loosed Margoh’s wrists and looked over his shoulder. “Roy?”
“And who might ye be?” the tanner demanded.
Rydar turned to face him. “My name is Rydar Hansen.”
Roy’s gaze shifted to Margoh. “Aren’t you Ellen McKay’s sister?”
“This is Lady Margoh Henriksen,” Rydar said. He pulled Margoh out from behind him.
“Uh, huh. What are ye needin’?”
“We talked to smith. He needs new apron and gloves.”
“And?”
Rydar made a dismissive gesture. “He say your price is high. I ask what you need.”
Roy squinted up at the taller man. “What I need?”
“Every man need. Roy need apron and gloves. You need…?”
Roy stared at him for a long silent minute, and then relented. “Hides.”
“Hides?” Rydar repeated, hoping for an explanation without having to ask for one.
“Aye. Since the Black—since there are less people here, the butcher cuts less meat.”
“Oh!” Rydar grinned at Margoh, who flushed with anger. “Less meat, less hides.”
“And higher prices for the ones I can get, aye?”
“Aye. Thank you, Roy.” Rydar took Margoh’s elbow and turned to leave.
Roy called after him, “Is that all ye wanted?”
Rydar nodded and waved.
The butcher to see was at the castle, so this day’s business in Durness was complete. Margoh’s face was splotched and her jaw clenched as Rydar limped in silence back toward her sister’s home. He wasn’t assured what angered her, but he was too distracted pondering his string of conversations to bother asking.
Along the main street, they passed several deserted houses and Rydar stopped. “Who owns these houses?”
“I’ve no idea.” Margoh looked up at him, her suspicion clear. “Why?”
Rydar pushed a door open.
“Don’t go in there!” Margoh snapped.
He stepped inside and considered the dilapidated condition of the building. The shutters were broken, sand and dead leaves covered the floor. Walls that may have been whitewashed at one point were splattered with black mold. The air stank of a stale hearth and the droppings of multiple rodents.
Rydar looked at Margoh. “Why not?”
“Because! There was plague in there!”
Rydar shook his head. “The plague is gone.”
“How do you know?”
“Grier told me.”
“Grier!” Margoh huffed.
Rydar pressed down his irritation. “No one has died in Durness for a year and a half.”
Margoh stepped gingerly through the doorway and came so close that he recoiled. With a knowing smile she ran her fingernails up his thigh sending waves of lust cresting over his body. Then she spun slowly and sashayed out of the house.
Gud forbanner det all til helevte! he snarled under his breath.
He followed her out of the house and gripped her elbow. Hard. She smiled up at him, but her smile stiffened when their eyes met. He leaned down and spoke quietly.
“Don’t you ever touch me like that again, or I’ll cease to behave the gentleman,” he warned.
“Why, Rydar. That’s what I’m hoping for,” she dared to say.
He gave her a look that made men cower. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
Margoh patted the hand that held her arm. “You’ll get nothing from that annoying virgin, you understand. And a man like you has needs, does he not?”
The dream image of Grier jumped to the front of his thoughts. He had needs, true. But those needs—denied for so long—had affixed themselves to his red-haired hostess. He shrugged the vision away.
“I have more pressing matters to concern myself with,” he said. Giving her arm a tug he started crutching his way back to the McKay’s house and Salle.
***
Grier fingered a bolt of bleached linen, deciding how much to buy. She needed a new chemise and was thinking of making one with long sleeves for winter.
“I needn’t wait. I could make both now, if I like!” she muttered. Shops in Durness were slowly recovering from the Death and her choices had expanded. So shopping took longer.
But it was also much more fun. Besides the linen, Grier had already selected a bolt of wool that was woven in an unusual square pattern of muted greens and browns shot through with orange. She might make a long tunic for Logan from it. And perhaps one for Rydar as well.
Grier smiled when she thought of the big Norse sailor. Her patient. Her savior. Her friend. Yes, they had become friends, she realized. He was intelligent and he learned her language so quickly. He possessed a lively sense of humor. He had slipped into her life quite effortlessly.
Might he yet choose to stay?
Grier made her choice and the shopkeeper bundled her purchases. She stepped into the street and paused, enjoying a bit of sun that pushed around a herd of gray-bottomed clouds. She shaded her eyes and looked down the row of buildings. Was there aught else she needed? A twirling movement pulled her attention.
Margoh stood several buildings away, outside the doorway of an abandoned house.
How odd, Grier thought. I wonder what she’s—
Rydar appeared in the same house’s doorway. Margoh turned to him and Grier could see her wide smile. Rydar’s free hand slid down Margoh’s arm to grasp her elbow. He leaned over to speak in her ear. She patted his hand. They turned and they moved together toward the McKay house.
Grier’s world faded flat and colorless. She spun around and began to stumble in the opposite direction, not seeing her path nor determining a destination. She gripped the bundle of fabric against her chest and pressed it hard against her struggling heart.
I ride to Margoh.
