Loving the Norseman: Book 1: Rydar & Grier (The Hansen Series - Rydar & Grier and Eryndal & Andrew)

by Kris Tualla

  God knew, she had alleviated his.

  Kristofer, Lars and Gavin appeared and Grier handed out the generous meat pies. She served them all apple cider and fresh pears. Afterwards, Rydar led her up the ladder into the boat and showed her the day’s progress. As she always did, she praised his handiwork and his dedication.

  He wished again that he knew what she held in her heart. But he didn’t dare ask her; he couldn’t risk swaying her choice here, should things go badly for him at home in Arendal. He would never forgive himself for putting her in the midst of that sort of treacherous situation. No, he must be patient. He must wait for her to come around. In the meantime, he would remain as attentive, as helpful and as close to her as he was able.

  Rain clouds gathered that afternoon and cooled the men. So when Rydar climbed out of the boat to retrieve another finished plank he was surprised to see Margoh standing with the young men, chatting rapidly in Norse. Her steely gray gaze shifted to him and cut the pleasant greeting from his mouth. She folded her arms and waited in silence for the boys to get on with their work, and for him to approach.

  “Welcome, Lady Henriksen.”

  Margoh’s blue-gray eyes flicked to the inquisitive faces of Kristofer and Gavin, then to Lars who popped over the edge of the boat behind them. She looped her arm through Rydar’s and tugged him across the sandy chyngell toward the waves’ edge.

  “Where have you been these past two weeks?” she demanded once they were away from the curious young men. “And what in the name of Thor are you doing?”

  “Do you refer to the boat?” Rydar asked coolly.

  “I don’t know! Do I?” Margoh countered. She stopped walking and turned to face him. “I haven’t seen you since the Mercat Fair. You haven’t come for lessons. What am I to think?”

  Rydar gripped Margoh’s shoulders. “You’re to think that I’m a lucky man!”

  Margoh’s brow crinkled. “Why?”

  “Because Rabbie Campbell died of the plague!”

  Margoh knocked Rydar’s hands from her shoulders then swung her tight fist hard into his arm, stinging his skin and most likely leaving a bruise. “If you don’t tell me right now, Rydar Hansen, you’ll feel my knee next and it won’t be in your thigh!”

  Rydar lifted one annoyed brow, refusing to rub the twinge from his arm. “Rabbie died before he finished his boat. Now I’m finishing it—with the help of those three fishermen—and by the end of the month I’ll sail home.”

  Margoh’s jaw dropped. She spun around to look at the boat, then spun back to face him.

  “You mean to Norway?”

  “Yes, of course, to Norway. To Arendal specifically.”

  She stared at him, blinking with increased rapidity. “Take me with you!” she blurted.

  Rydar fell back. “What?”

  Margoh reached for his wrists and sunk her nails into them. “Take me to Norway with you, Rydar.”

  He had not believed her when she first mentioned accompanying him, back when he was injured, had no money, and no visible means to accomplish the sea travel. He assumed her words were merely part of her attempted seduction.

  “You were serious about this?” Rydar asked.

  Margoh’s grip tightened. “Why wouldn’t I be? There is nothing for me here!”

  “What is for you there?” he demanded.

  “Family. Cousins of my husband.” Her voice was rising in pitch. “They are in Áslo.”

  Rydar was too stunned to think of a response other than, “How far is that from Arendal?”

  Her shoulders jerked up. “I—I don’t know.”

  “Once I reach Arendal I am giving these boys the boat in exchange for their labor,” Rydar explained. He pulled his wrists from her grasp and dragged his fingers through his hair. “How might you—”

  “I don’t know!” Margoh shrieked.

  Rydar stared at her, and then looked away. He shook his head in surprise, losing the words of any language

  “Rydar, please! Give me a chance to work these things out! I’ve only just now heard of your plans,” she pleaded with considerable force.

  Rydar looked at her again. Her desperation was clearly etched in the deepening lines of her face. She looked old, tired. But what was her intent? Was she desperate to leave Durness? Or to get to Norway? Or to be with him?

  “Margoh,” he began.

