by Kris Tualla
Grier pulled back and grinned at her husband. “So we can no’ stay because you’ve no more coins?”
He nodded. “Aye.”
Grier tossed the sheets aside and hopped on bare feet across the room to her basket, naked but for her cloak of waist-length curls. She fumbled for its false bottom and gripped the small leather pouch hidden there. She stood and turned slowly to face her husband. She dangled the pouch before her as she sauntered in her newly seductive fashion back to their bed.
“What that is?” he asked.
Grier tossed him the pouch and knelt on the mattress. “Open it.”
Fifteen gold coins tumbled out, rattling in metallic chorus and gleefully catching the room’s dim light. Rydar froze, stunned into confused silence.
Grier giggled. “Say something!”
His pale eyes lifted to hers. “Where you get this?”
“My da gave it to me afore he died. He said I should make my way with it.” She laid her hand over his and squeezed. “We’ll make our way with it together.”
Rydar pressed his lips to a line and then considered Grier with narrowed eyes. “You trust me?”
“With my very life,” Grier answered, her curiosity piqued. “What are ye thinking?”
Rydar leaned toward her. “I think this: we go to my father’s house in good clothes. We look like we are right to be there. They will no’ ken of us, aye?”
Grier saw the logic immediately. “So we present ourselves as worthy of the estate and the inheritance? As if your rights can no’ be questioned?”
He nodded confidently.
“That will take some days, will it no’?” Grier pointed out. “And we might stay here, then?”
His hand slid up her leg to the forest at its apex. He smiled in a way that stole her breath as his long fingers wiggled deeper between her thighs.
“Aye. We go for clothes, then wait for them and they are finish. And we have food come up. So”—his lopsided grin charmed her—“you do no’ need leave room for days.”
“Promise?” Grier whispered. She wrapped her arms around Rydar’s neck and eagerly gave herself over once again to his intoxicating touch.
August 2, 1354
After exchanging one of the gold coins with a moneychanger, and waiting five days for their new clothes, and selecting two fine horses with beautifully wrought tack to carry them, and energetically loving each other three times a day with an intensity and creativity that left both Rydar and Grier sweating and breathless and longing for more, it was time to emerge from the cozy room at the inn, with its very accommodating bed, and face their very uncertain future.
Rydar lay close to Grier and watched the sky slowly lighten. This day they would collect their expensive apparel. They would ride their matching mounts up the hill to Hansen Hall. And he would enter the home of his childhood for the first time since he was a boy.
That prospect submerged him into the despair of the dark days before he left Arendal. His father, scowling and silent. His mother, red-eyed and weepy. His two older sisters assuring him it would all work itself out, and then standing on the shore in white-faced shock when the ship carried their family away. Forever.
No. Not forever.
Rydar had come home.
He was eager to know if his sisters survived. Moving through Arendal these past days he could see what he saw in Durness: far too many empty houses and far too many crowded graveyards. Streets once filled with merchants pressing their wares on those who passed, now held more serene shop owners doing business in the bottom stories of some of the houses. The town was so much emptier than he remembered.
Well it would be, with more than half of the population gone.
Rydar determined he would search for his sisters soon. He would ask about them at Hansen Hall today; whoever remained there should know of them. Though he doubted they would recognize him, he thought he might know them. Astrid would be thirty-two, and Pernilla, the one who went into the service of the church, thirty-three. Or perhaps thirty-four.
Their ages don’t matter. All that matters is that I find what is mine, whatever that may be.
“What are you pondering so fiercely, husband?” Grier’s sleepy voice pierced his thoughts.
“Du,” he replied and hugged her. “Alltid du.” Since the day after their marriage, Rydar had taken to speaking to Grier in simple Norse, only translating when she was hopelessly lost.
“Always me?” Grier shifted her weight against him and grinned tiredly. “Du er en liar!”
Rydar chuckled.
“What is ‘liar’?” she mumbled against his chest.
“Liar.”
“Good. Since you are one, I’ll know how to call you!” she teased.
