by Kris Tualla
Rydar frowned. “Where is dinner?”
“You slept through that, man.”
He startled. “How long I sleep?”
“Long enough,” she stated and pulled the door closed behind her.
Rydar rolled off the bed. He was stiff and felt every single one of his thirty years. With a bit of difficulty, he pulled off his clothes and left them in a heap by the foot of the bed. But when he tried to get into the copper tub, he realized he couldn’t do so without getting his brace wet.
“No more!” he growled. After all, he’d worn the brace for four weeks already.
Sitting on the little stool, he unwrapped the dirty linen strips and removed the wooden spoon braces. His leg was swollen, mostly around his ankle, and there were raised stripes on his skin where the swelling pressed against the bandages. But a portion of his pain lessened when his leg was freed. He climbed into the water and submerged his whole body in the hot bath.
For the second time since leaving Grønnland he experienced the decadent sensation of wet heat radiating through his body and relieving his pain. His skin puckered like gooseflesh from his calves to his scalp. He closed his eyes and inhaled the steam and the aroma of the flowered soap. This was such a beguiling experience, he might consider repeating it once a month whether he needed it or not.
Rydar soaped and rinsed his body, his hair, his beard. Then he rested again against the tub’s tall back and soaked the last bit of warmth from the water. He opened his eyes and considered getting out to answer the demands of his rumbling belly when he noticed the kalender on the wall. Grier’s kalender.
He looked around the room then, at the maps tacked up there. Then he saw the pitcher of thistles and lavender by the bed. Lavender—the mattress smelled of fresh straw and lavender. The mattress, and featherbed, which were covered with clean sheets.
The hot bath brought up to him. The linen towels and scented soap. The promise of supper served in his room.
Skitt.
When he returned from hunting, beyond exhausted and wracked with pain, all he considered was the overwhelming climb up the stairs. It seemed so insurmountable that he had lashed out at Grier, punishing her for his own weakness.
Until this moment he hadn’t noticed her efforts. She created a sanctuary for him here; a comfortable and private sanctuary. And she put up the kalendar she made so he might know the days. And, more importantly, she put up the maps so he might find his way home.
Skitt!
How could he be such an ass? He was obviously ill-prepared to mingle with civilized society, the Grønnland settlement’s rough culture being his only adult experience. If he planned to walk into the castle at Arendal and claim his rightful place, he had better learn some manners quickly, that much was quite clear.
He would begin with an apology.
Climbing from the tub, Rydar scrubbed himself dry. He hopped across the room on one leg and opened a chest. As he expected, his borrowed clothes waited there. But folded on top was a new garment, one made of tightly woven wool in a square pattern of green and brown. Orange threads the same color as Grier’s hair ran through it. He had never seen such fabric. He lifted it out, curious, and held it against his chest.
The tunic was longer and broader across the shoulders than the other clothes Grier lent him. The sleeves reached his wrists. The material was a little stiff. And it was spotlessly clean.
“Å min Gud,” he murmured. “She made this for me.”
Now he truly felt like an ass. No—a herd of asses.
He spied a new linen shirt in the pile of clothing. Aye, most definitely a herd of asses. Big stubborn, stinking, Norse ones.
Rydar donned the new garments and noticed the fine needlework in a fresh wave of heated humiliation. With a resigned sigh, he limped to the door of his chamber and stepped into the open hallway above the stairs.
“Moira?” he called down, hoping to delay facing Grier a bit longer.
But it was Grier’s face that appeared below him. She looked up at him, her sapphire eyes filled with such kindness that he forgot what he meant to say. Her hesitant smile spiraled through his gut and his guilt cut deeper.
“Are ye ready for supper, then?” she asked after a moment.
He nodded. “Aye.”
“I’ll bring it right up.” Then she disappeared from his view.
