by Kris Tualla
“And your other sister?” Grier ventured.
“Married at fifteen. Mamma at sixteen. And six times more, though no’ all live after first year.”
That was common. Birth was perilous for mothers, life was perilous for bairns. “And she remains in Greenland?”
“Aye.”
“And your father?”
Rydar wiped his hands on his hose. “Two summers after my mamma.”
“I ken how it feels to lose your parents,” Grier murmured.
Rydar took her hand and squeezed his acknowledgement. “Aye, you do.”
Grier gripped her crucifix through her gown. Another breeze brushed her cheek and she smiled a little this time. Mam.
“In Grønnland, when boats stop, is no’ more hope. So Arne and I make our boat.” Rydar shook his head. “Is all my fault.”
“Your fault?” Grier asked. “How?”
Rydar’s shoulders lifted and fell in a guilty shrug. “My idea. Arne is never in Norway. I tell him things so he comes with me.”
Grier felt Rydar’s failures as if they were her own. She knew what it was to be responsible for another’s life. Or death. Her own failures haunted her at the most unexpected times. But dwelling on the disappointments of the past would stand them no good. Another shift in conversation was needful.
“Rydar, are you—comfortable here?” Grier pulled back from saying ‘happy.’ He had filled out well since she found him, thanks to his insatiable appetite. He was strong and healthy, though of course he still limped.
“Oh, aye. Very,” Rydar assured her. “You are good for me.”
He offered her the last piece of cheese and ate it when she declined. She repacked the basket.
The sun dipped just below the sea beginning her six-hour path below the northern horizon. High clouds glowed sun-orange on one side and moon-silver on the other. Grier lay back on the blanket. Her gown rippled in the temperate breeze.
Rydar stretched out his long frame beside her. He laced his fingers through hers and she lifted their hands to her lips. She kissed each of his knuckles. When she looked up he was watching her.
“What do you want, Rydar?” she whispered.
He shrugged. “What every man wants.”
“That is?”
“I’m thirty on morrow. I want a wife before is late. Bairns. Sons.”
Grier drew slow breaths. “You wish to marry?”
“I always want that.” Rydar ran his free hand through his hair. Then he hitched up on one elbow and looked down at Grier. His expression was somber but his jade eyes burned into hers. He ran one thumb from her forehead, around behind her ear, and along her jaw.
“I never see hair like yours,” he whispered.
Grier reached up reflexively. “Ye mean curly?”
The lopsided grin reappeared. “I mean fire. Looks like fire. Moves like fire.” He stroked his fingers through it, tangling a little in its mass. “Beautiful like fire.”
Grier licked her lips in invitation and Rydar accepted. Grier turned her body toward him and he pulled her close. She pressed against as much of his length as she could, and ran her hands over the rest of him.
That kiss was followed by another. And then another. The earth seemed to shift beneath her and she held him tighter. The taste and feel of him exploded in her senses, until nothing else existed. Not the bluff, not the castle, not the sea. She floated in a cloud of his earthy scent.
Rydar leaned over her and draped one leg across hers; his knee rested between hers. She felt him harden against her thigh and she warmed in response. Little hums of pleasure escaped her. And him.
When his hand inched upward from her waist and brushed her breast, she gasped at the searing sensation. She tightened her grip on Rydar’s doublet. Reason was leaving her, and swiftly.
With a grunt, Rydar broke away from her. The lips buried in his beard were reddened and his breath was tattered. He rolled away from her and flopped on his back, limbs splayed. His jaw rippled and clenched. His throat rolled as he swallowed.
Grier stared at him, her breath uneven and her body trembling. She couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the bulge in his braies with guilty regret. Her cheeks flamed.
Rydar’s voice was quiet and strained. “I push too hard, aye?”
Though pierced by disappointment and embarrassed at her body’s wanton eagerness, what could she say? He was being a gentleman and ignoring his own need. Not claiming more than a kiss. Not taking his own pleasure because she was a virgin. Even if she wanted to lay with him, which she began to believe she did.
She shook her head. “I pushed you as well. I’m sorry.”
