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

by Kris Tualla

  “Aye,” he said. He daren’t look at Grier, afraid of revealing how much he desired her company on his journey. “I go after wedding, of course.”

  “Good!” Malise grinned. “I know Aunt Margoh will want you there as well!”

  Rydar wondered if it was his imagination, or if Grier stiffened at the mention of Margoh’s name. He bounced a quick glance to see if anyone at the table seemed to notice. No one else was looking at her. It occurred to him, then, that he hadn’t answered Margoh’s request to sail to Norway with him. Time grew short; he must decide.

  “This little castle is interesting.” Andrew’s words jerked Rydar’s attention back into the room. “But other than providing a deterrent to invading sailors from the northern lands,” he smiled condescendingly at Rydar, “how else might these lands serve King David?”

  Another change of direction. Rydar waited to see who might speak first.

  “Three months back and we’d be in a sorry state for sure,” Logan began. “But Sir Hansen managed to bring together the remaining merchants of Durness for a Mercat Fair.”

  “And the surrounding lands, do no’ forget!” Grier added.

  Rydar startled. Did he hear pride in her tone? Was that over him?

  Logan nodded. “Aye, that he did.”

  The knight didn’t look at Rydar. “And this was successful?”

  “Very!” Logan enthused. “We had thirty-two staunds. And considering how many are gone now, that’s a right fine number.”

  Rydar felt his cheeks warming with embarrassment and shame. In truth, he had not helped create the fair simply to benefit the town, as Logan made it seem. Besides the unpredictable hunting, the mercat was the only path that he had yet come across to fund his journey. Helping the merchants of Durness was simply an added bounty.

  Lord Andrew drained his wine goblet and set it carefully in front of his platter. “But Sir Rydar is taking his boat and going to Norway,” he said deliberately.

  “And the Mercat Fair will return. I’ll see to it, myself. It was a whappin success for everyone!” Logan answered. His forceful declamation relieved Rydar’s uneasy conscience a bit.

  “That’s braw, Logan. King David thanks ye for your loyal support.” The courtier considered Grier, then. He looked intently at her. “And what of you, my lady?”

  “And what of me?” Grier asked; her impudent tone reflected her visible confusion.

  Now Rydar’s attention was nailed to the man. This would be the knight’s pivotal move. His attempt to corner the queen.

  “Your laird will marry and bring new life into the castle. Your guest returns to his home, but not before creating a mercat to awaken local commerce after the Death.”

  “Aye.” Grier glanced at Logan and Rydar, then faced Andrew again. “And?”

  The knight leaned his elbows on the table and laced his fingers. The way his eyes traveled over Grier made Rydar wish to challenge the man with his long sword before the next course was served. He gripped the arms of his chair to hold himself in his seat.

  “And what have you to offer your king, Lady Grier?” Andrew murmured.

  Grier shoved her hands into her lap and straightened in her seat. “My loyalty, of course, Lord Andrew.”

  “Is there no’ more?” the courtier pressed.

  Grier lifted her chin. “I served him well during the Death and beyond. He has plenty more subjects now, than he’d have without my assistance, and ‘tis true!” she exclaimed. “What else should he require of me?”

  Lord Andrew stared hard at Grier, his expression unreadable. Grier didn’t move. Logan cleared his throat. Rydar allowed a half smile, proud of the lively woman beside him.

  “Ye’ve considerable strength, Lady Grier.” Andrew leaned back in his chair. “I think there’s much more ye might offer. I shall have to remain here until I discover exactly what that might entail.”

  He addressed Logan, though he still stared at Grier. “Will that suit you, Laird MacDavid?”

  Logan nodded. “Aye, of course, Lord Andrew. As ye wish.”

  There it was: the knight’s move. And the queen was adeptly cornered.

  Then Rydar silently cursed his boat—and his destiny—for requiring him to leave the castle every day. He cursed his limited language here. He cursed Grier’s beguiling beauty, her strength, and her friendship. He cursed Lord Andrew for his obvious interest in her.