  She stepped closer and pressed her fingers to his lips. “I know what you’re going to say, Rydar. You said no promises. You said the risk was mine. Am I right?” Her fingers drifted away from his mouth.

  Rydar’s jaw rippled. “Yes.”

  “All I’m asking for is to sail with you.” She looked up at him with wide gray eyes that matched the rain clouds above. “Please, Rydar. I want to start my life over again somewhere else. Before it’s too late and my chances have flown.”

  Rydar tried to think, but his heart was screaming so loud, what about Grier? that no reasonable thoughts would form. Something of his reluctance must have shown because Margoh paled and her chin quivered.

  “Don’t say ‘no’ yet. Think about it,” she whispered. “I beg this of you.”

  Rydar was in a tight corner. To deny Margoh because he hoped Grier might declare her love and accompany him might very well leave both of the women stranded. At the least he could consider Margoh’s request.

  “I promise to think about it, Margoh. But the boat is small and the journey will not be comfortable,” he warned.

  “I understand. Thank you.” Margoh slipped her fingers into Rydar’s hair and pulled his head down to hers. She kissed him quickly. He jerked away.

  “I’m not part of the bargain,” he growled.

  “Yet,” she claimed before turning in the direction of her home.

  Rydar ignored the three pair of impressed male eyes who had witnessed two beautiful women kiss him in as many hours. He squinted at the darkening clouds and called an end to the day. Without the sun it was hard to be sure of the time, and he was bone tired and sore. Before he left, he reminded the boys that on the morrow he would hunt and they would labor without him.

  On the ride back to the keep—as truthfully happened every day—Rydar felt enveloping relief as he drew closer to Grier. She was a candle and he was a moth. Or she was a magnet and he was steel. Or she was a beautiful, bright, talented and warm woman.

  And he was very much a lonely man.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  July 8, 1354

  Grier rode toward the keep after another painful afternoon spent watching Rydar work on his boat. She would not have counted it possible, but the man grew more glorious with each completed day. Blessed by hours of sun, his skin grew bronze and his hair gilded with streaks of shining gold. Holding still he looked like a pagan statue.

  As he worked, Rydar’s bare arms and back glistened with sweat, enhancing each groove and bulge of his straining muscles. Lifting boards, carrying planks, drilling peg holes and pounding in the dowels required considerable effort.

  Fitting the pieces into a waterproof vessel without causing leaks was tight work, he explained to her. If a board was short-cut, it must be remade and the work redone. But now they were starting on the cabins and the shorter planks could find a use.

  Rydar always seemed so glad to see her. His lopsided smile flashed brilliantly when she approached and he stopped what he was doing to meet her. When she looked into his pale green eyes, she felt as though she was exactly where she belonged.

  If only he could feel the same about her.

  Grier wondered at times if all of her efforts were wasted. Even though she brought him delicious meals, fussed over his boat, complimented his skills and accomplishments, and kissed him tenderly before leaving, he did not seem to understand how much she cared for him.

  “I want to go with you, ye contermacious Viking!” she muttered. “I love ye and I want to make your life into my life as well!”

  An uncomfortable thought occurred to her: might it be that he thought she was glad he
was leaving? And that was why she was so enthusiastic about the boat?

  She shook her head. “If ye think that, Norseman, then ye’re more stupit than even I can fathom!”

  Lost in her thoughts, Grier let Raven set his own pace back to the castle. She paid him no mind until he snorted, tossed his head and sidestepped across the wood bridge. She reined him in and looked to see what had upset her mount.

  Tethered outside her stable stood a huge gray war horse. He wore a massive leather and wood saddle glinting with polished metal trim. Beside the fierce-looking stallion was a dark brown gelding of similar size and trappings. Grier dismounted and handed Raven off to her young groom. When she asked who had arrived, he shrugged.

  Grier walked toward the keep, wondering why anyone so obviously wealthy and powerful would bother to ride as far north as little Durness Castle. Both of the huge animals swung their heads toward her and watched her passage with interest. They shifted their enormous iron-clad hooves as if eager to be moving on.

