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

by Kris Tualla

  Pushing herself to stand, Grier returned to her cooking. She refused to look in her patient’s direction while she finished preparing their breakfast. But the image of his eyes focused on hers remained in her thoughts.

  The day progressed in much the same manner: the stranger woke, Grier gave him water, cider or broth, and he collapsed once more into slumber. She was gratified to note that his fever lessened. Given the night shift again, Grier bade Logan to help the man relieve himself, should he be present when the man was awake.

  “And call me this time,” she chided.

  Chapter Two

  May 15, 1354

  The next morning when Grier came in with the well water, the sailor was awake. Those impossibly pale green eyes reached out to her, wide and intense.

  “Orkney?” he rasped, his raw voice painful to hear. The man’s eyebrows raised and he patted the edge of the cot with one huge hand. “Er denne Orkney?”

  “Nay, you’re no’ in Orkney! You’re by Durness. Balnakeil Bay. Scotland.”

  He managed to slump somehow, considering he was already lying down. “Skottland.” His hand crumpled to a fist and he pounded the cot. “Jeg er ikke ennå hjem.”

  “Hh-yem? Home?” Grier guessed.

  Eyes darkening to moss shifted to meet hers from under a lowering brow though no other part of him moved. Grier’s gut clenched. His anger was clear, but its direction was not. She set the bucket down and faced him with what she hoped he saw as confident kindness.

  “This is my home. My…” She placed her palm against her chest. Then she held her hands over her head like a roof. “Home.”

  “My home,” he mumbled, his voice rough and joyless as his expression.

  “Nay, no’ your home!” Grier swallowed her trepidation and knelt by the cot. She kept her eyes focused on his. She grasped the man’s large hand; it was warm and dry, jaggedly calloused, with long, lean fingers and torn nails. She pressed his palm against his chest. He didn’t resist.

  “My,” she said quietly. He dipped a wee nod. She pointed at him. “Your.”

  His countenance brightened a tiny bit. He pointed at Grier. “Your?”

  She nodded as well. “Aye.”

  He sighed and swallowed. “Her er your home.”

  “Aye, I believe.” She pointed at him and asked, “Your home?”

  He looked away from her and shook his head. “Som jeg leter etter mitt hjem,” he growled.

  Grier laid her knuckles against his weathered cheek. It was warm, but no longer too warm, and held some healthy color at last. She wished she could understand his words. More than her accustomed call to heal, something about this man made her ache to give him comfort. Perhaps it was the lost look in his pale eyes, or the complete lack of a smile lifting his beard-matted cheeks. She sensed he might be as alone—and hopeless—as she.

  His gaze jumped to hers then darted around the room, wide and panicked. What little color he had gained, drained from his face.

  “Den andre mannen?” he croaked. “Hvor er den andre mannen?”

  “Mannen?” Grier startled. Her heart thumped painfully, but she spoke past the pummeling dread. “Other man?”

  “Min venn?” He clasped his hands together then pantomimed a ship rolling over waves. He pointed at Grier. “Du—your—finner?”

  ‘Venn’ sounded like friend, and she would have bet the castle that ‘finner’ meant find. Her throat closed up and she could only manage a tiny nod, and then a slow shake of her head.

  He sucked a quick breath and winced with pain. Hand on his left side, he exhaled a moan, low and ragged. A tear rolled out the corner of his eye and trickled into his tangled mane.

  “Jeg er til å skylde.” His cobbled fist pummeled the cot. Again. And again.

  And again.

  Grier allowed him to grieve for a pace, helpless to soften his anguish. She knew grief far too well; it shredded one’s insides until death was preferable. But life most often went onward. She would help his body heal, but the loss of his friend was his to cope with alone.

  After several long minutes, she gently turned his face toward her. His skin flushed crimson above the beard, whether with pain or embarrassment she couldn’t discern. Downcast eyes, rimmed in red, staggered up her face until they met hers.

  Her mouth opened to speak, but she was silenced by his pain. She swallowed thickly and attempted a small, empathetic smile.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  His lips twitched in acknowledgement. He looked away, closed and wiped his eyes. Grier waited until he looked back to her.

  “I,” she pointed at her chest, “am Grier MacInnes.”

