by Kris Tualla
The land was dangerous. Scoundrels displaced by the plague still roamed the hills and forests, robbing and sometimes slaying those whom they encountered.
At the Drummond estate in Falkirk, they said goodbye to Daniel and Rolf, leaving the boys in the competent care of his younger sister Maggie and her husband Marcas.
And—to the bonny delight of the twins—in the company of six first cousins, aged twelve to three-and-a-half. Twins ran in the Drummond family, it seemed. Maggie had birthed two sets now, and was of immeasurable help to his wife when Eryn’s time came.
The twenty miles or so from Falkirk to Edinborough proved to be a relatively pleasant day by comparison. Finding a ship to take them to Arendal was a bit more problematic.
After two days, Drew did happen across one merchant who was heading there to explore the possibility of entering into trade with Hansen himself. While Drew was glad to procure passage for himself and Eryn, the merchant’s words made him wonder if, in the end, the destitute Viking sailor was much more than Drew imagined the man to be.
He scoffed at the memory, mumbling, “Or, perhaps the Viking’s truly a pirate.”
According to the captain of this rather humble vessel, they should reach Arendal in another two or three days. All-in-all, the expedition required almost three weeks to complete.
“Returning will be faster,” he mused. “We’ll no’ need to search for a boat to Edinborough—we’ll arrange for this man to fetch us.”
“Who are you talking to?” Eryn’s soft voice tickled his ear.
“Only you, lass.” Drew grinned as he looked into her pale green eyes. “There is none other with whom I desire to consort.”
“After your attentions yester eve, I do believe you.” Eryn glanced at the crewmen climbing around the deck. “Do you think they heard us?”
Drew leaned his shoulder against his wife’s. “I dinna care if they did.”
Eryn blushed and slid an accusing gaze toward his. “I’m sorry you ‘forgot’ the sheaths.”
An uncomfortable stab of guilt twisted in his belly; he truly had not done so on purpose. He gave her a conciliatory look. “Aye, lass.”
She turned her gaze toward the endless horizon. “And yet…”
“Yet?” he prodded.
Eryn heaved a sigh. “You are quite right Drew. It is time for more children.”
Happiness bubbled through his chest like a wellspring. “Do ye think so?”
“I do. Seeing Maggie’s big happy brood made me realize what a blessing children are. Not only to their parents, but to each other.” She met his eyes again. “I didn’t have such experiences of my own, you understand.”
“Aye. I ken.” Drew ran a finger down her cheek. “An orphan raised by the nuns at Elstow Abbey is about as unlike my sister’s family as ye can get.”
Eryn smiled. “Perhaps we made a baby yester eve.”
Drew winked. “Or two.”
Eryn pulled back a fist and punched his arm. Hard.
“Don’t say such things!” she chastised. “Or I will name the next pair Shite and Damn!”
Drew let loose a hearty laugh. “We canna change what will be, lass.”
Eryn pulled a face. “You randy Scotsman. How did a proper English girl like me ever end up with a man such as you in the first place?” she teased.
“Because ye wanted me as much as I wanted you.” Drew licked his lips, the suggestive motion catching her eye. “And ye were a treasonous bastard orphan who needed my protection.”
Eryn turned around and leaned her back against the railing. She propped her elbows on the top of the wood, causing the neckline of her gown to gape enticingly. The mid-morning sun shadowed the creamy swells of her bosom.
She drew a deep breath, assuring that his attention was fixed on her ample assets.
“And you, sir,” she purred. “Were a tired, cold, and lonely stranger seeking succor at my humble table. What else could I do, but offer the warmth of my hospitality?”
“That ye continue to do so makes me happier than ye can ever ken.” Drew pulled her close and kissed her well.
She moaned against his lips before propriety made her push him away. “There are too many eyes here, my lord.”
“Remember this, Eryn,” he said, his mood shifting. “No matter what may transpire in Arendal, atween myself and Hansen or his wife, remember that I love ye with all my life.”
Eryn’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
Drew hesitated. The need to tell Eryn every detail concerning his brief flirtation and offer of marriage to Grier MacInnes had never arisen. He prayed now that the nugget would remain safely buried.
He opted for the easier route. “That means that Hansen and I were not friends.”
“Surely the past is years in the past?” she posited. “And old conflicts are forgotten?”
“I willna resurrect them, I assure ye of that,” Drew promised. “But be mindful if aught is said, aye?”
Eryn stared at him, her expression somber. “Yes. Of course.”
Chapter Four
June 8, 1359
Arendal, Norway
Grier pushed the babe’s heel down and rubbed her sore rib. While she teased Rydar about this child being a girl, the truth was she couldn’t imagine a little daughter pushing against her with such strength. No, this babe felt like the first one—another son, and a healthy one again.
She smiled, wondering if this boy would have her red hair as well. Little Arne, now four and sturdy as a glacier, was born with startlingly bright orange hair. The color had toned down since, and Grier expected that as a man, Arne’s hair would hold the more dignified patina of warm cedar wood.
I suppose we should begin to think of a name.
Most likely, Rydar would want to use a family name. His father’s brothers were Harald, Balder, and Rolf, but he had no brothers of his own. Grier had no objection to any of those choices.
