by Kris Tualla
“Sleeping early or sleeping late?” he tried.
Moira’s sweet face twisted in confusion. She opened the food basket that rested on the table, and pulled out the victuals. Rydar tried again. He pointed at the midday meal covering the kitchen table.
“She sleeps first, then eats supper? Or she sleeps early for all night?”
“Oh!” Understanding loosened Moira’s countenance. “I dinna ken for certain. She went abed this afternoon. She said her head pained her awesome.”
“You will wake her?” Rydar suggested.
“No, sir. She said I’m no’ to wake her for any reason at all.” Moira’s eyes widened. “She was sae determined about that.”
“She sleeps all night, then?” Rydar prodded, frustrated yet again.
Moira shrugged.
Rydar combed his fingers through his hair. “Logan?”
She gave him a sympathetic pout. “He’s dining with Lady Malise and her family.”
Skitt.
Skitt skitt skitt skitt skitt! Rydar dropped into the nearest chair. He was hungry, having missed the midday meal on the boat. But his irritation at the events of this day took away his appetite. Still, he knew he needed to eat whether he felt like it or not; meals would likely be lean on the coming sea journey.
With a disgusted sigh, he helped himself to the food that was probably meant to be his hours ago.
July 18, 1354
Grier drew a deep breath and stretched, reaching her arms out from under her sheets and pointing her toes to the bottom of her bed. Her headache was mercifully gone, though her eyes still felt puffy and dry. She stretched again to get her circulation going and wondered what she might make for supper.
Oh, aye. The basket of food. That suited her mood. After a week-and-a-half of rich meals, she looked forward to a simple repast of bread, cheese and apples.
The light outside her window was weak and she smelt rain. That was no surprise; weather in Scotland was always unpredictable, and on the coast even more so. Though the morning was hazy and humid, the late afternoon rain was a relief.
Grier tossed back her covers. She pulled on the gown that she wore earlier in the day and still lay draped across the foot of her bed. She brushed her hair and tied it back. Then she opened her door and went downstairs to the kitchen.
Moira was there, alone. Something about the look on her face was odd. “Well, good morn to you, Lady Grier!” she chirped. “I trust ye slept well!”
“Aye, thank you.” Grier quirked her brow at the maid. “Where is the basket I prepared for Sir Hansen?”
“He finished it last night. For his supper.”
“Last night?” Grier looked out the window at the drizzle. It was impossible to determine the position of the sun. “What do ye mean last night?”
Moira touched her arm. “Are ye well, Lady Grier? Ye slept so sound and I did no’ wake ye, as ye instructed.”
Realization knocked Grier. “I slept all afternoon? And all night?”
“Aye. Ye were sae peaked, Lady.” Moira smiled softly. “Ye look more like yourself today. I ken it did ye good.”
Another day gone. And another night. And another chance to ask Rydar what he wanted to tell her. “What time is it?” Grier demanded.
Moira blinked. “It’s about ten. Midmorning.”
“Rydar will already be sailing his boat,” Grier moaned. She slumped into a chair.
“Oh, no, Lady. It had a leak.”
Grier straightened. “A leak? His boat leaks? How do ye ken?”
Moira set a bowl of oat parritch in front of her. “He told me last night, while he ate.”
“Did it sink?” Her stomach did.
“No! It was no’ that bad. But he’ll be fixing it this morn, and no’ sailing it again until the morrow.”
Relieved in so many ways, Grier jumped up and hugged the startled girl. “Pack the basket again, Moira! I’ll take it to him straight away!”
“Ye have no’ taken nourishment since yester morn, Lady Grier! And ye’ll go nowhere until ye eat your parritch!” Moira jammed her fists onto her hips in imitation of Grier’s frequent stance. “And ye’ll hurry back after because you’ve more’n a darg yet to do before the wedding! ‘Tis only two days away!”
Grier stared at her maid in gape-mouthed shock. Then she plopped back in her seat and scooped a large bite of parritch into her mouth.