  “Gree-er?”

  She nodded.

  One corner of his mouth curved briefly. “Rydar Martin Petter-Edvard Hansen.”

  She did smile softly at that. “Ry-dar?” Her tongue rolled the ‘r’ bookends of his name.

  “Ja. Rydar Hansen.” He rubbed his left side, still wincing a bit.

  Grier held out her hand. To her surprise, Rydar pressed it to his lips. They were firm and warm. His voice was low, rough, and achingly tender.

  “Takk du, Grier.”

  “You’re welcome,” she murmured, submerged deliciously in the green sea of his gaze.

  When Logan tumbled into the kitchen, Grier jerked her hand from Rydar’s and lurched to her feet. She whirled to face her younger cousin.

  “Logan! This is Rydar. Rydar Hansen,” she blurted. Why was her face growing hot? Nothing inappropriate had transpired between her and the Norse sailor.

  “Aye. I ken.” Logan nodded his greeting to the man and lifted the lid from a pot over the fire. He made a face when he found only water. “Is there no parritch, then?”

  “Ye ken? How?” Grier hurried over to the cabinet, her cheeks tight with embarrassment. She concentrated on the bucket of oats, grabbing the new wooden spoon that she procured yesterday afternoon.

  “When you’re holding a man’s yard for him, it helps to know his name. Might you put milk in the parritch this morn?” Logan swiped a finger through the honey pot and stuck it in his mouth like a wee child, not the grown man that he was.

  Grier gave her back to the two men. “That depends on whether the goat’s been milked!” she snapped.

  “Are ye wroth?” Logan leaned over to see her face, his soft brown eyes searching hers.

  “Do we have milk or don’t we?” she countered.

  “I’ll get it,” Logan said, his tone more petulant than was suitable for a twenty-year-old laird.

  “And when you’ve done so, I’ll put it in the parritch.” Grier dumped the oats into the boiling water. “So go.”

  “And I’ll bring eggs as well, aye?” Logan offered before he clomped out of the kitchen.

  Sucking air through his teeth, Rydar pushed himself to a sitting position and grimaced. He hummed the breath out slowly and continued to rub the dark bruise on his left side. Tugging the blankets close around his narrow hips, he swung his long legs to the floor with a grunt.

  “Go easy, Rydar!” Grier stopped stirring the oats and moved to push her sewing basket under his broken limb. “Ye do no’ want to knock it out of place!”

  Rydar pulled up the edge of the blanket until he could see the wood spoons strapped to his calf. The astonished look on his face was so unexpected that Grier burst out laughing. She clapped her hand over her mouth, suddenly afraid she might offend. Puzzled eyes lifted to hers above a weak lopsided smile. She lowered her hand and gave a small shrug.

  “Did ye always smile like that? Or is it since ye were hurt?” Grier touched the dressing over the stitches in his cheek. Rydar’s fingers followed hers and explored the wound. She noticed his pale skin puckering with cold.

  “I washed and fixed your clothes,” she continued, retrieving his shirt, braies, and hose from a stool by the fire. “Your doublet was gone, but I bade Logan to bring down one of his. I’ll find you a new one as soon as I’m able.”

  Rydar accepted the garment
s and slipped the repaired shirt over his head. Grier turned back to her cooking while he struggled into the braies and hose. His snorted chuckle beckoned the return of her attention.

  Though a big enough man, Logan was shorter and stockier than Rydar. The fabric of his doublet strained at the sailor’s broad shoulders, but gaped loose around Rydar’s middle. The sleeves ended halfway below his elbows. The skirt of the tunic, which should have reached mid-thigh, barely covered his groin.

  Rydar grinned sheepishly at Grier, revealing a slightly crooked front tooth. He extended his arms straight out in from of him. “Jeg er en kjempe.”

  “I’ve no idea what a ‘kyem-pa’ is, but you look like a giant!” Grier laughed again.

  Logan re-appeared with a bucket of milk, still steaming in the crisp morning air. Three eggs nested in his broad hand. He stopped when he saw Rydar wearing his doublet.

  “It’s no’ the best fit, aye?” Logan handed the eggs to Grier and set the bucket of milk on the table. “We can no’ make you shorter, but Grier’s cooking will fill you out!”

