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

by Kris Tualla

  “Table!” Grier pounded on the tabletop.

  “Tabell!”

  “That was easy! I wonder what else? Fire!”

  “Fyr!”

  “Door!”

  “Dør!”

  “Window!”

  “Vindu!”

  Grier smiled into Rydar’s expressive green eyes. “This may no’ be so hard,” she posited.

  “No hard.” He shook his head. “I lærer your språk good.”

  Grier turned her back. Perhaps I’ll learn your ‘speak’ as well.

  She made bread in contented silence while Rydar cleaned the chickens. When he asked for a ‘kniv’ Grier watched, fascinated, as he cleanly butchered the birds. In one iron pan, she piled turnips, onions and herbs, then snuggled the chickens into a second pan. She pushed both pans and the bread into carved-out ovens on either side of the kitchen’s huge fireplace.

  “Thank you for your help, Rydar,” she murmured. The warming intimacy of both the cozy kitchen and sharing her labors with this man in easy quiet filled Grier with a peace she had not felt for a very long time. She turned to smile at him and found him staring at her. His pale eyes searched, questioned. Her shoulders lifted a wee bit and fell. He gave a faint nod and looked away.

  Logan returned late in the morning with the news that he had dug out the burial space for the other sailor. He set some of their tenants to the tasks of wrapping the body and gathering stones for the cairn.

  “The priest will come from town this afternoon,” he informed, leaning over to sniff the hot bread. “What name should we put on the cross?”

  Grier turned to Rydar. His squinting eyes remained focused on their lips. “Your—venn? Logan dug his grave.”

  “Grav? Aye. Er det en prest?” He made the sign of the cross.

  “Aye. The priest will come.”

  “Presten vil komme.” He sighed heavily. Grief dug deepening lines through his beard and pressed down his shoulders. His brow twitched and he sniffed a couple times.

  “Rydar? What was his name?”

  “Name? Navn, ja? Arne Jorgensen.” He swallowed audibly and shook his head. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Jeg er trist, Arne.”

  The trio’s somber midday meal lacked conversation. Logan simply ate, his appreciation of the fare expressed in periodic grunts. Grier picked at her food, distracted by the presence of the ragged male enigma facing her. She considered Rydar from under her lashes and pondered what losses he might be grieving other than his friend. Something had set them adrift in that little boat, risking both their lives. How far had they come? Where were they headed?

  And why?

  Rydar ate what he obviously considered a polite portion, but Grier saw the longing in his gaze. She heaped his platter a second time without asking. He tried to object, but she would have none of it.

  “You’re as thin as thread! And I mean to see you filled out.” She pushed the platter back towards him and poured another brimming mug of golden ale. “You eat all of that, ye hear?”

  While he may not know her words, he clearly got her meaning. With a nod of gratitude, he tackled the victuals, all but licking the platter clean.

  ***

  Logan fashioned a crutch for Rydar from a forked tree branch and a wad of wool, and Grier helped the man negotiate the keep’s worn stone steps. The morning’s stuttering clouds had thickened and grayed the afternoon, and a cool, musty breeze tangled her skirt around her legs. Crumbled shells on the path crunched under their feet, the only dirge lamenting the dead sailor.

  The priest waited, prayer book and rosary in hand, by a pile of rocks squeezed into the outer edge of the castle’s overfilled cemetery. In a fresh ditch lay Arne’s shrouded corpse.

  Rydar stopped in his awkward process and stared. His stoic countenance paled and the bruises on his face darkened in contrast. Grier saw his jaw clench repeatedly; his chest heaved in jerky breaths. Rydar hobbled forward, leaning heavily on the crutch, his gaze never moving from the still figure wrapped in ivory linen.

  When he reached the body, Rydar struggled to lower his considerable length to the ground beside it. His outreached hand trembled over his friend, then lowered to rest on the cloth, fingers twitching, grasping. His shoulders began to shake. He clutched his left side, slumping prostrate alongside his companion. Low, sorrowful moans caused the priest to pause in the sacrament.