  In the Great Hall, a man stood with his back to the doorway. Broad-shouldered and tall—though not so tall as Rydar—he was powerfully built and finely dressed. Over a black velvet tunic he wore a purple silk mantle stitched with a raised pattern of gold and red threads. Knee-high leather boots over black hose enhanced the massive muscles of his long legs. He turned at the sound of her footfalls, and tugged black leather gloves from his fingers.

  He tilted his head and dipped his chin. “Madam? Is the laird of this castle to be found?”

  Grier’s mouth flapped stupidly, for the moment silenced by the imperious stranger. The mantle was clasped across his chest with gold-set jewels. The crow-black hair tied at his nape was completely free of gray, and his eyes shifted from green to gold to brown and back again as light played over them. She managed a slight bow.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I am Lady Grier MacInnes, mistress of the castle for my cousin, Laird Logan Roy MacDavid.”

  The man’s mouth tugged up at one corner while his eyes swept over her, openly curious. “I’m no one’s ‘highness’ my lady. Merely a loyal knight and courtier to our King David.”

  “Oh!” Grier stepped forward. “And is he freed, then?”

  The man considered his limp gloves. “Ach, no. He remains in the Tower of London, a prisoner of the English king, Edward III.”

  “But it’s eight years since he attacked England on behalf of France!” Grier exclaimed.

  “Aye, ’tis true. I would expect Edward to kill him or free him, but he’s done neither.”

  “What stays his hand, do ye think?”

  The knight tilted his head at Grier and seemed to be re-evaluating her. She felt her face heating at her own outspokenness, and self-consciously smoothed the skirt of her plain woolen gown. If only she had dressed better before seeking out her guest.

  “There is talk of a generous ransom, my lady,” he answered.

  “God save King David,” Grier murmured and crossed herself.

  The courtier slapped his gloves against one palm. “Aye. He will.”

  Grier lifted her chin and stood straight as befitted her station. “And you are, Sir?”

  Boot heels clacked together and he bowed slightly. “Lord Andrew Drummond.”

  “And how might we be of service to you, my Lord?” Grier asked.

  “It has been my duty these past months to travel the northern lands and assess Scotland’s strengths—now that the plague is past—on behalf of our King.” Lord Andrew’s commanding voice rumbled like North Sea waves, powerful and deep.

  Grier frowned. “So you have spoken to him?”

  “Many times, my lady. The road from Stirling to London grows quite wearisome.”

  Lord Andrew’s expression lost its charm then, and he suddenly looked as tired as he must be. Durness was over two hundred miles from Stirling, and London over four hundred miles further south. And Lord Andrew had obviously not traveled a straight path, as he described his particular mission. Grier felt the weight of his weariness as if it was her own.

  “There are two horses?” She waved one hand toward the door.

  “My vassal.”

  “Of course.” Grier turned as a younger man appeared in the doorway, dressed much like his knight; without the jewels but with obvious weaponry. He looked very much like a blond Logan.

  “Kennan, this is Lady MacInnes, our hostess,” Lord Andrew said before Grier could speak.

  Another pair of puzzled eyes, these gray, passed over her. He bowed. “My Lady.”

  Grier nodded her greeting. “If you gentleman will please be comfortable, I’ll see to your food and your lodgings.”

  “My thanks, Lady MacInnes.” Andrew’s golden eyes sparkled with something surprising that Grier couldn’t name.

  ***

  “Moira!” Grier ran out the keep’s kitchen door to the yard. “Moira, come quickly!”

  “What’s amiss, Lady?” Moira appeared, breathless and red-cheeked.

  “We’ve guests! A courtier from King David!” Grier blurted.

  Moira looked like she might swoon. “A true courtier? Whatever’s he doing here?”

  “Assessing for the King. And he’s got a man with him. They’ll both be lodging in the keep. We’ve got a heap to do and quickly!” Grier glanced around. “Can you bring your mither and your brothers straight away, then?”

  “Aye!” The maid turned to go but faced Grier again, frowning. “And where will we put them?”

  Grier wouldn’t allow herself time to think about her answer. “Lord Andrew will stay in the master’s bedchamber.”