  Rydar’s stomach growled loudly in response. Bits of his face not covered by his tangled beard suffused scarlet.

  Grier lifted the pot of oat parritch to the table. “Go on then, eat up! I’ll cook the eggs.”

  Logan spooned generous portions into two bowls, and added milk and honey to both. He handed one bowl to Rydar. Rydar scooped up a large bite, blew on it, then put it in his mouth. His eyes closed and he paused.

  “Mmm. Det er god,” he sighed.

  “Good?” Logan guessed.

  Rydar nodded and scooped another large bite. “Good,” he repeated. By the time the eggs were cooked, his bowl was scraped clean.

  “Do ye want more?” Grier divided the eggs between the two men, giving the larger portion to Rydar.

  “Mere? Ja. Takk du.”

  “You’re welcome.” Grier watched while Rydar devoured his portion of eggs in three bites, and then finished another large bowl of oat parritch. When had he eaten last? She suspected it was several days before he shipwrecked. She poured a generous mug of ale for each of the men.

  Logan set his empty bowl on the table and gulped the ale. “I’ll be off now. The storm set things back a bit and I’ve more’n a day’s work to do.” He stood and nodded to Rydar. “I’ll see you later, then.” The man nodded solemnly in return and Logan headed out of the keep.

  Rydar pointed at Logan’s disappearing back, then at Grier. He clasped his hands together, eyebrows raised. “Your mann?”

  The question was reasonable since Logan looked nothing like her. Grier wasn’t particularly tall; only three or four inches over five feet. And with her tumultuous orange hair and blue eyes, she favored her mother’s family, not her father’s.

  “What? No. No! He’s no’ my husband! He’s my—” How could she explain ‘cousin’? She held both hands, palm down, on either side of her head. “My father and mother.”

  “Farther, morther? Far og mor?” Rydar spoke hesitantly. “Pappa og mamma?”

  “Yes! My papa and mama!” She stepped to one side, hands still up. “Logan’s papa and mama. Do ye ken?”

  Rydar nodded, his brow plowed with a puzzled frown.

  She clasped hands, miming the connection. “My papa and Logan’s papa were brothers.”

  “Brorthers?” Rydar mimicked, then understanding relaxed his features. “Brødre! Ja.”

  “Ja!” Grier nodded. “We are no’ married. I have no husband. No mann.”

  Rydar leaned back and his clear green eyes swept over her in obvious surprise. “No mann?” he repeated. He cocked his head and spread his hands in question.

  Grier’s smile evaporated. “Twas the Black Death.”

  “No ken ‘black death’,” Rydar managed.

  “Black. Like this.” Grier pointed at the pot hanging over the fire. “And death.” She mimicked someone dying.

  Rydar shook his head, looking contrite. “No ken. Jeg er trist.”

  Grier took a deep breath, and faced down the ugly memories. “People died. Lots of people.” She held up four fingers and pulled down two. “Dead.”

  “Død. Ja?” He held up five fingers and pulled down two.

  “No.” Grier sat on the cot beside him and pulled down one more. Rydar held up ten, and she pulled down six.

  He looked stunned. “All er død? Å min Gud!”

  “Aye. All are dead. Most times I wondered if ‘mine God’ was anywhere to be found.”

  Grier rubbed her stinging eyes before any futile tears could fall. Crying would not bring anyone back so there was no point in succumbing. She spoke slowly, clearly, using her hands.

  “I buried my papa first, and then Logan’s papa. I feared it would never stop until we all…”

  Willful tears now pushed their way past her lashes, prodded by the devastation that left her bereft of everyone she loved. Swept forward, she struggled to keep her words ahead of the wave of pain that threatened to swamp her.

  “For six years they died.”

  “Seks år. Ja,” Rydar said softly.

  Grier stared at the fire and wiped her cheeks on her sleeve. Since the Death her future stretched before her as bleak and endless as a stormy winter sky over the North Sea.

  She looked back at Rydar and whispered, “Now there’s no one left.”

  Chapter Three

  When Moira pulled open the kitchen’s outside door, Grier leapt from Rydar’s cot as if it was on fire. That was the second time this morn that she was startled away from the big man. What about this exotic stranger made her feel so intimately connected? That when none but words and kindness passed between them, she was embarrassed to be found doing so?