“No sorry, Grier. I am man, aye? I care for you.”
Grier smiled a little and touched his face. “Aye.”
Rydar sucked a lungful of air and hissed it out slowly. After several minutes of silence, he took her hand in his again, as if to atone. They both faced the sky as orange disappeared from the clouds, leaving only the moon’s silver reflection on their southern faces. Then Grier turned to him and propped on her elbow.
“Why did you no’ marry in Greenland?”
One corner of his mouth jerked up. “The women are no’ to my liking.”
Grier considered that unexpected comment. “What sort of woman is?” she ventured.
“Strong,” was his first response. Grier’s heart thumped her ribs hopefully. “No’ sickly. Strong body and mind. Able to do and think.”
“The women there, they fell ill?”
“Aye. Or die birthing.”
“That happens everywhere.”
Rydar faced her. “I ken. But they can no’ read or scribe. They do no’ care. Life is too hard.”
“It felt like that here, these past years,” Grier admitted.
“But you did no’ fall.” Rydar’s smile caught her heart and held on to it. “You sae strong, Grier. I say that afore, aye?”
She turned toward the bay, hoping her heated flush was disguised by the dimly purple light from the sky. Whether she felt strong or not, Rydar thought she was. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she had more strength than she realized. She would think more about that when her emotions were less scattered.
“I need wife who gives sons. Whole house of sons!” he added after a pace.
“Do you no’ care what she looks like?” she could not stop herself from asking, though her gut warned her she would regret it.
He rubbed his eyes. “Well… Aye, I do. A comely lass.”
Grier received the blow she anticipated and winced with the hit. She had never considered herself ‘comely.’ At best she thought she was ‘passable.’ Spending time styling her hair or sewing the latest fashions from London, or even Edinburgh, seemed a waste of time. Life here in Balnakeil Bay was simple. So was she.
But the elegant Margoh was always finely dressed and never had a lock of her beautiful blond hair out of place. Grier’s mood plummeted at the thought of the very attractive, very aggressive, very available widow.
“What do you find comely?” she asked suddenly. “Tall? Blond?” She may as well have rubbed salt in a blister as to ask such a question.
Rydar considered her then, his expression bemused. “Why you ask?”
“I was only making conversation.” Grier turned back to the sea, her face tight.
“I can no’ marry now. First, I get my land,” he stated. His tone allowed no space for argument.
Unlike their companionable silence earlier, this silence was cold and sliced in moon-silvered shards. Grier shivered.
“There’s land here,” she tossed at him. “Quite a lot of it.”
Rydar hesitated, staring toward the constant motion of the restless waves. Moonlight flickered on the water like a legion of silver candles.
“Aye,” he said finally. “That there is.”
Chapter Eighteen
Rydar grunted, strained, spurted and woke.
With a hissed curse he rolled to his back realizing that, once again, he dreamt that the soft, f
ragrant mattress beneath him was Grier. And once again, he deflowered his sheets.
Skitt!
The woman haunted his mind and his body. With her fire hair, ocean eyes, earthy figure and determination as forceful as the wind, she personified all the natural elements. He was drawn to her in every way a man could be drawn to a woman and he couldn’t deny it. Truthfully, he had no care to deny it. Truthfully he wanted to slip silently into her chamber, climb naked under her bedclothes and follow the lusty path of his dreams.
She would accept him, if her recent behavior was an indication. Something between them had changed. Grier treated him as if she would welcome his courting, should he choose to pursue her. He knew that if he were in her bed right now, she would take him in without hesitation and give him her maidenhood freely. Rydar had no idea how he could be so certain of this.
But he was.
Sheets aside, he had never deflowered anyone and he wasn’t about to start now, no matter how attracted he was to his lively rescuer. He expended more effort than he believed himself capable of to halt his seduction of her on the bluff this evening.
But he was puzzled by her reaction; was her question about ‘comeliness’ intended to prompt a compliment? He didn’t think so. She wasn’t the sort of woman to lead a man that way. So why did she mention Margoh’s attributes specifically? Might Grier be envious of the older woman?
