by Kris Tualla
Another possibility came to him. Rydar shifted, resettling in his chair. “To be in mercat, they pay little…” he faltered; he didn’t know the word.
“Fee. To reserve their staund,” Logan finished the thought. “Aye.”
“And I help. I gather fees,” Rydar offered.
Logan chuckled. “And how much will this cost me?”
Rydar grinned widely again. “Half.”
Logan scoffed. “Fine. You’ll keep one third of this as well.” He shook his head. “You’re quite a knackie, Hansen.”
“Thank you.” He didn’t know the word, but he assumed it was a compliment. “When is mercat?”
Logan thought a minute. “In a brace of weeks?” Then his countenance brightened. “The solstice! There was always a celebration before the—well, before. We can hold the mercat in the day and festivities at night!”
“Festivities?” Rydar asked.
“Music, games, food and drink. To celebrate the longest day!”
“A good day,” Rydar concurred. My thirtieth birthday. He still couldn’t grasp that he was that old. His life was half over and he had nothing to prove for it as yet. He was determined to change that and soon. This was the first step. “Very good, Logan.”
Logan stood to leave. “Very good yourself, Hansen.”
June 10, 1354
Rydar dressed before the sun crested the northeastern horizon, unable to pretend to sleep any longer. Giddy anticipation coursed through his veins. The agreements with Logan were even better than he intended; between the hunting and the staund fees, he would be able to buy supplies to build his boat much sooner than he first thought. Sailing home to Norway before the weather turned loomed possible.
Arne drifted through his thoughts. Rydar missed his friend, especially living in this strange land. They had been closer than most brothers and sailing onward alone was bound to rekindle his grief. But it must also rekindle his determination that Arne’s death be purposeful.
He gathered the quiver, arrows and longbow that Logan let him take from the tower. Limping into the kitchen, he filled a leather sack with cheese, dried meat and a few apples. Then he slipped out the keep’s door and headed for the stable leaning on his erstwhile crutch—recently cut short, it was now merely a cane.
The slanting sunshine cast long shadows to the southwest and colored the world in pinks and oranges. Dew fog floated over the ground and filled the hollows. The world was silent, cool, peaceful. Salle pranced through the woods, happy to be out with Rydar. He realized he was happy as well. For the first time in decades, his future held hope. Real, true hope; not hope dreamed or imagined. He laughed his relief out loud.
Rydar shot at any living thing that crossed his path at first, learning the bow and the trajectory of these arrows. He managed to hit a few rabbits and grouse, but he missed a wild shot at a boar. Just as well; he was in no shape to run for his life should he only wound the fierce beast.
The day warmed considerably as the sun swirled in its circular path. Rydar paused by a clear stream and lowered himself to the ground to drink his fill. His leg throbbed and his arms shook. He hadn’t been this physically active since his boat splintered and tossed him into the North Sea a month ago. Lying on his back beside the stream he rested his complaining muscles and wiped sweat from his brow.
Through sporadic birdsong there came a crackle of movement in the woods. Rydar forced himself to roll to his knees and he retrieved his weapons. He knelt behind a tall bush and waited to see what sort of creature might appear to share his water.
A slow grin spread his cheeks.
The hind was still in velvet, his stubby antlers fuzzy. Unaware of his destiny, he nibbled on new pinecones and the tender tips of evergreen branches that bordered the stream. The sharp scent of sap colored the air. Under it, Rydar smelt the young male’s musk. Moving only his eyes, Rydar skimmed the forest for any companions the deer might have. The young buck was alone.
Rydar slowly righted his longbow and took aim. His arm cramped; he was out of practice and the last several hours of hunting tired him more than he anticipated. His thumb lay against his cheek. He paused to steady himself. Held his breath. Let go.
The hind leapt in the air and fell to the forest floor, trying desperately to kick death away. Rydar limped toward the frantic creature and drew his knife. He cut the dying animal’s throat, then sat on the leaf and pine-needle carpet while it bled to death. He was at the end of his strength. But he was very pleased with his first day’s bounty.