  Grier moved without thinking. She knelt on the cold, damp ground beside Rydar and gently lifted his head into her lap. Closing her eyes, she tried to sop up the sorrow that spilled from him. She stroked his long, matted hair, rubbed one hunched and shaking shoulder, and hummed tunelessly.

  Feeling him relax a wee bit under her touch, she opened her eyes and nodded to the priest to continue. She was surprised to hear Rydar speak Latin along with the cleric.

  He must be devout. She crossed herself and felt for her crucifix.

  At the conclusion of the rites, Rydar pushed himself upright and scooted back on his arse, watching somberly while the corpse was covered with rocks.

  “Tilg meg, Arne. Jeg er slik trist,” he whispered over and over.

  When Logan pounded the wood cross labeled ‘Arne Jorgensen’ at the head of the cairn, Rydar gasped and wiped his reddened eyes. Then Logan walked toward the cemetery gate with the priest, but Grier stayed beside Rydar. She needed to keep touching him, stroking his back or his arm, until finally he pushed her away. He pointed to the keep.

  “I vil komme,” he rasped. She didn’t move. “I vil komme!” he said again.

  Grier stood slowly and smoothed her gown, unwilling to leave him alone but apparently unwelcome to stay. “Aye, then,” she murmured. “Do no’ stay too long. It’s chilling.”

  He shook his head as if he understood.

  The day aged. The sun snuck beneath the clouds and hovered over the water’s northwestern horizon. Copper highlights briefly burnished the waves of Balnakeil Bay before Rydar hobbled back into the keep. Grier heard his uneven steps in the hallway and hurried to intercept him.

  “There ye be. I’m so sorry about your friend,” she said quietly and squeezed his arm.

  He nodded, reddened lids lowered, beard-tangled cheeks hollowed out.

  “Come, I’ve something to show you.” Grier gestured for him to follow her into the Hall.

  He paused inside the door, pale gaze wide and touching everything. Moira had moved the cot and made a bed for him near the fire. On a polished table were a glazed pitcher of water and a stack of folded towels. A less elegant pot waited by the hearth.

  The room was well-appointed, having been used for all types of gatherings during the happier days in Grier’s memory. Ornately carved chairs and small tables were scattered around. A cabinet rested against the far wall. The fireplace nestled between two tall leaded-glass windows. Woven tapestries on the outer walls depicted both religious icons and scenes from Scotch life.

  One large piece illustrated a Viking longship landing on Scottish shores to a welcome of arrows and swords. Rydar tilted his head toward it and gave Grier a puzzling little smile.

  Then he spied the mirror.

  Chapter Four

  The gilt-framed mirror hung opposite the hearth in the formal hall. Pushed by curiosity Rydar hobbled toward it, his pulse thrumming with trepidation. Both his brow and jaw dropped when he saw his reflection. He turned startled eyes to Grier, and then looked back at the polished silver surface. He bent closer and tried to comb his fingers through the matted hair that hung below his shoulders. He pulled at his half-a-foot of tangled beard and turned aside to see the stitched gash. His shoulders slumped.

  “Å min Gud,” he groaned.

  “It’s no’ all that bad.” He didn’t understand her words, but Grier’s tone sounded encouraging. “A bath would help. And a bit o’ barbering.”

  “Barbering! Aye.” He knew that word. His grateful grin made a half-hearted appearance; it was the best he could manage right now.

  “I’ll have Logan give ye a hand this
eventide.”

  “Logan. Aye. Takk du.” He stared again, disbelieving his reflection, stunned by its multiple revelations. The man in the mirror was a complete stranger. He never would have imagined that he looked like this. This battered. This thin. This old.

  How old was he? His birthday was at the summer solstice; he thought he’d be twenty-seven or twenty-eight. But his father died at the young age of forty-three, and the reflection facing him now looked exactly like his memory of his father. The past years were much harder on him than he realized.

  Rydar clenched his jaw, fighting an oppressive sense of failure that threatened to snuff what life still clung to him. The urgency of his journey wrapped its crushing tendrils around his beaten ribs. One thing was undeniable: he must continue on as soon as possible. He had already lost too many years. But the merciless storm had eaten his boat and killed his friend.