Was it possible that Grier didn’t know how beautiful she was?
Rydar grew up surrounded by tall blond women; that sort no longer attracted his attention. But copper curls, womanly curves and sapphire eyes did. And it was helpful that this striking package contained a clever, kind and feisty female. Rydar knew men who grew bored with their wives; Grier would keep a man interested for a lifetime and beyond.
If, he clarified, a man was interested in marriage to begin with.
Interested or not, his thoughts persistently wended a path back to Grier.
Back to her kisses. Back to the feel of her body against his. Her warm, firm and eager body. She made him feel so solid, so strong and so capable. After the crush of his multiple failures, those were heady sensations, indeed.
What about love? Love could keep him in Scotland. Though that idea was once unthinkable, should he perhaps consider it?
“Not tonight,” he mumbled. “Perhaps after tomorrow’s Mercat is past.”
On the eve of the solstice, the night sky through the window was pale purple and glowed pink along the northern horizon. He kicked off his covers and limped to the hearth by its dim light. Before he could sleep he needed again to put out the demanding fire that Grier always set ablaze inside him.
June 20, 1354
Logan drove his cart into town early the next morning after firmly stating that he, Grier and Rydar would be too tired by the time the festivities ended to walk the mile back to the castle.
“And possibly a bit plaistert, truth be told!” He gave Rydar’s elbow a conspiratorial nudge.
Rydar grinned; he was in the mood for cutting loose. Getting a little drunk sounded appealing and it might numb the memory of Grier’s intoxicating kisses and the scorching caress of her skin.
Fertile clouds obscured the sky and spat annoyingly at the Solstice Mercat crowd as merchants settled their trestles and tents along the cobbled artery of Durness. Rydar wandered amongst them, awed by the variety of merchants and their exotic wares.
Well, they were exotic to him at any rate. Grønnland never offered such an array of choices! Brass workers unwrapped elaborate candlesticks. Silversmiths polished plates and chalices. Bags of pungent, oily fleece filled several wagons. White crocheted lace lay draped over tables. Casks of ale were tapped, releasing their yeasty enticements. Spices he couldn’t identify colored the air. Fires tied aromatic ribbons of smoke around hissing shanks of lamb and whole stuffed pheasants.
Three unexpected merchants arrived to join the Mercat. One unloaded crates of protesting chickens—and one cocky and colorful rooster. Another drove a cart stacked with multihued bolts of woven wool that still reeked of bitter dyes. The third presented alluring trays of gold- and silver-set jewels. Rydar fingered a few delicate items that evoked faint recollections of his mother. He wondered if there were still any Hansen jewels remaining in Norway.
Each merchant paid Rydar their tippence and he helped them find an empty bit of street on which to set up their staunds. He gave Logan four pence and put the other two in his pouch. Then, ignoring the ever-present pain in his left shin, he ambled through the growing crowd, stopping at each staund, and chatting as best he was able with the business men—or women—who displayed their wares for sale.
Someone grabbed his arm and he looked down to see the rounded swells of Margoh’s bosom pressed against him. Her finger lifted and traced a languorous circle on his chest.
“Where did you get such a unique doublet? I’ve never seen fabric like this before.”
Rydar pushed her hand away. “Grier made it for me. Nothing in the keep fit me well.”
Margoh wrinkled her nose, annoyed. “Well, she has an interesting sense of style, doesn’t she? Will you walk with me?”
He shook his head. “No. I must make certain the merchants are all satisfied.”
She pulled a face, spun and sauntered away, hips swaying, obviously assuming he was watching. Which, of course, he was.
Until she walked past Grier and his gaze rose to meet hers. Grier’s eyes softened and her mouth curved in a smile that heated him far more than Margoh’s touch ever could. He saw his own desires mirrored in her eyes.
Grier turned and walked away from him. Her arse swung naturally, as it always did. Her curls caressed her straight back. Rydar’s couldn’t command his gaze to release her. If only he might somehow bed the virgin, and not only in his dreams.