***
Grier carried the tray up the stairs, chiding herself to stay calm and not to let her turbulent emotions rule. Rydar wore the doublet she sewed, and from her brief glimpse of him on the second floor it seemed to fit perfectly. If he put the garment on, then he must have forgiven her for displacing him unawares on such an inopportune day.
His chamber door stood open so she entered without pause. Rydar sat in a chair next to the bed table; Grier set the tray of food beside him. She noticed with warming satisfaction that the colors of the fabric did match his hair and eyes. The tunic fit handsomely on his long, lean form. She tried not to stare.
“What is supper?” he asked, pushing her consideration from him to the tray.
“Pheasant. After your efforts today, I do hope ye like the way it’s cooked.”
Rydar took a bite of the roasted meat. His expression shifted from curiosity to surprise to broad enjoyment. “Is sae good, Grier.”
“And I fried the neeps with onions, as ye prefer,” she offered.
Rydar swallowed the bite of pheasant. His brow lowered and he seemed to be thinking hard on something. Unsure of what to do next, Grier looked around the room and saw his dirty clothes in one pile, and the dirty linen strips and wood spoons in another. She went first to the discarded brace.
“You should no’ have taken it off just yet,” she said over her shoulder as she collected the bits.
“I can no’ get in water, and is on.”
“Oh!” Grier stood and turned to face him. “Shall I get fresh linen and tie it up again?”
Rydar’s face wound into a blend of irritation and supplication. “And if you do no’?”
Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. The Norseman was even more stubborn than she, Grier conceded. He would most likely do as he pleased no matter what she said. She tried to think logically past her objections to what the real consequences might be.
“Well, you’ve already walked on it. I suppose if you do no’ bang into it, it will still heal.” She jabbed the spoons at him. “But you’ll need to go easy! Ye pushed too hard this day, and you ken.”
He acknowledged her words with a crooked half-smile. “I’m sorry, Grier.”
“There’s no need to apologize to me! If you re-break it, you’ve no one else to blame and you’re crippled, ye stubborn Viking!” She began to gather the soiled clothing.
“No’ the leg,” Rydar began. “I’m sorry for me. I’m no’ kind this day.”
Grier straightened and turned to face him. “What?” She heard him fine; she just wanted to hear the unexpected words again.
Rydar stood and closed the gap between them. Grier looked up into his eyes, waiting, wondering. He pushed her perpetually disorderly curls back over her shoulders. His fingers brushed her cheeks. She didn’t move and barely breathed.
“You make me a new room. You make it good for me.” Rydar pointed first at the items pinned to the walls, then the bed. “Is clean and smells good. You pushed hard this day, aye?” he parroted.
“Aye,” Grier murmured.
“Thank you.” His pale green eyes searched hers. She didn’t know what he hoped to find. She licked her lips self-consciously. Her pulse thrummed.
“Forgiven,” she whispered.
He bent lower and his lips brushed her forehead. Then her temple. Her cheek. Their touch stopped her breath and sent shivers of delight rippling down her neck. She turned toward his mouth, closed her eyes, and met it with her own.
His kiss filled her mind with sweet possibilities. The filthy clothes spilled from her hands and she reached for him. His body was warm and firm under her hands.
&n
bsp; This kiss was different from their first ones. Softly testing, exploring. At first, only their lips. Then his tongue teased hers and she answered. She may be a virgin, true, but after her three betrothals she kent how to kiss a man. He moaned a little and she leaned against him. Hard thighs pressed against hers, strong arms encircled her. Hot breath caressed her face. The coarse hairs of his beard tickled around her mouth.
Grier relished every sensation. Her breath came faster and her belly tingled. She wanted so much more of him than was seemly, so much more than was safe in her situation. She eased away from the kiss, glad to note he was breathing harder as well. She wasn’t the only one affected by their sampled intimacy.
Rydar stepped back and his face was flushed. His gaze flickered around the room. She rescued him before he said anything that might dampen the moment.
“You must be fair starving by now. Sit down and eat, then.”