  And now he had to begin again. Alone.

  How might he continue? He lost everything. He had not one thing left on this earth to call his own.

  God in Heaven, please save me.

  Rydar glanced at Grier’s reflection behind him.

  Again, he added guiltily.

  ***

  After yet another of Grier’s generous meals, Rydar struggled into the copper tub of steaming water that waited in his adopted chamber. Clumsy because of his splinted leg, his face warmed with keen irritation and unaccustomed embarrassment. Logan pushed a chair near the tub to support Rydar’s left foot and keep the dressing dry. Then he said something about ‘barbering’ and left the room.

  Once in the water, Rydar felt his body begin to relax in its embracing heat. He leaned his head back and relished the pleasurable sensation. This relief was better than Valhalla. A very welcome bit of civilization in a life that had been completely devoid of such for nearly two decades.

  Rydar contemplated his injuries. The left side of his chest was a dark purple, but already yellowing around the edges. He unwrapped his right wrist, bent too far when the mast broke off his boat the morning of the wreck. The swelling had receded and it hurt less to flex than it had. So the bruises and sprain weren’t bad—he’d endured much worse in Grønnland—but the broken leg did throb, the ache relentless in the damp chill of the north Scotland clime. He could not recall the moment it broke but that was of no matter.

  It’ll mend, he told himself. She’s done a fine job with the splint.

  Made of spoons.

  He chuckled a little in spite of the day’s sad events.

  Eyes closed, he concentrated on the water’s healing warmth, inhaled its steam, and savored every undulating ripple over his puckering skin. He cast his thoughts back, trying to remember the last stone building he had been inside. It had to be in Arendal, before his father moved the family from Norway to Grønnland. All the buildings in that God-forsaken place were made of sod and wood. Mostly sod. Trees were as rare as mermaids there.

  How old was he then? Ten or eleven. Not yet a man. Young enough to anticipate adventure and too young to fully understand the hellish existence they landed in. It took but a quarter of the next score of years for him to figure out that the remote arctic settlement—and those Norsemen struggling to eke out a living in it—were irrevocably dying.

  He was glad to be alone just now. He felt like crying again. That particular emotion had swamped him more since leaving Grønnland than in all his previous years of life; even when his parents died one after the other, the spark beaten out of them by the harsh reality of a miserable and hopeless existence. But he was a grown man, and grown men didn’t cry over mere disappointment.

  Guilt poked him hard at this moment of selfish relief. Blessed, welcome relief in the form of safety, food and warmth. Relief that tempered the excitement, terror, and desperation that had dogged him since the decision was first made to build the boat.

  It was entirely his idea to build the vessel and sail east for Norway; Arne had never been there. Born in the Grønnland settlement, Arne’s only contact with their shared homeland had been the ships that brought both supplies and a few more desperate souls anxious to start new lives. Rydar spun tales of castles and kings and beautiful women, carried by a young adolescent’s view of the world. He succeeded in convincing his best friend to join his enterprise when the ships stopped coming.

  It may be that the last ship was five or six years ago.

  I wonder if this ‘Black Death’ Grier spoke of reached Norway? Is that the reason the ships didn’t come?

  And if it was, would he find half of his family dead when he returned? Because he would indeed return; his situation here was merely a delay. Whatever was required of him, he vowed to walk into Hansen Hall at Arendal and reclaim what was his. He couldn’t allow anything—or anyone—to stop him. If he did, all of his life to this point would be wasted.

  The hall door opened and Logan re-entered, razor and soap in hand. He handed the chunk of soap to Rydar who accepted the soft, pungent substance as if he had been handed an ingot of pure gold. Rydar held his breath and dipped under the water. He scrubbed his hair and beard with the soap, careful of the gash in his cheek. Then he surfaced and soaped his body. He smiled when he handed the slippery bar back to Logan.

  “Det lukter som blomster.” The soap smelled of flowers.

  Logan said something back. Rydar shrugged and shook his head. Then Logan held up the razor and Rydar understood his meaning. He sat up in the tub and presented his chin.