  Moira backed away, her eyes wide. “Your Da’s chamber?”

  Grier stepped forward and grabbed the girl’s arm, shaking it as she spoke. “There’s no plague nor shades in there, do ye understand?”

  “Yes, Lady.” She gave a wee nod.

  Grier let go of her arm. “Now go! We’ve a darg to do and little time to do it!”

  “Yes, Lady!” Moira ran toward her family’s cottage.

  Grier hurried back into the kitchen and prepared a light meal of smoked meat, cheese, bread and butter, pears, wine and ale. She carried a tray into the formal dining room, then collected her guests and sat them in there.

  “Supper is a few hours away, yet. I thought ye might be famished. If you’ll excuse me, Lord Andrew, I’ll go see to your chamber.”

  “Aye. My thanks again, Lady MacInnes.” Once more his golden-brown eyes glittered with something beyond Grier’s reach, though it was not at all unpleasant. She stared at him longer than was seemly, until his brow wrinkled curiously.

  Her face grew warm. Giving him a slight bow, she departed the room with haste.

  It required two full hours, and five pair of hands, to dust and mop out the master’s chamber. The old sheets were stripped and burned, the mattress re-stuffed, and made up with clean sheets. Everything in the room was washed until it shone. Grier was exhausted even with all the extra help.

  Moira’s mother was pressed into her previous role as the keep’s cook and she went to the kitchen to begin the formal meal. The triplets dragged the copper tub upstairs and filled it so that Lord Andrew might soak away his road-weariness. Grier escaped into her own chamber to wash as best she could and dress herself appropriately for her important guest.

  When she lifted a brown velvet gown from the bottom of her chest, she struggled to hold back the tears that clawed at her throat all afternoon. It was hard enough to be forced to remove any trace of her parents’ presence that lingered in their chamber, but now to don the dress that was to be her wedding attire approached the limit of what she could withstand. She knelt on the floor of her room, the rich fabric clutched against her cheek, eyes closed, waiting.

  Waiting for what?

  She hadn’t any idea. Her life this day was a mass of confusion.

  Logan would marry in less than two weeks. Rydar worked from dawn to dusk either hunting or finishing a boat to sail away on. And now a stranger—a handsome,
traveled and wealthy courtier—landed unexpectedly on her doorstep. And he smiled at her like no man ever had.

  Her befuddled reverie was disturbed by heavy footsteps outside her door.

  Logan!

  Grier jumped up and slipped the gown over her head. The long sleeves flared outward, as did the hemline, which lengthened to a small train in back. She dug out a cream-colored silk snood trimmed in silver threads to tame her rebellious hair, and a silver-linked belt to accentuate her waist. She pulled her crucifix from inside her gown and let it hang against her breast as ornamentation.

  With a sigh and a shrug, she went after Logan to explain what had occurred.

  ***

  Rydar opened the door to Rabbie Campbell’s house and leaned his head inside. The cottage smelled damp and stale, and a thick layer of undisturbed dust coated every surface. Apparently no one had entered the house after Rabbie made his final exit. Rydar walked through the parlor room and into the kitchen. Dirty bowls and abandoned food, long since turned to colorless rock-like bits, rested on the table. A rusty pot hung in the fireplace. Beside the hearth, a ladder poked through an opening in the low ceiling. Most likely that was where Rabbie slept, warmed by the kitchen fire.

  I won’t find what I’m looking for up there, I don’t expect.

  Rydar opened a door at the far side of the kitchen. The tiny room was windowless and appeared to be the larder. A side of bacon hung from the roof, dirty and dry. Not at all the sort of place to store iron fittings for a boat. Rydar closed that door and returned to the parlor.

  It might be he should search the outbuilding yet again; perhaps he overlooked them the first time. It was, after all, the logical place to store such things.

  “That would be assuming Rabbie lived long enough to have the fittings made,” Rydar muttered. He stood in the front room and considered the mess that surrounded him. Nothing but overturned chairs, a table, sideboard, an empty chest, and rolled up carpet covered in a linen sheet.