Rydar tangled his fingers in her bed-tossed curls. The fierce color of her hair still fascinated him. “Do you think our children will have this hair?” he asked in Norse.
“Ja,” she grunted, eyes closed.
“Gjør deg forstår?” Do you understand?
“Ingen.” No.
Rydar slid his hands under her arms and pulled her on top of him. “What will I do with you?” he grumbled.
She understood that, apparently, because she snuggled her head under his chin and gripped his hips with her knees. “You will love me, husband,” she sighed. “Now.”
He did not hesitate.
The sun was fully up. Streaks of pink surged through the window, coloring Grier’s skin and setting her wild hair aflame. She rode Rydar’s hips as he bucked under her. His hands circled her waist to keep her from falling while he abandoned all control and pushed himself ever deeper inside her. She cried out when she peaked and might have tumbled backward if he hadn’t held her against him. His grunts of release felt like they began in his toes and fought through his body to emerge loud and ecstatic. Grier collapsed against his chest, panting. Yet again, Rydar found it hard to believe that this beautiful woman was his forever.
And he almost left her behind in another country. A shudder shot through him.
Grier raised her head and rested her chin on her fist. “Husband?”
“I’m glad you asked to come with me,” he said in slow Norse.
“I’m glad, too,” she answered in the same language.
***
Rydar reined in his mount. To his left was the glittering outlet to the North Sea. Over the cries of single-minded gulls, he could hear waves impaling themselves below the cliff. He wondered how far down the water actually was.
To his right was Hansen Hall. Dominated by a round tower built of rough stones, its turreted top stood three stories over the road. There were no windows in the tower, only the vertical slits which allowed archers to defend the inhabitants.
Viking archers.
Rydar felt their presence in the breeze that stroked his cheek. A thrill tingled up his spine and his belly clenched with recognition. He nodded his silent respect to those whose restless blood he shared.
Extending off one side of the tower was a two-story structure of gray quarried stone, built at the turn of this century. The addition had several glass windows, leaded in a multitude of small diamond-shaped panes. The front door was visible in an arched alcove beyond the gate of the tidy walled courtyard. Rydar turned to Grier.
His wife was stunning. Her glorious red hair was tamed under a snood of fine silver silk stitched with gold threads and seed pearls. Her gown was the blue of the sky, but it was shamed by the blue of her eyes. Her ermine-trimmed dark purple cloak fell back over her shoulders and was fastened across her breast by a gold and amethyst chain. She gave him a smile that set his soul ablaze.
“You look regal, Viking, especially with that long sword by your side,” she declared. “Emeralds are your gem, sable is your fur, and burgundy is your color. No one who lays eyes on ye could ever doubt your place in this world.”
Rydar pulled a bracing breath. “Now is our time, wife. You are ready?”
She nodded.
They rode across the bridge a
nd into the courtyard. Rydar dismounted from his Arabian gelding and then lifted Grier from her matching mare. When no one appeared to take their horses, he blew a shrill whistle. A boy of about twelve or thirteen sprinted through a gateway, slid to a stop, gaped at the richly dressed pair, then approached them, bowing continuously.
“See to our horses, will you?” Rydar handed their reins to the lad.
“Yes, Sir!” he answered in a voice cracked by puberty. He led the animals back through the gate, glancing over his shoulder at the intentionally imposing couple.
Rydar took Grier’s arm and they climbed the curved stone steps, already worn in the center from decades of shoes, until they faced the massive portal. The dark wooden door stood under a carved “H” which had, on either side, sculpted friezes: Thor on one side, and the Christ on the other. Rydar grabbed the round iron knocker and thrust it against the planks.
The door creaked open. A short man Rydar didn’t know looked up his length to meet his eyes. “How may I assist you, sir?”
“I’m here to see the lord of the manor,” Rydar answered.
The man’s gaze flickered over Rydar’s tall frame and paused on the daunting sword. When he glanced at Grier his brows arched appreciatively, annoying Rydar with his impudence.