Breakfast finished, she began her daily stroll through the house, searching for any tasks not yet completed. There was no way to know exactly when their guests would arrive, so the preparations were ongoing.
The larger repairs and refurbishing began the day Eryn’s letter arrived. Walls were washed, hearths swept and scrubbed repeatedly, tapestries and rugs taken outdoors and beaten until their color threatened to disappear.
All of the wooden furniture was rubbed and polished. As for the few pieces which were tufted with fabric, Grier bought new material and had them recovered.
Mattresses were restuffed. Beds re-roped. All the linens were washed and hung to dry this week.
Brass candleholders were polished until they gleamed. New candles were made and stacked, ready for use in the various rooms.
Grier understood Rydar’s motivation for making Hansen Hall a showplace—at least to the extent that their time and finances would allow. Though Lord Andrew was attracted to her from the start, the knight was always very dismissive and rude to Rydar.
True, with Rydar’s broken leg, ill-fitting borrowed clothes, and lack of English, first impressions of the tall, lean, and bearded man were definitely on the rough side. But Grier spent hours with the Norseman, and she saw his fine character and quick intelligence. He thoroughly claimed her heart without trying—or even realizing he had done so.
When she refused Drew’s proposal, the knight left little Durness Castle with an indignant swirl of his cloak, the stomp of his heavy boots declaring his outrage and anger.
She never saw or heard from him again until the surprising letter arrived in Arendal four years ago, inquiring about a knight named Rolf Hansen. The letter was delivered to Hansen Hall by the harbormaster—who could recognize only the name Hansen in the English letter.
Grier chuckled when she imagined what Drew’s face must have looked like when he received the response from her—now married to the ‘Viking’ he despised, and living happily in Norway.
The idea that Lord Andrew would stumble across a bastard orphan in southern Scotland who was fathered b
y Rydar’s uncle was preposterous. That he married that woman was even more unexpected.
Grier shook her head as she ran her finger across the great room’s mantle in her ongoing search for missed or revived dirt. The world had certainly grown smaller, especially following the decimation of the plague on the population of Europe. Even so, the coincidence was unnerving. Her gaze shot upward.
Did You have something to do with this?
There was one thing Grier had come to believe about God—He had an odd sense of humor. She could not doubt that the connection between the four adults in question was some grand celestial jest. How that connection might resolve in the end was the question now.
If she was honest with herself, Grier was nervous about seeing Drew again. Though she turned him away with no second thoughts, she could not deny her strong physical attraction to the handsome knight.
He was tall, about a hand over six feet. Though shorter than Rydar by a couple inches, he was broader than her lean husband and quite powerfully built. His thick hair was black as a raven, and hung just past his shoulders when he loosed it from its leather thong.
And his eyes—his eyes were his most compelling feature. Grier thought of them as lion’s eyes with their mix of brown, green, and gold. In sunlight, the gold was the most startling. And when he spoke, his deep voice sounded like a subdued roar.
Grier straightened and rubbed her belly again. “Settle down, child. Ye’ve got plenty of time yet.”
She moved to a window and looked out at Rydar through the small, thick panes of glass. He was ordering servants around as new bushes were planted along the short drive from the road to their front door. He had gone so far as to crush new shells to make the path gleam whiter.
“I love ye, ye stubborn Viking,” she whispered in English. “And I wouldna trade ye for a thousand knights.”
When Eryn’s letter arrived, Grier had the startling realization that she needed to practice her English as well. After four years of concentrating her efforts on learning Norsk she reached the point where she thought—and dreamt—in her new language. There was no English in her life now.
She never wrote letters to her cousin Logan in Scotland because there was no way to assure that the notes would be delivered to the tiny fortress on Balnakeil Bay. Other than the single time the trio of young Norse fisherman visited and offered to carry her missive, communications between Grier and her childhood home were sadly non-existent.
“I must practice,” she chastised herself, saying the words aloud to remind her tongue how to form them. “For none but I can speak both Norsk and English. It will fall on me, then, to make certain everyone kens what is being said.”
Grier snorted. “No’ too much responsibility, then, aye? ‘Tis only a group of people who all have a bit of a bone to pick with each other.”
Rydar and Drew disliked each other from the start, and those feelings were exacerbated by Drew’s attempt to woo Grier. Grier turned the knight away, bruising his temper if not his heart. And considering her husband’s proposal, Eryn must feel leery about coming into the other woman’s home.
“She must long to ken her family, then, if she’s willing to bring her husband into my house,” Grier mused before a startling possibility occurred to her. “Either that, or she truly doesna ken what transpired.”
Did Eryn know? And if she didn’t, what might result if the subject was innocently raised?
Or not so innocently. Grier tucked that possibility in the back of her mind as information to use if the need arose.
In the meantime, no matter what else he prepared, Rydar needed to prepare his English.
Grier knew for certain that particular tongue would be used for the length of the couple’s visit, since three of them spoke fluently—only her husband must limp along as best he could.