‘Ride Margoh’ was more like it! Was he tail-toddling with the whore? And in that filthy, stinking, abandoned house? Would Margoh stoop to any disgusting level to claim the Norseman? Even worse, could Rydar be so easily tempted by a shamefully displayed bosom and flaunted arse? She would not have thought so.
Grier was furious, devastated, resigned and furious again. She turned west and stomped her way through the woods toward the castle, daring danger to meet her.
“God help any ‘ruffian’ that crosses my path today!” she declaimed. “I’ll rip his stones from his sack and stuff them down his damned throat!”
She considered doing that very thing to Rydar.
What about me? And what about our kisses?
Rydar’s betrayal of their intimate moment hurt most of all. She had kissed him without reservation, and his response was to claim a heap more’n a kiss from the willing widow. Most likely it was not the first time!
“Shite!” she spat. “I’ve been a whappin fool.”
When she reached the keep Grier climbed to her chamber without greeting Moira. She shut and latched her door, threw the bolt of woven wool onto her bed, and glared at it as if her eyes might set it aflame.
She thought to make Rydar a tunic from it. That woeful, ungrate Viking! After the flighty way he behaved, he didn’t deserve such a gift. What would she do now? Grier jammed her fists onto her hips. Her grunt of pique becam
e a quiet groan.
What would she do now?
Grier slumped onto the edge of the bed and ran her hand over the wool, staring at the interplay of browns and greens. Those colors would look quite bonny with his eyes. His beautiful green eyes, so pale, so clear. She didn’t care to consider the idea of those eyes disappearing from her world forever.
Grier laid down along the thick roll of fabric and pillowed her head on her bent arm. Her hand stroked the wool as if it was the man.
“Please, Rydar. Do no’ leave me,” she whispered.
She lay still for several long minutes, staring unseeing at the wool, lost in her melancholy mood. Then a rivulet of an idea began to trickle through her mind, the realization of who she was: the strongest woman Rydar ever kent. He said so, himself. And he meant it a compliment.
She didn’t feel strong at the moment. When all those she loved fell, and the Death stole both her inheritance and her husbands, she wanted to die. Yet, she fought for life every day as a healer. She met each sunrise with hope. She still found joy in the sprouting of a flower, the colors of the sea, or a winter’s eve by the fire.
In light of such, she must be judged a strong woman.
And what might a strong woman do next?
“Fight.” Grier’s fist tightened on the wool. “Fight for him, and I wish to have him.”
She sat up on the bed, frowning. That path posed a substantial risk. She might pour her efforts into winning Rydar only to lose, either to Margoh, or to his determination to sail for Norway. Or the both.
That would be humiliating. Beyond that, Grier wasn’t sure she could withstand yet another loss and still find the will to rise in the morning.
But what other choices did she have? Logan would marry Malise McKay and Grier would be their spinster cousin, her livelihood dependent on their charity. No other suitors were within sight. No other land was hers. She wasn’t trained for any other vocation. And she was already twenty-six.
“Trying to win him will no’ be easy,” she murmured. “Margoh’s no maid. She’ll spread her thighs for him and lose nothing. What have I to offer him?”
Would she take him to her bed?
A small itch tickled her groin. A little ball of pressure developed low in her belly. Grier knew enough to understand her body—and it desired his without question. Bedding Rydar may be her last chance to experience physical union with a man. And what a splendid man he had indeed become.
But to give up her maidenhood? That was a considerable risk. What if a knight in glorious colors should ride into Durness one day and offer her marriage? Would he still take her, knowing that she had willingly wiggled beneath another man? That she was sullied by his bedsport?
Grier chuckled. A knight’s appearance at her remote little castle was unlikely in the extreme. But then, so was his taking any other than a maid to wife.
And what if she consented, but didn’t enjoy the union? What if the experience of bedding the Norseman left her disappointed?
The little ball of pressure in Grier’s belly warmed, sending tendrils of heat twisting through her body. Rydar was a strong, virile man on the outside. He would most certainly be strong and virile between the sheets as well. Of that, she had no doubts. And the consequences—and her imaginary knight—could go straight to hecklebirnie for all she cared!
But I’m already his healer. His savior. His friend. Intelligent enough with a lively sense of humor.
I’ve slipped into his life without effort.
He might yet choose to stay.
June 7, 1354
Rydar limped in to breakfast, considering how best to explain his request. He spoke to the butcher yester eve after he turned Salle over to the groom, and found that the lack of meat was not because demand was down, but because hunters were scarce.
“Hunting takes time, aye?” the butcher said. “And there are so few able men left and each one’s got more’n a darg of work each sunrise.”
“So if man hunts and brings meat, you sell hides for less?”
The man shrugged. “I’ve no use for them. But I have to see to my family, and hides are scarce. So I do what I must.”
And that was the answer.
Rydar had the time and he was a skilled hunter. Bows and arrows lined the walls of the tower, idle and waiting. He would sell his prey to the butcher, who would lower the price of hides so the tanner could make aprons and gloves for the smithy, who would sell bands to the cooper to make barrels for the brewer. Then the brewer would sell yeast to the baker who would sell bread in Durness.