He returned his attention to Rydar. “And you are?”
Rydar had debated when to give his name. If he gave it at the door, he might not be believed. Or worse, he might be believed and denied entry. But not giving a name would clearly raise suspicions. He figured he would know which to do when he reached this moment.
He didn’t.
“Sir? Your name?” the short man pressed.
The answer came, then. It was simple and perfect. “Hansen.”
“Hansen? Which Hansen?”
“That is for the lord of the manor. Please announce me, and my wife.”
The man glared at the well-dressed couple, then stepped back allowing them into the manor’s once opulent entryway. He led them to a parlor off to one side. The furnishings there were sparse but well matched.
“Wait here,” he commanded before stomping out of sight.
Rydar hadn’t noticed as a child, but inside the building the transition from the ninth century tower to the fourteenth century hall was not as disjointed as on the exterior. The manor appeared largely unchanged since his boyhood; only a bit worn and with far fewer servants rushing about. An avalanche of memories covered Rydar and threatened to suffocate him. He felt Grier’s hand on his arm.
“Are ye well?” she whispered, alarm etched on her face.
He jerked a nod. “Aye.”
A tall, slim figure approached, dressed in a jewel-embellished satin tunic over a silk shirt. His hose were finely knit and he wore soft, cuffed leather boots with wooden soles. His middle-aged face was vaguely familiar, but something about his appearance was out of place. What that was, Rydar couldn’t yet name.
“Good day, travelers. How may I assist you?” he asked in a smooth tenor voice.
“Good day, sir. May I ask your name?” Rydar began.
“My name?” The man frowned. “Do you not know where you’ve come?”
“Hansen Hall,” was Rydar’s clipped response.
“Yes, of course.” He smiled again, but offered no answer to the question.
Rydar glanced at Grier. She nodded slightly, but he couldn’t know if she understood what was being said, or was merely encouraging him. He tried another tack.
“Who is lord of the manor since the Death?”
The man dipped his chin and crossed himself in overtly pious reverence. “I am.”
This game of evasion could go on forever; Rydar decided to thrust more offensively. “Where is Lord Harald Martin Hansen?”
The man blinked. “Gone. In the plague, God save his soul. His two sons were taken as well.” He crossed himself again and kissed his fingertips.
Rydar felt punched in the gut; he remembered his cousins fondly, though they were a decade older than he. Now they were dead and lost to him forever. With a nod of acknowledgement, Rydar pressed forward.
“And Harald’s brother, Balder. Where is he?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “He remains in the priesthood, having foresworn all earthly goods. Who did you say you were?”
“What of Rolf?” Rydar parried, ignoring the man’s query.
“Killed in the Crusades. Who are you?” The man frowned; his genteel façade was tumbling away.
His mouth gone dry with grief, Rydar straightened his stance. At six-and-a-half feet he dwarfed everyone in the room. This was the pivotal question and it needed to be asked with the proper air of authority.
“And Petter-Edvard? What became of him?”
The man stepped closer, squinting in his intense perusal of Rydar. “What does he matter?”
“Let’s say I’m… curious.” Rydar bent over to put his eyes at the other man’s level. “Tell me what became of Petter-Edvard Hansen!”
The man retreated and waved his hand dismissively. “Disowned. He fled the country decades ago.”
“Did he have sons?” Rydar pressed.
Fear shot through the other man’s countenance but vanished quickly. “One.”
“And where is he now?”
The man sneered. “The father’s destination was Grønnland. If the boy still lives, which I highly doubt, he’s mucking out a life there.”
Rydar nodded, seeming to be satisfied. He relaxed his stance hoping to lull the man into confidence. “And how did you come to be lord of the manor? Are you a Hansen?”
At that the man bowed. “My name is Jakob Sander Hansen. I am a cousin to Harald by marriage.”
The name niggled at Rydar’s memory. It was familiar, but not quite right, as was the man himself. “And you are the only remaining Hansen, then?”
“Sadly, I am.”
“Have you a wife? Children?” Rydar prodded.