He looked at the heaping tray of food, then back at her. “You eat afore?”
“No, no’ yet.” Grier gestured vaguely toward the door. “I’ll go down and sup in the kitchen.”
Rydar made a face and pointed at the table. “Is more food here than even I eat!”
Grier laughed. “I suppose I was a bit generous with the portions.”
“You sit. Eat with me.” He pointed at the chair. “I sit on bed.”
“I was going to have the boys come empty the bath water.”
“Sit!” he commanded. “Water will wait!”
Grier sat and served him a plate, then made her meal from the remaining food on the tray. He complimented her cooking so often that Grier began to wonder if he had a particular motive in mind. But he merely lounged on the bed, conversing easily and looking more relaxed than he had since she first found him.
When they finished, Grier called Moira’s brothers to empty and remove the copper tub, and then she sent the denuded tray downstairs, along with Rydar’s hunting clothes to be laundered on the morrow. When the tasks were complete, and she had no further excuse to dally, Rydar bid her goodnight with a long and confident kiss.
Chapter Seventeen
June 19, 1354
Twenty-nine merchants paid Rydar tippence each to reserve their staunds for the Solstice Mercat and Fair. That made fifty-eight pence; nineteen for him and thirty-nine for Logan.
In addition, he hunted on six of the last nine days. On five of those days, he brought back deer. He now had sixteen pence from hunting, plus the nineteen pence from the Mercat fees.
Thirty-five pence was a very good start, indeed.
Rydar kept the money stored in a pouch he fashioned from a scrap of fabric that Grier gave him. The pouch was pinned inside his shirt.
He felt for the pouch now—which reminded him of Grier—and pondered his small fortune to balance the foul mood he was in. He just spent another irritating afternoon trying to concentrate on language lessons in the crowded McKay household.
Margoh and Hanne had moved into a house that held their sister Ellen and her husband, Malise, her little brother, and a maid. His presence made eight people moving through one parlor, one kitchen, four sleep chambers and a small study, and left no quiet corners. He wondered if Margoh would object to having the lessons back in the keep.
But, he realized, it might be that the lessons would soon become unnecessary. After all, tomorrow at the Mercat, he planned to ask around about building his boat.
***
Grier stood in the kitchen, hands on her hips and lips pressed in thought. Rydar limped in, scowling. But his expression softened when he looked at her.
“What’s amiss?” she asked.
His grin flickered. “You see?”
Grier was amused to note his surprise. “Aye. There’s thunder in your brow!”
Rydar shook his head and sighed. “Too much people at McKay house.”
“Too many people? For what?”
“For learning speak. Is…” Rydar waved clawed fingers around his head in frantic motion. “Too much noise. Too much—many—people.”
As frustrated as Rydar was, Grier’s heart lightened at his complaint. “I thought you and Margoh would be alone. Are ye no’?”
“No!” Rydar scoffed. “We are no’ alone.”
All along she pictured Rydar and Margoh snuggled in some secluded corner while the widow murmured in seductive Scots English. The idea of them sitting in the midst of a chaotic household with Rydar struggling to attend the task at hand was a revelation. A pleasant revelation that carried substantial relief.
Rydar poured himself some ale and slumped at the table. Grier bit back her grin and changed the subject.
“Logan is having supper in Durness tonight with Malise and I’ve no mind of what to cook.” She faced her perpetually hungry houseguest. “Is there anything you have a taste for?”
Rydar looked out the window at the mild June evening. “Do no’ cook. We eat cheese, bread, butter. Or boiled eggs. Do no’ trouble for me.”
Her gaze followed his. “Tis a beautiful evening.”
Rydar looked askance at her.
So she asked, “Now what’s amiss?”
His brows lifted. “Might we eat out of keep?”
A slow smile spread her cheeks. “Aye. We might.”