  And above all, he cursed his unwillingness to risk her prospects and ask her outright to journey with him.

  ***

  Grier undressed in her room, amazed that her limbs held the strength to do so. She expected to simply crumple to her sheets once her duties as hostess were, at the last, completed. Lord Andrew was comfortably ensconced in the master chamber. Kennan had Rydar’s former pallet in the Great Hall. On the morrow the pair would ride forth and explore the town of Durness. Once they assessed the village, they would ride further afield seeking farms and crofters. No holding was too small, apparently, to escape King David’s attention.

  And Andrew would stay to press his cause with her, whatever that cause may be.

  Grier climbed into her bed and lay back on her pillow. She closed her eyes and thought of how Rydar looked when he appeared in the doorway for supper. His gold-streaked hair was combed and tucked behind his ears, and hung below his jaw. He wore her father’s best doublet, the light blue velvet that was pleated with pearls; the color turned his light green eyes nearly turquoise.

  Standing so very tall in the dining room entry, he was more magnificent than she had yet seen him. Strong and healthy, with good color. His hard-muscled legs were visible through the tight knit hose and his broad shoulders strained the fabric of the tunic. As he sat down beside her, she smelt the flowered soap.

  When he reached for her hand, she felt whole. Her heart jigged in her chest and her belly warmed. Rydar was the most compelling man she had ever met. She loved him completely and wished to tell him so.

  Perhaps she should. Perhaps it was time.

  A scratching at her door made her spirit sag. She was far too exhausted to attend a birth, that being the usual call in mid-night. But duty determinedly pried her eyes open and obligation shoved her out of bed.

  “Coming,” she mumbled, reaching for the door’s latch.

  Rydar stood outside her door. The doublet gone, his untied linen shirt billowed atop his braies and hose. His feet were bare. As his gaze raked over her body, she realized that she wore nothing but her shift. Whirling toward her bed, she yanked a blanket and wrapped it around her.

  “What do ye need? Are ye ill?” she managed. Her cheeks must be glowing they were so hot.

  “I come in?” he whispered, and shot a meaningful look toward the master chamber.

  “Aye,” she whispered in return and backed away from the portal.

  Rydar slipped into the room and silently closed the door. He moved toward Grier’s open window where the pale summer’s night sky glowed a hazy pinkish gray. She followed, curious.

  “What is it, Rydar?”

  He frowned a little. “Lord Andrew? Might no’ be good, aye?”

  Grier was surprised at that assessment. “What do you mean?”

  “He is sae… uh… skitt!” Rydar combed his fingers through his hair and tried again. “Smiles too much, aye? He thinks he kens too much.”

  “Oh! Too sure of himself, is he?” Grier tried not to grin.

  “Aye.” Rydar’s face twisted in frustration. “He is… ruffian.”

  “Ruffian?” Grier repeated in disbelief. “No, Rydar, Lord Andrew is the hintside of a ruffian, I assure you! He’s a courtier of the king.”

  “No’ ruffian in what he does.” Rydar waved his hands as he tried to explain himself. “Ruffian in what he brings. To you.”

  Grier tugged at the blanket, though it sagged lower on her body and covered less of her. “Ruffian in what he brings to me… What do ruffians bring? Danger?” Her eyes widened. “Do you think Lord Andrew is dangerous?”

  �
��No’ to all,” Rydar clarified. “To you.”

  “Me?” Grier gazed up into his eyes. In the dim light they were unusually dark and intense. He stood close to her and she could feel the warmth of his sun-burnt skin. She still smelt the flower soap on him. “How is he a danger to me?” she whispered.

  Rydar’s gaze fell down her body. He slowly lifted a hand and cupped one breast that the blanket had abandoned. His thumb brushed its tip through her gown, setting it on fire.

  “You sae beautiful. He takes you,” he murmured.

  Grier froze at Rydar’s touch. Her heart exploded and she couldn’t breathe. She let go of the blanket and it tumbled around her ankles.

  Rydar’s gaze met hers then. He wasn’t smiling; he looked angry.