Sir Jakob shook his head and waved a chastising finger at Rydar before turning and walking to the other side of the parlor. “I don’t believe you’ve introduced yourself sir, nor your beautiful wife who stands so silently by your side.”
He faced Rydar again from across the room and clasped his hands behind his back, chin raised. He cocked one brow. “I’m waiting.”
Rydar turned to Grier. “You ken what he say?” he asked her in English.
She dipped her chin and considered him from beneath her auburn lashes. Her carriage and expression were suitably solemn. “Aye. Most all. It’s your turn now, is it no’?”
Then she winked at him.
Her sudden playfulness sent a silent chuckle through his gut. Unexpected, it fortified him in ways he never could have anticipated. No matter what happened next, this strong, stubborn Scottish woman would endure it alongside him.
Rydar faced Jakob and mimicked his stance. “I beg your pardon, Sir Jakob. May I present the Lady Grier MacInnes Hansen of Durness Castle, Scotland?”
Grier gave him a dignified bow, appropriate for a married woman of her hoped-for station.
Confusion wrinkled Sir Jakob’s brow. “My pleasure, my lady. Did you say Hansen?”
“And I am…” Rydar cleared his throat to keep the man in suspense, then waved his hand apologetically. “I beg your pardon. Road dust, you understand.”
Sir Jakob reddened; a good host would have offered ale by now. A well-born host would not have forgotten. But before he could rectify the omission, Rydar spoke again, using the man’s embarrassment as an opening for the thrust of his verbal blade.
“I am the Lord Rydar Martin Petter-Edvard Hansen, the last living heir to Hansen Hall.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Impossible!” Sir Jakob threw the word across the room, a verbal gauntlet that landed at Rydar’s feet.
“And yet, here I stand,” Rydar countered.
“You cannot be him!”
Rydar shrugged his lack of concern. “Why would you think not?”
“He’s in Grø
nnland. At the settlement. If they even survived the journey, which I doubt!”
Lord Jakob’s face turned a disturbing shade of red for a man of his age. His rapid breathing grew shallow and sweat sheened his skin. Grier crossed to him and took his arm.
“Sit, please,” she said in Norse. “Rydar, bring wine.”
“Madam, unhand me!” He jerked his arm from Grier.
“The Lady Grier is a skilled healer,” Rydar declared. He looked around the parlor but the little man who let them in was already pouring a goblet. He scurried over to Jakob who gulped the liquid, spilling a little and staining his expensive tunic. Jakob was shaken, his distress visible in his darting glance and trembling hand.
“A cup for myself? And my wife?” Rydar asked the servant. With a disgusted glance at his employer, the man’s head bobbed his assent. He moved to pour two more goblets, serving Grier first and then Rydar.
“My thanks. And your name?” Rydar inquired.
“Delling. Sir.” He gave them each a small bow. Delling seemed to be rapidly re-evaluating his loyalties.
“The wine is excellent, Delling. Thank you,” Rydar said smoothly. He turned to the older man. “Are you recovered, Lord Jakob? I’m afraid I have given you quite a shock.”
Jakob glared at him. “Just because you come in here and claim to be Petter-Edvard’s son doesn’t prove a thing!”
True enough; it didn’t. But Rydar hoped to be able to deflect that argument. He simply hadn’t figured out exactly how thus far.
“And yet, I am,” he said again.
“How did you get here?” Jakob demanded. “And when?”
“I sailed from Grønnland to Scotland in—” a smile tugged his mouth “—a very wee boat.” Grier rubbed her knuckles over her lips to hide the grin that Rydar could still see. “I was injured when my boat was destroyed in a storm. Lady Grier and her cousin hauled me from the sea, and she tended my wounds until I was fully recovered.”
“And then?” Sarcasm defined Lord Jakob’s tone.
“And then I procured another boat, and we sailed here. We landed in Arendal a week ago.”
“Why didn’t you come here straight away? Why the delay? If your story is true, why would you not wish to lay your claim immediately?” Lord Jakob shouted.