He pulled a penny from his pouch. Resigned, he made his way toward the brewer’s tent.
***
Grier walked among the stalls with Logan and Malise, one arm looped through the girl’s. Distracted from the displays, she replayed in her mind the vision of Rydar standing against Margoh. The jillet fondled his chest, fingered his clothes and batted her lashes at the Viking. Her behavior robbed strength from Grier’s hopes.
She saw him now, limping through the crowd. So tall—a head above most—and robust. Striking in his Nordic-god looks. When his gaze zigged over the Mercat crowd, Grier ducked behind a canvas; somehow she knew he was searching for her. She couldn’t risk him seeing her desperate devotion before she hid it away.
“Here, Malise.” She picked up a piece of lace. “This looks like the piece you showed me, does it no’?”
Malise’s expression brightened. “Aye! It does that!” She pulled Logan further into the tent. Helping Malise look for lace provided an opportunity to deepen her friendship with the next lady of Durness Castle, undoubtedly a wise path. Malise was less likely to banish a useful companion.
Companion.
“Aye. There’s my prospect in a word,” Grier muttered.
She gazed down the line of tents and trestles. The street was full of people strolling, chatting, eating, buying, selling. An easy rumble of conversation stippled with laughter rolled toward her. She stayed in the lace tent, peeking out between its canvas flaps. Rydar limped up the street toward the brewer’s tent, alone. Whatever Margoh expected had obviously not reached fruition.
Grier sighed her relief.
There was still hope.
***
Might I stay in Scotland?
The possibility rolled through Rydar’s mind endlessly that day. He sought solace in the brewer’s tent to rest his leg and ponder that question. Grier was a powerful incentive to stay. He knew the feisty redhead would be a fit companion for the rest of his days, one he would enjoy and never tire of.
Beside that, the obstacles between him and his journey lived and breathed and taunted him with the futility of his quest. He was torn between what stood before him here—a woman warm and desirable—and what might no l
onger await him in Norway.
When the sun came out after midday, he wandered the street again, the question still unanswered. The Fair’s crowd, loosened by successful trade, copious ale and random sunshine, gathered around a brightly-dressed bard. The dwarf stood on a wooden box and sang, recited poetry, and entertained with tales of William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, and their current king, David II. Rydar laughed at what he understood and joined in the play, challenging the bard to a mock battle.
A roar erupted when the diminutive man hopped off his perch and swaggered toward his giant opponent. With a few wild actions, Rydar threatened and then ‘spared’ the stranger’s life. The enthusiastic crowd, he was quite pleased to note, included a clapping and laughing Grier. Rydar bowed to her, acting her champion. She rewarded him with a chaste kiss on his cheek.
As the day aged, Rydar purchased three roasted pheasant legs, grilled neeps and pot of cider, and searched out a quiet spot at the far end of the main street to sit and eat and think. He found a soft patch of sandy ground, and rested his sore leg.
Today was a very good day. Durness was a very good place. Grier was a remarkable woman. Perhaps it was no accident at all that he washed ashore here.
Should I stay in Scotland?
It was fairly obvious that plague was the reason the ships stopped coming to Grønnland; the years lined up aright. Might he make his way back to Arendal only to find that his family was gone and someone else now held Hansen Hall? Might he find he was displaced from his ancestral home just as Grier would be from hers?
In truth, it was very likely.
Rydar drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly. But what if some of my family survived? If so, he had a place there. A position and a future. And he needed to fulfill his promise to Arne. If he remained here, then Arne died for nothing. He couldn’t betray his best friend in that manner.
But how could he leave Grier?
***
By the time the sun had circled half the sky and rested lower, Grier found Rydar sitting under a tree, holding a denuded bone and an empty cider pot. She thought of how he looked when he singled her out in the bard’s crowd; when he bowed to her, then lifted his chin and met her gaze, his laughing green eyes framed by gold-streaked hair curving around his bearded jaw. He looked so incredibly handsome in the tunic she made for him, and playing the knight of her dreams, that she couldn’t help but kiss him. She wanted to shout, how I love you, you silly Viking!