When he felt able, Rydar pushed to his feet. He pulled the arrow from the deer’s chest, rinsed it in the creek, and stuck it back in his quiver. Then he gripped the animal by the antlers, and began to make slow, awkward progress on the quarter mile trek to where Salle was tethered.
***
Grier decided it was time to move Rydar up the stairs to one of the private sleep chambers. True, he shouldn’t be putting full weight on his leg as yet, but she was powerless to stop the stubborn Norseman from doing so. And if she narrowed the distance between them, their new proximity might help her capture the Viking’s affection.
Moira aired out the unoccupied chamber between Grier’s and Logan’s. While the maid re-stuffed the mattress with fresh straw—and added lavender at Grier’s instruction—Grier brought up a new feather bed. She ordered the long-unused sheets washed and sun-dried, and carried up the pitcher, ewer and piss pot herself.
“I care to make it specially his, then,” Grier murmured. What would make Rydar feel at home here?
“Maps!” she said. “He was fair excited about the maps!”
Should she remind him of his thwarted journey? Her hope was to convince him to stay. But if she put all the maps in the room, including the ones of Scotland and Durness, perhaps he’d grow accustomed to her home here.
Besides, it would show that Grier understood him. With that particular decision made, she went down to the Hall to retrieve the maps. Lastly, she added a pitcher of purple thistles and fresh lavender to the table by the bed.
The effect was quite satisfying. As a final reminder of her presence, she put up her calendar—the one she spent all last winter embellishing.
Grier smiled.
There was no way Rydar could bide in this room for a single day without thinking of her.
***
Every muscle in Rydar’s body objected to further demands. Riding Salle through the forest he saw ample game, but couldn’t muster the will to draw the longbow again. Just the idea of climbing down from the horse to retrieve an arrow made him groan.
Wresting the young buck onto Salle’s back had drained his reserves; afterward he had to sit and rest, chewing the food from his leather bag while he caught his breath. His broken leg ached tenaciously. If pressed, he would admit that Grier was right. He truly shouldn’t be walking on it as much as he had been.
He was three and a half miles from the castle, a journey of just over an hour across the rough terrain. When he finally glimpsed the tower through the trees, he moaned with relief.
“We’re almost home, Salle,” he said patting the mare’s neck. Her ears twitched back at his voice, then forward in the direction of her stable. She stepped a little faster under her double load.
Rydar startled. What did he just say? We’re almost home? He was so tired he wasn’t thinking straight. “Not my home, of course,” he declared firmly. “Your home.”
He reined Salle to a halt in front of the butcher and offered the buck. The butcher pulled the carcass off Salle’s back with less effort than Rydar wished to recognize at that moment, and disappeared inside his shop. He returned with six pence—a week’s wages for a laborer—and handed Rydar the coins.
“He’s a fine one!” the man complimented. “The meat should be tender yet.”
“You sell hide to tanner?” Rydar asked from Salle’s back.
“Aye.” He nodded and pointed at Rydar. “Ye’ll hunt again soon?”
“Aye.”
Rydar nud
ged Salle toward her stable. He had six rabbits, three pheasants, quail and grouse strung across her withers. The buck was substantially more than a third of what he brought, but the hide was what was needful. Tomorrow he would hunt again and make up the shortfall.
If he could move.
Limping toward the keep, Rydar leaned hard on the cane he left in Salle’s stall. He wanted nothing more than to collapse on his cot and prop up his fiercely aching leg. He knew the wooden-spoon brace kept the bone in place and his leg would knit in spite of the pain. But he also knew Grier would wish to blister his arse if she kent how badly it hurt him at this moment. He had no idea how to conceal his misery from her. She noticed everything, it seemed.
Perhaps she would be out of the keep, gone on a healing or other such errand. Then, if he asked very nicely when he gave her the small game, Moira might be convinced to bring him the midday meal in his bed.