Each instance where she was required to translate for Rydar would thrust him outside of the conversation and steal a bit of his authority. As his wife, Grier must protect his position as lord of the estate, and host in this coming interaction. She needed to push him to use English as much as she could between now and his cousin’s arrival.
No matter how irritated he might become.
Grier looked up at the wooden beams high above the floor of the great room and sighed. New cobwebs appeared every week, and she already had a vast supply in her box of healing supplies.
She walked out of the room to search for the servant with the long pole and rags, rubbing her much-abused ribs as she did so.
Chapter Five
June 11, 1359
Shipboard, the North Sea
Eryn couldn’t stay off the ship’s deck even when the wind whipped her hair loose from its bindings and threw it into her eyes, making them sting and water. She ached for a glimpse of land, of Norway’s coastline, of the home of her father.
Rolf Hansen was the third son in the Hansen family and he became a soldier, paid to fight by any army which required his strength and his sword. He spent months in London three decades ago, preparing to leave on the first crusade of the fourteenth century. That was when he met Annais Smythe—and fathered the daughter whom he never met.
Eryn’s mother left clues to her father’s identity, not the least of which was her name. Eryndal. Arendal. Her mother may not have spelt it right, but Drew told her that once he heard her full name and her story, he knew where her father’s family resided.
His letter of inquiry proved it. The letter also proved that her husband had already met the man who was her last living relative. Eryn could hardly believe such a thing was possible.
Father God, You are so kind and generous to have given Your humble servant such an unexpected blessing.
She rose on her tiptoes squinting at the suddenly smudged grey spot where blue sky met blue horizon. Her eyes ached as she stared, unblinking, willing it to be land, and not to be merely her imagination.
She wondered what her cousin—Rydar—would be like. Drew was rather unhelpful, only describing him in the most general of terms.
“If I kent I’d be marrying his cousin, I would have paid more attention, aye?” he stated when she had asked him. “And he wasna around the castle much. He was building his boat, mind.”
Eryn frowned at that. “But you were around the castle?”
Drew shook his head. “No, lass. I was riding all across the countryside to determine how many still lived, and which farms were still working.” He leaned closer. “I had been given a royal task, ye ken.”
“Of course.” Eryn tamped down the bubble of jealousy which gurgled up at the thought of Drew closeted with the mysterious lady of the castle. “What was Grier like?”
Drew’s gaze fell away from hers for a telling moment. “She’s a Scot. Stubborn and strong-headed.”
“What does she look like?” Eryn pressed, hoping to find out what that brief break in Drew’s composure meant.
Drew pulled a breath and narrowed his eye as if struggling to remember. “Blue eyes, I think. Red hair. Really much too red for my preference.”
“Is she—was she—pretty?”
He shrugged. “If ye like that sort.”
Then he pulled her close and kissed her very, very well. As they had from the start, his kisses still stole her breath and made her belly flutter in the most pleasant manner.
His voice had gone seductively husky. “I love you, Eryn. None other. Ever.”
Eryn shaded her eyes and kept her gaze fixed on the spot in the distance. The smudge was definitely growing. Her heart stepped up its cadence all the while the ship seemed to slow its pace.
“That’s not possible,” she mumbled.
“What’s no’ possible?”
She turned to her husband, finding the solidity of his sudden presence comforting. “I believe that’s land ahead, and it feels as though the ship’s pace is slowing.”
He smiled a little. “That is possible, I’m afraid. If the wind slows.”
As if to assure her of its singular intent, a gust of da
mp, salty air covered Eryn’s countenance with her now-freed and helplessly tangled locks. She scrabbled with both hands to clear her face of the unwelcome interference.
“Apparently it’s not slowing after all.” She spat errant strands of hair from her mouth.
“Come below, then” Drew suggested. “Comb and replait your hair, and when ye’re done the coastline might actually appear habitable.”
Eryn struggled with the simple decision. On the one hand, she didn’t care to step away from the growing land mass on the horizon, afraid it might somehow disappear if she didn’t keep watch over it.
But on the other, taking the time to untangle her hair and corral it securely in an intricate braid would occupy her more effectively than straining her eyes in this midday’s tempestial wind.
She turned away from the railing and took Drew’s arm. He helped her down the slippery ladder to the tiny low-ceilinged space which was theirs during the voyage. Drew sat and watched as she applied her comb to the wind-tied knots.
“I am anxious to meet Rydar and Grier,” she confessed, keeping her eyes fixed on her task. “I hope they like me.”
Drew scoffed. “Ye’ve no reason to worry about that, so dinna fash yourself.”
“But it means so very much to me.” Eryn did raise her eyes then. “I thought I was completely alone for so long, with no hope of finding where I came from.”
Drew gave her a patient look. “I ken, lass. I’ve been alongside ye this whole journey, mind.”
“Now that this meeting is truly at hand, and not merely a dream of something I might someday do, I’m—”
What was she?
Afraid that she might not like her cousin? Worried that she would dislike her father’s ancestral home? Concerned that she would prove to be a disappointment to the Norseman whose hospitality she had requested?
“I’m wondering if we are truly welcome,” she admitted, returning to her messy hair.
Drew leaned against the rough wall. “Does it matter?”
Her head popped up. “What?”