And Rydar would have an income to pay for his boat. He only needed the laird’s permission to hunt on his land. Logan was bound to say yes. Or so he dearly hoped.
That conversation would have to wait, however. Grier rushed in from the hallway, plaiting her hair. “I’ve been called to an accident,” she said. She pointed with her chin. “Might you fetch my basket?”
“In the castle?” he asked, hopeful he would not need to accompany her and could wait for Logan. He handed the basket to Grier.
Plait done, Grier shook her head and rummaged through its contents. “No, it’s a herdsman. Cut his leg open in a fall from a rock. Might be broke.”
“Is far?”
Her head popped up at that. Distracted blue eyes focused on his.
“About a mile.”
She crossed the kitchen and grabbed her remaining wooden spoon. She held it up to him with a sly grin, saying, “You do no’ need to come this time, if ye wish to stay here.”
But he promised to keep her safe and he was a man of his word. He wagged a finger in her face. “Ruffians,” he taunted. “You ken!”
When she smiled at his chiding the summer sky of her eyes deepened, entrancing him. Her voice was smooth and warm. “At the least you’re no’ waumish about the blood.”
She hefted her basket and left the room. Rydar’s eyes followed the saucy sway of her hips out the door.
“He’ll want me to come quickly!” her voice lilted back to him, rich with amusement.
Rydar was startled into movement. “Aye!”
His mood lifted and he smiled broadly. This was a good turn. Perhaps he could tell her his ideas about commerce along the way. Explaining them to her would help him learn the words he needed to explain those same ideas to Logan. She might even be able to predict Logan’s answer to his unorthodox appeal.
He followed Grier’s path, quite pleased at the prospect of spending time with her after all.
Chapter Fifteen
June 9, 1354
Rydar’s request was made to wait; Logan was gone the rest of that day and most of the next, returning late to sleep and leaving the keep at dawn. Rydar considered going out to hunt without asking, but because he intended to sell his catch, not turn it over to the castle’s larder, he needed Logan’s permission. He couldn’t be so rude to his generous hosts as to act otherwise.
Frustrated by the delay, Rydar rose before the sun on the third day and waited in the kitchen for Logan. He even made the parritch for breakfast.
Logan stepped into the kitchen and puzzled over the victuals. “Who made the parritch?”
“I make.” Rydar poured a little milk over his and handed the pitcher to Logan. “And I get milk.” He pointed at Logan’s chair. “Sit, please. I must ask about hunting.”
Logan sat and stared at the bowl in front of him. “How did ye ken how to make it?”
“I always cook in Grønnland,” Rydar answered a bit sharply. Days of waiting had sanded away his patience. “Now you eat and I talk, aye?”
Logan nodded and poured milk on his parritch. “Hunting?” he repeated and spooned a dollop of honey over his oats.
Rydar explained the impromptu trail he followed that began with the baker and ended with the butcher. Logan listened with increasing interest until, by the end, his breakfast was cooling and ignored.
“So you want to hunt and give the game to the butcher?” Logan deduced.
Rydar shifted in hi
s seat. He cleared his throat. “I want to sell to butcher.”
“Sell?’ Logan frowned and leaned back. “Sell my game to my butcher?”
Rydar assumed Logan would respond that way—he certainly would have if presented with the same request. Now he would present a second conceit. “Or…”
Logan waved one hand. “I’m listening.”
“I keep part for wages.”
Logan narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Because no man hunts now. I have time. I have skill. You need me.”
Logan’s mouth twitched. “And if I say no?”
Rydar spread his hands wide and grinned at the younger man. “Other men will need me.”
Logan laughed at that and slapped the table. He wagged a finger at Rydar. “Aye, then. And I’ll give you one tenth of what you bring.”
“Half,” Rydar countered boldly.
Logan shrugged, looking unconcerned. “Quarter.”
“Third.”
Logan paused and stared into Rydar’s eyes. Rydar didn’t blink.
“Third,” Rydar said again. “Or I go to McKay’s, aye?”
With a grunt of resignation, Logan offered his hand across the table. “Aye. You may keep one third of what you bring down on my lands.”
Rydar gripped Logan’s hand. “Good.”
“Your idea makes me reflect on something else,” Logan began. He stirred his congealing cereal. “Have you ever been to a mercat?”
“What is ‘mercat’?”
“A place where merchants and craftsmen bring their wares to sell or trade.”
Rydar puzzled through the words. “Merchants? Guild, aye?” he asked.
“Yes!” Logan pointed with his gloppy spoon. Bits of oatmeal fell to the table, unheeded. “A merchants’ guild would oversee this sort of thing.”
“But guild is gone for more than year,” Rydar reminded Logan.
Logan nodded slowly. “And having a mercat fair might bring them back together, then.”
Rydar quickly considered that idea and what role he might play to his own advantage. “You tell tenants and town of mercat fair. I talk to men when I sell meat, aye?”
“Aye. Good.” Logan ate a bite of cold parritch.