***
The door to the keep opened. Grier had been listening for Rydar’s uneven gait and she hurried from the kitchen, eager to show him his new accommodations. He stood in the doorway to the Hall, frowning. He turned toward her when she drew near.
“Where my bed is?” he asked. His face was smudged with sweaty streaks that settled in deepening lines across his forehead and around his mouth. He leaned on his cane and his left leg was bent at the knee. He rested no weight on it.
“I prepared a chamber for you upstairs.”
He glanced up the stairs. “Why?”
She faltered. “You’ve been healing so well… And it’s more comfortable.”
Rydar shrugged. He didn’t appear pleased.
“Comfortable?” Grier searched for other words. “The bed is sae big. Soft. The room is cozy. Private. Aye?”
“This day you make me move?” he demanded, scowling. “Why this day?”
Grier bristled at his ungrateful attitude. “Why no’ this day?”
He waved his right arm in a wild arc. “I hunt today! Is hard work!”
“And was it a good hunt?” she asked, trying to deflect and understand his irritation.
“I bring rabbits, birds. And deer.” Rydar grumbled. He shifted his weight, still favoring his left leg.
She spread her hands. “So why are ye wroth?”
His gaze moved up the staircase under a lowered brow. “Why this day?” he barked.
Grier straightened and glowered. “So ye’d be mair comfortable!” she barked back.
Rydar limped to the staircase and began to make his way up. Grier recognized his struggle. She rushed to tuck herself by his side and support him.
“Does your leg hurt fierce?” she asked.
He pushed her away. “Go.”
Grier fought the anger that surged through her. “You require some help, and that’s clear.”
“No, I do no’.”
“Aye, ye do.”
“No.”
“Have ye pushed too hard and hurt it again?” she accused.
He managed another step and winced.
She followed him. “Rydar, do no’ be a fool! Let me help you!”
“No!” he snapped and glared over his shoulder. “I go up alone!”
Grier folded her arms. “Ye do no’ know which chamber is yours, ye stubborn Viking.”
That stopped him. Grier saw the muscles of his jaw working under his light brown beard. “Clean one is mine, aye?” he challenged.
Grier cocked one brow. “Oh. Very clever.”
He worked himself up another step.
“Will you be needing anything else?” she taunted.
“Food. Now.” One more step. Sweat beaded on his brow.
Grier stood her ground. “Right away, Sir Hansen.”
Rydar growled, his guttural irritation sinking down to her. Grier leaned against the balustrade and watched him take the stairs one slow step at a time. “Might there be anything else, your Lordship?”
He turned to glower down at her. “Is your quiet too much to ask?”
She stomped up the steps to meet him. “Is your ‘polite’ too much to ask?” she mimicked. He waved a dismissive hand at her.
Up another step. Grier saw that under the mottled flush of his anger his face was pale. “Rydar, are you unwell?” she asked, alarmed.
“Fine!” he grunted. Up another step.
“Well, ye do no’ look fine.”
He didn’t respond. Up one more step. He leaned against the wall, his breathing labored. A clenched jaw rippled his cheek. Pausing, he wiped his brow, then struggled up another step.
Grier gripped his arm. “Let me help you.”
“You help me fine!” he retorted, jerking his arm from her grasp. “You move my bed!”
“I thought ye might prefer a bigger bed and a more private room!” Grier shouted. “I only thought of you!”
“Oh?” he shouted back. “And did ye think my leg is broke?”
Grier scoffed. “And do you ever think your leg is broke? It does no’ appear to me that ye do!”
Rydar ignored her and took another step. Grier’s fists clenched and her nails cut into her palms. She wanted to pummel him. Instead, she screwed up her face and stuck her tongue at his back. Stubborn, pompous Viking. She decided to let him starve a while. Maybe he’d learn a little gratitude
Then he wobbled.
Grier caught him before he tumbled down the stone steps, wedging herself under him and bracing his tall body with her shoulders. She shoved with all her strength and he sat down hard, his arse landing three steps from the top of the staircase. For a moment they simply stared at each other in gape-mouthed shock.