“Yes, miss!” she mumbled with her mouth full, too happy to argue.
***
Rydar shaved another narrow piece of wood. He dipped it in melted pitch and wedged it into the tiny crack. Water finally stopped seeping through.
“That’s got it!” he said. He looked at Gavin who was bent in half beside him, watching intently. “At last, eh?”
Gavin nodded and handed him a cut piece of leather to cover the patch. Rydar dipped the leather in the cooling pitch and pressed it against the hull. Then he coated the entire area with another layer of the pungent water-proof tar.
Rydar slowly unraveled his stiff legs. He stood crookedly in the low compartment. “You and Kristofer sop up this water. Get it good and dry. Well, as dry as you’re able in this weather.”
“Yes, sir.” Gavin collected the tools that Rydar had been using.
“And keep a sharp eye out for any more leaks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going over to Rabbie’s cottage and see if anything usable still remains there.” Rydar climbed the ladder to the mid-deck. “What I can’t find, I may need to purchase.” Gavin handed up the tools and then followed him.
“Will we try her again tomorrow?” he asked.
“We must, Gavin. The next day is the wedding and I can’t take her out then. And we plan to sail the day after that!” Rydar patted the tall fisherman’s shoulder. “That’s assuming she’s done letting the sea come in for a visit!”
“Rydar!”
The voice from the pier floated up, disembodied. Rydar knew who called him, but he moved to the rail before answering. “Good day, Margoh.”
She stood in the soft rain holding her shawl over her head. “Will you come down and talk with me?”
Rydar nodded and turned back to Gavin. “Have you thought of anything else we lack?”
“No, sir.”
He patted the young man’s shoulder again, then climbed down to the pier. Margoh tapped one leather-shod foot while she waited.
“I heard your boat leaks,” she accused.
Rydar shrugged. “Not anymore.”
“Is it safe?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Margoh narrowed her eyes. “What if you’re wrong?”
“No one is forcing you to come on this voyage,” he quipped.
Margoh coughed a spiteful laugh. “Why are you in such a hurry to leave, anyway? Has your little hostess run off with her lover?”
Rydar’s composure ruptured. “Margoh!”
“Or didn’t the knight want her after he used her?” she taunted.
His vision bloodied. He felt a rage heave through his soul, born of his own failure to claim Grier’s heart. He stood resolute, fists clenching and ragged nails cutting into his palms, until he could manage to sound sane.
“You’re welcome to stay behind.”
He hoped she would choose to do so, regretting his promise to take her. She pressed one arm under her breasts, forcing their upper curves over the top of her gown. His eyes fell to the twin swells, but bounced away.
“I do not wish! I only want to be assured that I’m not sailing off to my death!” she spat.
“There were no promises. No guarantees,” he reminded her cruelly.
Her gray eyes sparked like flint and steel. “I didn’t think my safety fell under that condition.”
Rydar leaned down close to Margoh, his face meeting hers under the shawl. “I sail on the morning tide the day after the wedding. Be here with your belongings packed if you still wish to go. I’m sailing wit
h you, or without you.”
She stared hard at him for a long minute. He didn’t move, he didn’t flinch.
“Fine.” She whipped the shawl away, tossed him one last look, and stalked noisily along the pier toward the chyngell.
Then Rydar saw Grier.
Watching the exchange with Margoh. Too far away to hear them. But close enough to see his head dip under her shawl.
Skitt.
***
Grier commanded her legs to move toward Rydar. And Margoh. There was only one path to the boat and the Old Aunt walked it between her and the Norseman. Grier’s cheeks tensed in a smile-like grimace.
“Hello, Margoh.” Why was he kissing her? “How are the wedding arrangements coming?” Is that what Rydar wanted to talk to me about? “Is Malise’s gown finished?” Please God, give me strength!
“Hello, Grier.” Margoh’s eyes traveled over her and settled on the basket. “What have you there?” she asked, ignoring everything Grier said.
“Food.” Grier nodded toward the boat. “For the men.”