Grier got busy setting atop the table all manner of things they might sup on, while Rydar packed the food in a basket. Grier went upstairs and brought down a blanket for them to sit on. Back in the kitchen, she dug out a bottle of wine from a low cabinet. Rydar’s pale green eyes widened in question.
She grinned. “We’ll celebrate on our own this night. Your Mercat tomorrow will be quite the event!”
Rydar shook his head but looked pleased. “Is no’ my Mercat…”
“How can you say that? You were the one who figured out how to get men working again!”
He pointed at her. “But you tell me I see things right, aye?”
“Aye, and you did. Ye’re very cannie.”
“And we talk first so I ken all are good ideas, aye?”
“Well… aye.”
“And you give me words for I talk to Logan.”
Joy bubbled in Grier’s chest at his multiple affirmations. “I guess we did it together, Viking.”
Rydar smiled his crooked smile. “We are good together.” He lifted the basket.
Grier hugged the blanket happily. The pair walked out to the bluff overlooking Balnakeil Bay. She spread the coverlet over the coarse sea grass and they settled to their casual meal. The lowering sun yellowed the sky like melted butter.
“You’ve been here a month and a half now,” Grier began.
“Aye,” Rydar said with a mouth full of bread and honey.
“How have ye found it?”
Rydar faced the sea, his expression pensive. “Everything is good. Better than Grønnland.”
“You’ve learnt my ‘speak’ quite well,” Grier said.
He looked at her then, his pale eyes turning golden in the slanting sun. “Aye. But is much more.”
“You’ll learn. Give it time.”
Rydar looked down at the cheese and carefully cut himself a chunk while Grier berated herself silently for being so bold. She mustn’t reveal her hope that he’d remain in Durness until he professed feelings for her that went beyond friendship. Whether she would risk opening that door first remained to be determined. For now, she changed the direction of their conversation.
“Do you have any brothers?” Grier poured a cup of the rich red wine and handed it to him.
Rydar’s lopsided grin eased over his cheeks. As he accepted the cup, his fingers brushed hers. “No. My pappa got girls easy. I am only son.”
Grier drew a deep breath, relieved that he was talking. The last time she questioned him about his past, he avoided the conversation by stomping outside into a pounding thunderstorm.
“How many sisters have you?” she asked.
Rydar held up the fingers of his empty hand. “Four. Two more old and two more young.”
“No. My one sister is given to church. She had fourteen years and weak eyes. But a good husband is for my second sister in Norway—before we sail to Grønnland.”
“How many years had she?”
“Thirteen.”
Grier slumped. “Half my age.”
“Your age is good.”
“Hmph.”
Rydar laughed. Grier always found his lopsided grin so charming, though it made him look the knave. She supposed that was part of the Norseman’s appeal.
He continued without her prompting, “I have two young sisters. So I am the one, ye ken? I had my pappa’s hope.”
“So… how does it happen that you were sailing past my home in a storm?”
Rydar’s gaze fell to the ground. He pulled up a stalk of sea grass by its roots and twisted it tightly around his fingers. Grier watched them turn red, and when he unwound the grass there were white grooves in his skin. When he spoke, his voice was rough.
“Grønnland dies.”
She waited. A breeze lifted an errant strand of her hair and tickled her cheek. Annoyed at the distraction, she tugged it over her ear.
“Boats from Norway stop. We do no’ ken Black Death.” He peered at her, his intense green eyes narrowed. “We think we are alone to do. No more help.”
“I see,” she whispered.
“My mamma is dead. And my baby sister. The winters are cold, and they are no’ very strong. First the rheums, then the fever.” Rydar cleared his throat but his voice remained coarse. He looked toward the bay. “We bury Inge in my mamma’s arms.”
Grier watched him surreptitiously while he spoke his pain. His large hands, abraded and calloused from hunting, rested on his thighs. The pink scar on his cheek reddened beneath the beard of his sun-darkened face.
“Was that near past?” she finally asked.
“No. Ten or eleven years, it might be now.”