“Are ye aright?” Grier breathed.
Rydar’s face scarleted. “Aye,” he snarled.
He scooted up the remaining stairs on his bottom. Grier waited until he pulled himself to his feet, then she climbed the steps and stood beside him. Repeatedly wiping sweat from his brow had cleared away some of the day’s dust, but Grier could still smell animal musk and blood on him.
“Your chamber is this way.” She turned and strode past her parents’ room and her own. She pushed open the door of the refurbished sleep chamber. “Here ye go. I hope it’s to your liking.”
Without another look or word, she pushed past the bad-tempered Norseman and ran down the stairs.
Chapter Sixteen
Grier fled through the kitchen to the back door and bolted from the keep. Though tears blurred her vision she kent the path well. Furious at the man, she didn’t slow her pace until she reached the chyngell.
That did not go at all well.
Grier only wished to please the idiotic Viking. She spent the whole morning doing everything she might to make the chamber clean and comfortable for him. She knew he felt awkward when she greeted guests in the dining room, because he was the reason for extending that unorthodox hospitality.
And despite his complaining just now, he certainly had not been favoring his leg. The obstinate sailor walked on it every chance he might. It wasn’t her fault he overdid himself on this particular day! So why should she be blamed for his pain?
Grier marched across the wet sand at the edge of the waves, going east along the bay’s shore. When the land turned north she stopped and realized she was facing Norway.
One week by boat.
“Shite!” she yelped. She spun and tromped back in the other direction. What might she do now?
Grier climbed to the top of a seaside boulder and watched the bay change colors under skittering clouds. The constant tumble of water soothed her as it always did. A fresh breeze caressed her face. Grier closed her eyes. Sometimes she imagined that what she felt was her mother’s angelic fingers stroking her cheeks, calming her and reassuring her. She spent hours here during the Death, basking in the memory of her mother’s love. She sighed and felt for the crucifix.
Palpable as her mother’s touch, an unexplained serenity seeped through her body. Her heart slowed it’s indignant pace. When her anger faded the answer came—at least for this day.
“I need to take care of him,” she whispered. “Everyone needs taking care of, and Rydar especially.”
Kill him with kindness, then, afore she just plain kilt him.
Grier pulled a deep breath and blew out the last of her irritation.
Aye, Mam.
***
Rydar listened to Grier’s rapid footfalls echo down the stairs. He heard the heavy kitchen door slam open. It did not slam shut. With a quiet groan, he limped into his new chamber, shut the door, and fell across the foot of the bed on his belly. His relieved muscles tingled their gratitude.
The bed smelt of lavender.
A brisk knock on the door woke him. At first he didn’t know where he was. The sun had withdrawn from the window, leaving only dusky blue reflections of the sky. He blinked. The knock repeated, with more intent.
“Aye!” he grunted and turned on his side toward the knocking.
The door was pushed open by the backside of an adolescent male holding one end of the big copper bathing tub. Another boy, with a matching face, carried the other end. They were followed by a third copy carrying two buckets of steaming water, which he emptied into the bathtub. Without a word, they left the room.
Moira strode in with a small stool which she placed beside the tub. Then she set about building a fire.
“The boys?” Rydar asked, pointing at the door.
“My brothers,” she answered without turning from her task.
“They have same face!”
Moira did turn at that, considering the objects of interest as the trio returned and poured more water into the washtub. “Aye. They’re triplets. Morris, Angus and Fergus.”
The boys all turned to Rydar, each raising a hand when his name was called, obviously accustomed to the sensation they caused by being born together and identical. When they left his room Moira followed them out, and then reappeared with a stack of folded towels. The cake of scented soap rested on top. She set the linens on the stool.
The next delivery of water filled the tub. As her brothers filed from the room, Moira turned to Rydar. “When ye’ve done with your bath, call down the stairs. I’ll bring your supper up straight away.”