“Oh.” Margoh glanced over her shoulder. “I thought you might be—never mind.”
“Might be what?” Grier demanded.
Rydar approached and stood behind Margoh. Grier struggled to give him a real smile, hoping he was glad to see her. Lowered brows canopied his pale green eyes. His cheeks were splotched with red. He wasn’t smiling back.
“You feel better?” he asked. His tone was cool, but the intensity of his gaze spoke of entirely different things.
“Yes. Thank you,” Grier murmured, confused by his unfriendly demeanor. “How is the boat?”
He nodded. “Is no’ leaking.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Margoh made no move to leave. She seemed to be enjoying their awkwardness. A smirk curved her lips.
Grier handed Rydar the basket. “I’ll see you at supper, then?”
“Aye. Wait! No.” Rydar grabbed her arm. He looked like he was in pain. Grier glanced at his left leg out of habit, but he rested his full weight on it. “Logan and I eat in Durness with Malise’s pappa and uncle. They tell me about Scottish wedding… um…” He asked Margoh a question in Norse.
“Customs,” she said to Grier.
“Customs,” he repeated. “On morrow I sail boat, next day is wedding. Ye ken?”
“Aye,” Grier whispered. She struggled to keep her composure under the crushing weight of lost opportunity. Hope dribbled from her like sand. “We have run out of time.”
Rydar tilted his head. “Out of time? How out of time?”
Grier stared hard at him. He truly had no idea that her heart was in pieces, her future tossed away, and her desires coldly murdered.
“Good luck with your boat, Rydar.” She turned from him and hurried across the chyngell to Raven. She kicked the gelding to a gallop, spewing rain-dampened muck in all directions behind them.
July 19, 1354
Rydar avoided Grier, arriving at the keep late after supper yester eve and leaving early this morning. He set sail at dawn and he, Gavin, and Kristofer took turns looking for leaks in the hull. There were none.
The men sailed through the day, taking turns at the sail and rudder until all of them felt confident. Lars sat on the middle deck enjoying sporadic sunshine and the brisk sea breeze. Rydar was surprised when he first saw the boy; Lars had convinced Kristofer to shorten his splint so he could move with a bit more ease.
“And did you ask Lady Grier before you did so?” Rydar asked the brothers.
“No,” Lars admitted.
“Does it hurt?”
“No more than before. Maybe even a little less.” Lars grinned at him, reminding Rydar so much of himself and the way he mistreated his broken leg that he couldn’t chastise the boy. He pointed one finger and tapped Lars’ chest, his expression as grim as he could make it.
“If it hurts, don’t do it. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve been through this, haven’t I?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you re-injure it, Lady Grier will not be around to save your arm again. You will lose your arm at the least and perhaps even your life.” He leaned closer. “Do you understand that, Lars?”
Lars swallowed loudly, the grin gone. “Y-yes. Sir.”
Rydar nodded. “Good.”
Satisfied that he had frightened a modicum of sense into the boy, Rydar climbed to the top deck and stood overlooking the boat’s pointed bow. The sun hovered over the edge of the North Sea. He watched as it slowly dissolved into the water. Only one more sunset—and Logan’s wedding—remained before he sailed for home.
Rydar refused to allow the glorious orange sunlight that rippled across the summer sky like Grier’s hair, nor the clear deep blue of the North Sea that soothed him like her eyes, to cause him to think of her at all.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The day before the wedding placed so many demands on Grier that she ate her noon meal—a thick slice of bread wrapped around a chunk of cheese—as she stood in the courtyard watching two large tents being erected. As soon as they were secured, castle tenants began to arrange trestles, plank tops and benches under them. Anywhere between one-hundred-and-fifty and two-hundred people were expected, and the skittish Scottish weather made the protective precaution necessary.