  Moira’s wide brown eyes hopped from Grier to the big raggedy sailor and back again. She clutched a freckled hand to her throat.

  “Is aught amiss?” she squeaked.

  “No! No, come in.” Grier rubbed her eyes. “Are ye well, then?”

  “Aye. No fever since yesterday. And no spots of any sort, ever.” Moira stared at Rydar. “What might he be?” Moira had grown over-familiar, now that she was the only surviving maid still serving the cousins’ needs in the small keep.

  “You mean ‘who,’ do you no’?” Grier frowned her discipline at the presumptuous girl. Moira shrugged one shoulder, her gaze still glued.

  “This is Rydar Martin Petter-Edvard Hansen. His boat sank in the storm and he washed up on the chyngell. He appears to be Norse.”

  Rydar grinned weakly when Grier said his complete name. He nodded to Moira. She lowered her eyes.

  “Does he speak our language?” she whispered.

  “No. No’ yet.” Grier looked over her shoulder at Rydar. “But I’m teaching him.”

  “He’s rather coarse-looking, isn’t he?” Moira sniffed and turned half away. Her auburn braid fell over her shoulder. “Where would ye wish me to start today?”

  “The Great Hall. Make it presentable for Sir Hansen. I’ll make that his apartment while he bides with us.”

  “The Hall?” Moira now looked at Rydar with a bit of awe. “Why? Is he noble?”

  “I don’t think so, by the looks of him. But his leg’s broke so he can no’ manage the steps to the sleep chambers, and the Hall has a door for his privacy.”

  Grier swung the water pot over the fire, and glanced around the kitchen. She retrieved a small hatchet and waved it at Moira while she rattled her instructions. “Make certain there’s a piss pot for him, and plenty of peat for the fire. And a pitcher of fresh water. And towels for him to wash. I’ll see to the noon meal.”

  “He requires a bit more than a mere pitcher o’ water,” Moira grumbled.

  “Do as I bid, Moira. Your tongue is no’ required.”

  “Aye, my lady.” Her narrowed eyes slid to Rydar before she followed Grier outside to fill her wash bucket at the well.

  Grier entered the hen’s coop and expertly grabbed one victim by the feet. Outside, she used the hatchet to neatly dispose of its h
ead. She turned to leave when a vision of Rydar gulping his parritch caused her to return and grab a second bird. Grier carried dinner to the keep, draining blood along the way. In the kitchen, she plunged the chicken carcasses into boiling water to loosen their feathers and then plopped them on the table.

  “My—hjelp—your,” Rydar spoke from his cot. He wiggled his fingers toward the blanched birds.

  “It’s no’ mens’ work,” Grier protested.

  Rydar obviously did not understand her, but now he jabbed a finger at the table. “My hjelp your!” he insisted in his oddly thick accent.

  He spoke with such intent that Grier relented. “Aye. You,” she pointed at Rydar, “help me.” She patted her chest.

  He struggled to stand on one leg and Grier hurried to support him. She tucked under his arm, close to his side. It was a surprisingly nice fit, though—even hunched over—he towered above her. Beneath her palm, lean muscle flexed and snaked across his ribs. The thigh of his uninjured leg bunched and shifted under the knit hose. Together, they shuffled him to the table and into a chair. Grier moved her basket to re-prop the splinted limb. Rydar pulled the chickens close and began to pluck them.

  “My help you,” he nodded.

  “I,” Grier pointed at her chest. “I help you.”

  “I help you. Ja.”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye. Takk du.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you?” Rydar repeated.

  “Aye. Takk du. Thank you.”

  “Ja. Thank you.”

  “Aye.”

  Slack-jawed, the two stared at each other for a moment while understanding caught up with their cryptic verbal exchange. Then they burst into shared laughter. Rydar alternately laughed and moaned, grasping his battered ribs and thus setting them off again. Grier wiped her eyes, watering now from this unexpected—but very welcomed—moment of shared silliness.

  “Chicken!” she shouted, hefting a headless carcass.

  “Chicken!” Rydar answered. “Kylling!”