  “You think I’m beautiful?” she rasped.

  “Aye.” The word was choked.

  Grier threw her arms around Rydar. The winey taste of his tongue intoxicated her. He lifted her off the ground and she wrapped her legs around his hips without thinking about it. His heat was caught between them, hard and damp against the fabric of her shift. A fluid urgency spread outward from that spot and set her aflame. His deep, soft moan rumbled in her ear and she answered with one of her own. Her body demanded that she take him to her bed.

  Now.

  “Rydar…” she murmured against his lips.

  He suddenly lifted her away from him, almost dropping her on the floor. She tripped on the blanket and staggered back. He grabbed her elbow to keep her from falling.

  “Å min Gud!” He let go of her and backed away.

  “Rydar, wait…” Grier pleaded.

  “No!” He splayed his hands in front of his chest. “I no’ a ruffian. I no’ take you.”

  “But—”

  “No, Grier!” he growled. He truly was angry now. His eyes were black holes and his body vibrated with wrath. He jabbed himself with a thumb. Each word came out louder than the one before it. “I better than that!”

  Grier grabbed the window’s ledge. She shook with desire and desperate disappointment, and determined not to stare at the stiff appendage tenting Rydar’s braies.

  He came to warn her of a danger and he refused to become that same danger to her. He was right; he acted the gentleman.

  What might he do if she professed her love for him?

  “Rydar,” she began. Her nerves failed and the words strangled her.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Grier.”

  “I—I have something to tell you…”

  Rydar stiffened. “And I you.”

  Grier blinked. “What?”

  Rydar’s mouth twitched and he took several breaths as though to speak. His hands moved to his hips and his brows bunched. When he finally spoke, she had to strain to hear him.

  “I find Rabbie’s sail.”

  Grier’s legs buckled. Defeated, she sank to the floor in a boneless heap of body and blanket. She commanded her lungs to inflate, though her tightening ribs tried to prevent it. She stared, unseeing, at the wavering floorboards of her chamber.

  “Oh.” She tried to swallow, but there was no moisture in her mouth. “Good.”

  Rydar knelt in front of her, too far away for her to reach him. “I want to tell you and I come, but Lord Andrew…” his voice faded.

  “Aye,” she grunted. Everything was wrong, now. Horribly, dreadfully, appallingly wrong.

  “You tell me something?” he prodded, his tone so tender that it shredded her soul. She wanted to scratch his eyes out in return.

  “I, uh, cannot bring your dinner. Tomorrow,” Grier stumbled through the first thing that occurred to her to say. “I must be, um, available. To Lord Andrew.”

  Rydar leaned away from her. “Aye.”

  “I’ll send it with Moira,” she promised. “You’ll no’ go hungry.”

  “Thank you.” Rydar murmured. He climbed slowly to his feet and held out one hand. “Come, Grier,” he whispered.

  Grier shook her head. “You go on back to your room,” she said, forcing herself to look at him. His beautiful face held a mix of concern and regret. He must be sorry he had touched her.

  She felt for her crucifix, and knew part of her was dying. “I’ve some—praying—to do.”

  Rydar’s hand fell limply to his side. He stared at her as if he wished to say something more, but Grier was frightened of what that something might be.

  “Goodnight, Rydar,” she said before he could speak again. “Sleep well.”

  “Goodnight,” he answered stiffly, adding, “my lady.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  July 12, 1354

  Heavy-bottomed clouds hovered over the eastern horizon, the last remnants of three gray days of soft, steady rain. Grier walked along the bluff behind the castle, enjoying the afternoon’s sunshine. She hadn’t been to Durness, nor to Rydar’s boat, since Lord Andrew arrived. Her hours were filled with preparations for the sort of service that a courtier and knight of his status expected.

  Each morning after breaking their fast, Andrew and Kennan rode off on their great destriers dressed in their fine velvets and armed with heavily jeweled weapons. The pair was impressive and intimidating, which Grier assumed was their intent. They returned at the end of the day with word of who was expected to join them in the keep for the formal meal that evening.