Grier moved from baker to butcher to brewer to chandler assuring adequate breads, meats, ale, cider and candles. A brace of young boys took turns cranking two spitted boars over carefully tended fires. Wine casks were delivered and conveniently placed. The grooms mucked out the stable and made room for additional mounts. Moira and the triplets moved all the furniture in the keep to sweep and mop; carpets were dragged outside, beaten, and resituated.
The realization that Rydar would leave after tomorrow beat in her head like a death knell.
Through all the preparations Grier doubted that anyone was able to discern her devastation. She made her cheeks smile, made her feet follow one another in stride, caused her hands to direct others. But her heart was shriveling.
Rydar leaves after tomorrow. The repetitive din in her mind made it hard for her to concentrate on what her tenants informed or asked. Many times Grier requested that they repeat their words before she could comprehend them.
The Norseman would be in the wedding the next morning, standing tall beside Logan as his witness. He would partake in the celebration that followed; eating her food, drinking her wine, dancing in her courtyard. But it would not be hers any longer. Once the words were spoken in front of the priest, all of it would belong to Malise.
Panic squeezed Grier and she felt light-headed, her vision bordered by gnats. Cold sweat filmed her skin. She needed to be alone. Only one corner of the castle ground was devoid of quick, busy hands and scurrying bodies. She stumbled toward the graveyard.
Grier wove between the crowded, crooked markers until she reached Arne Jorgensen’s grave. She fell on her knees beside his cairn. She rested until she could breathe more easily and the threat of fainting had passed.
“What will I do, Arne?” she whispered. “I love him with all my being. I can no’ imagine my life here once he’s gone. I can no’ imagine how I’ll do, and I never see him again.”
In the silence of the yard, she felt he heard her. She closed her eyes and reached for her mother’s crucifix. The metal was warmed by her body; it felt heavy and solid in her palm.
Unbidden, Lord Andrew’s deep rumbling voice intruded in her thoughts. Lady Grier, what holds ye here in Durness?
Grier gasped and opened her eyes, certain he was standing beside her.
Of course he wasn’t, but the question floated in front of her as real as anything. She grasped it in her other hand. She turned it over, inspecting it from all angles, and considered her reasons to stay. What did hold her in Durness?
Logan? He didn’t need her after the morrow. He had a loving and eager bride.
The keep? ‘Twas Logan’s now and he would
care for it as he saw fit.
Healing? Her skills went with her wherever she roamed.
Even to a foreign land.
“Oh my Father in Heaven!” she cried. “I can no’ leave Scotland on my own! It’s my home!”
But… She pulled a deep breath and waited. Somehow, Arne spoke to her heart.
The distance is no’ what matters…
‘Tis with whom that matters.
“Home is where one chooses it to be. Is that it, Arne?” Grier murmured to the pile of stones. “You sailed from the only home you ever knew to go with Rydar, because ye loved him. Ye loved him enough to die and ye brought him this far.”
Grier felt her ravaged soul healing even before she mouthed the words that would craft her future. “Ye came this far and he was no’ alone. Is it my turn now, Arne? Am I to go with him now, so he is no’ alone?”
She rubbed her breastbone and pulled a deep breath, trying to ease the pressure of realization that pierced her there. She might get up the courage to ask Rydar to take her with him; but what would happen then, when they reached his home?
“I can manage,” she stated. “I was very nearly the ‘most sought-after healer in Scotland’ after all!”
Where there are people, there will always be sickness and births and accidents. And she was certain Rydar would help her learn his language, after the help she gave him here.
Grier knew for certain that, if nothing else, she would rather be Rydar’s friend and live in his town than let him sail out of her life forever.
July 20, 1354
The wedding was beautiful. Malise was beautiful. Logan was handsome and happy. But Grier could not command her eyes to follow any but Rydar. He wore the wool tunic she made for him with black hose and high black boots. The Norseman was the tallest man in the church, and now he towered over the other guests.
Yester eve she collapsed, exhausted to her bones. She had hoped to speak to Rydar about sailing to Norway but he returned too late and her rebellious eyes refused to stay open one minute longer. Tonight was her last chance and she would not let it pass. She could not.