  Logan was quite skilled at barbering. He shaved Rydar well, skimming close to the stitches on the left cheek, but not cutting the threads. When he finished, Rydar rinsed himself again in the cooling water, then Logan helped him from the tub. Without thinking, Rydar put his left leg down. A hot spike of pain shot up his shin, causing him to cry out, and he nearly fell.

  Logan caught him.

  “Have a care, man! It’s still broken!” he chided.

  Rydar couldn’t match any of those words with Norse or any of the other tongues he knew, but was fairly certain what was intended. He jerked a nod, growing increasingly angry that he couldn’t understand their particular language. He was unaccustomed to feeling weak and his frustration threatened his ability to remain polite to his saviors. He dried himself, the towel taking the brunt of his irritation, and then dressed again, careful not to rip his repaired shirt.

  When Logan handed him a comb he stared at it, momentarily transported. Carved from bone, the brace was wrapped in tooled silver. His mother had one very much like it. Odd. He remembered her comb, but her face was beyond his reach.

  It took some work to get the comb through his tangled hair but Rydar eventually accomplished the task. Logan lifted the razor again, this time in question. Then he mimed cutting his own locks, which were chin length. Rydar nodded. He watched tufts of his hair fall to the stone floor before Logan swept them into the fire. They were much darker than he thought. The honeyed blond of his youth had given way to maturity in a world with little sun to lighten it.

  “You look good,” Logan complimented.

  “Good?” he raised one brow, skeptical.

  “Aye. If I do say so.” Logan grinned and gathered his barbering tools.

  “Takk du.” Rydar reached out for his crutch and Logan obliged. I need to talk with Grier, he thought. I understand her.

  ***

  Grier stood in the passageway outside the sleeping chambers. She gripped a brass candlestick tightly in one hand. Her other hand trembled on the rusted latch securing an iron-banded wood door. She drew multiple breathes in an unsuccessful attempt to slow her pulse. She hadn’t been in this room since the day her father died.

  “It’s nigh four years past,” she said aloud. “And now it’s needful.”

  She drew a deep breath and held it.

  The latch balked, and then yielded with the squawk of aggravated metal. Grier stepped inside. Candlelight flickered across bare walls. Dust coated everything in a gray snowscape of neglect. She moved toward a large cedarwood kist at the foot of
the bed.

  When Grier had to breathe again, it was not as she feared. The room smelled stale, but the reek of death was gone. Voided bowels, blood, pungent medicines of no value, all of which filled the air on that horrible day had failed to leave a lasting legacy. A wee bit of her trepidation faded. She set the candlestick on the floor and lifted the lid of the kist. The bite of cedar washed away the remembrance.

  Her father’s clothes were still neatly folded in the coffer. He was a tall man, not quite so tall as Rydar, but taller than Logan. Grier lifted a blue velvet doublet, pleated with pearls. She pressed it to her lips, eyes closed.

  “I miss you, Da,” she whispered thickly. Her eyes stung with denied tears and her breath warmed the fabric, releasing more of the purging cedar aroma. She remembered the last time she saw her father in this garment. It was her betrothal dinner with Fergus and his parents.

  The world was different then, but it was already slipping inexorably into hell.

  Grier set the doublet on her lap with a rough sigh and began to dig through the chest. She added a burgundy brocade doublet and one of pale green wool that matched Rydar’s eyes. She also gathered up three pair of braies, three pair of hose and four linen shirts.

  “Boots!” she gasped. She reached for a soft leather pair and one with wooden soles for outdoor work. She had no idea if either would fit.

  Before she left the room, she paused and looked around. Someday soon this chamber would be Logan’s. He would marry and bring his bride here. They would sleep in her parents’ bed. They would consummate their marriage and birth their children on the same bed she was born in. Her father’s land, her father’s castle, and her father’s keep were now Logan’s. Refusing to consider her fate any further, Grier left the bedchamber and shut the latch solidly behind her.

  “I’m no’ replaced yet!” she stated firmly, and stalked to the top of the stone staircase.

  Grier was descending the stairs with the clothing in her arms when Rydar opened the door to his new accommodations. He hobbled out, leaning on the crutch, and turned to look up at her.