  Then Lord Andrew would retire to the master chamber to change for supper. Grier made certain he had warm water and fresh towels, that his clothes were laundered, his fire was lit and his bedding aired. She worked with Moira’s mother on the daily menu and helped the older woman prepare the food. Grier didn’t wish her hospitality to be found lacking in any way.

  Lord Andrew invited the most prosperous and influential men from the surrounding lands to dine at the castle. Uncomplimentary of the carefully crafted dishes that were presented, Grier bit back her desire to point out the special herbs used, or the sauces created to enhance the meat or fish. The courtier was obviously accustomed to rich food and didn’t mark it.

  Instead, he spent the mealtime asking question after question about the economic status of his guests’ particular holdings.

  “How many acres do you own?” Lord Andrew asked each man who sat at her table. “Are they being worked to their best advantage?”

  “Your Lordship is aware of the Death,” they would answer. “So much land lies fallow now, there simply aren’t enough able bodies to till the soil…” Or shepherd the livestock. Or clear the land. Or accomplish whatever tasks remained incomplete.

  Lord Andrew was unmoved. “Surely there are those looking for work, are there not? Displaced individuals—or orphans—who must sustain themselves.”

  “My Lord,” Logan interjected. “The dearth of laborers, if any are to be found at all, has sent wages too high for the common estate holder.”

  Lord Andrew sipped his wine and set it carefully aside. Each evening, he placed the same charge on the guests: “Those who have serfs must no longer allow them to purchase their freedom. They must remain where they are and labor as they always have.”

  This declamation was met with uneasy glances. Silence reigned until someone gathered enough courage to say, “They will no’ stay. They’ve gone to where they’re paid more than I can give them.”

  “Or they’ve claimed land that’s been abandoned for themselves,” Logan added.

  Lord Andrew stood and circled the table. Hands clasped behind his back, brows drawn together and lips pressed in thought, he seemed to be considering what he heard. But by the third night, Grier knew that what came next was a carefully crafted speech, one she had memorized by now.

  “Gentlemen—for indeed, we are an assemblage of gently born men, are we not? Perhaps, living so far north in this exceptionally beautiful country, you are not aware of Scotland’s overall condition. Our own King David II languishes in the Tower of London where he has been held prisoner these past eight years. Our government, its body decimated by plague and lacking leadership, flounders in its attempt to maintain order.”<
br />
  Pause, take a sip of wine.

  “Edinburgh’s businesses are disrupted. Debtors have died and their bankrupt creditors find there is simply no one left to collect from. Construction has halted and guilds have lost their craftsmen.”

  Grip the shoulders of the most vocal man in the room.

  “Do I paint a bleak portrait? Aye, I do. I’m afraid ‘tis a portrait startling in its reality.” Give the shoulders a shake. “So what are we—the powerful men of this land—to do? How might we restore Scotland to her rightful glory?”

  Grier couldn’t meet the eyes of her guests; to a man, they stared downward, not willing to give the unpalatable answer. She couldn’t blame them. Every Scot left alive was struggling to find footing in a demolished society that—obviously—no longer operated under past restraints.

  Besides that, rumors abounded of a ransom payment to free their king from England’s King Edward. The assembled landowners kent that much of what profit they still made might be claimed for that purpose.

  Lord Andrew always ended his speech the same way: “Have no fear, my lords. Our beloved Scotland will survive this trial. Her sons are loyal and generous men, whose willing sacrifices always see her through.”

  He lifted his chalice. “I give you King David!”

  Every man present rose to toast the king. After all, they weren’t treasonous. Only cautious, and standing on the edge of ruin. Smiling, Lord Andrew encouraged everyone to sit and continue to enjoy the repast.

  No matter how many joined them for dinner, Grier noticed that Lord Andrew always sat himself directly opposite her. He watched her intently throughout the meal. His golden brown eyes and sultry smile made her heart pound. Many times she was so unnerved that she struggled just to swallow her food. The knight was regally handsome, charismatic and intelligent in conversation, and obviously quite interested in her as a woman.