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

by Kris Tualla

  Rydar rolled onto his back and stretched, his limbs reaching far beyond the boundaries of the small cot. Still wide awake, the recollection of fresh salmon eggs made his mouth water in spite of the large meal he demolished just two hours before.

  He taught his best friend Arne to hunt, and while they traipsed the tundra together he told stories of his childhood in Norway. He used those tales to convince Arne to build the boat with him.

  The last Norse ship to reach them rested on the rocky shore, caved in on one side. The two men stripped it of anything usable. It required two summers to cobble together a sea-worthy craft from scavenged lumber, tar and hoof-glue.

  Poor Arne. So trusting and hopeful. Arne’s life in the Grønnland settlement had been an endless string of cool, dry summers and increasingly brutal winters. He said so many times that he ached for something interesting to happen. To learn a trade of value. To swive a beautiful woman. To see a different land. So when the weather turned and the storm threatened their little boat, Arne climbed the mast and screamed challenges in its face.

  “My God, Rydar! I’ve never felt more alive!” he bellowed, red-faced and grinning madly. He may have been truly mad by then, pushed by hunger and thirst. He died without achieving his goals, but he died fully alive.

  And not in Grønnland.

  Rydar turned to his side away from the hearth, and punched his pillow until it supported his head. He needed to push these unpleasant memories from his mind. Sleep required more palatable fodder. Fodder the likes of Grier.

  Now there was a subject worth pondering.

  Rydar had never seen anyone with hair the color of hers. Deep russet shot through by a summer’s sunset of orange and gold, those untamed curls were alive with color. He liked candlelight on it best. So far.

  And her eyes? They were the same shade as the North Sea on a sunny day. Dark, clear, blue. They were as changing as the waves, and reflected light in shifting momentary glints. Enchanting. Compelling. Beautiful.

  Grier wasn’t as tall as Norse women. Rydar looked at his palm, and decided she was less than one hand’s width taller than five feet. She was sturdy, though, and strong. He liked that. Pale, puny women always died in Grønnland. He had no need for that sort.

  Rydar chuckled; from what he recalled of Norway, she was not the most ladylike of women. Those who owned a castle did not do the cooking as well. Nor butcher hens. Nor practice healing.

  Nor take the stairs two at a time.

  Rydar recalled the vision of her slippered feet and shapely calves under her hiked-up kirtle. Her arse swayed with each double step and her fiery hair blazed down her back. He didn’t know what angered her nor why she remained in her chamber for the remainder of the evening. But when she brushed past him, cheeks flushed and eyes like blue flames, he was captivated. For that moment, she owned him.

  His eyelids drooped. What might it be like to kiss her? He imagined her full lips against his, moist and slightly parted. Though unmarried—and most likely a virgin—might she kiss with the same passion he saw in her tonight? Did she know of such things? And dare he attempt to find out?

  Quit these thoughts and now, Hansen, before they cause you trouble. You’ve not reached your home. You’ve got more journey ahead of you, and no visible way to make it!

  And no one—not a beautiful flirtatious widow, nor an intriguing high-spirited healer—could be allowed to stop him.

  Rydar’s resigned sigh became a snore.

  May 20, 1354

  Rydar roused in the midst of strange dreams in which he was bound against his will. He was back at Hansen Hall in Arendal and the room was his father’s, though it didn’t appear as it had when he saw it last. He struggled, desperate to free himself, certain that if he could just reach the fireplace, all would be set right.

  My chamber behind the mantle.

  After a decade, his father’s dying utterance still haunted his only son.

  When he heard those words, Rydar tore apart the fireplace in their Grønnland longhouse, glad his mother was already gone and wouldn’t fight him about it. But there was nothing to be found save stones, crumbling mortar and dust. In his consuming anger, Rydar refused to rebuild it. He preferred to live with an open fire pit rather than put one more mite of effort into that hated, God-forsaken place.

  Rydar opened his eyes, releasing himself from the dream’s night and forcing himself into the keep’s day.

  “I need to free myself,” he said aloud. Remaining indoors was grating on a soul so accustomed to open sky and vast horizons. “I must get out of the keep and work to get strong again so I can continue my journey. That’s what the dream was about.”

  That determined, he washed, dressed, and crutched his way outside.

  The dawn was damp and misty, glowing pinkish in the morning sun. Foggy clouds slowly stepped away, allowing the sun purchase. Rydar paused and looked around the castle grounds, getting his bearings. On his first gray day here when Arne was buried he hadn’t been capable of noticing anything beyond his own pain.

  The solid oak-and-iron front door of the keep was tucked between the jutting Great Hall on his left, and a taller circular tower on his right. He hopped forward and descended the five granite steps to the ground. The keep faced south, away from the sea.

  Sloping like a wide skirt, the grassy yard was laced with crushed-shell pathways. An uneven stone wall, ranging between what Rydar guessed was fifteen and twenty feet in height, surrounded the large yard with strong rectangular arms. A variety of two-story craftsmen’s buildings were scattered around the perimeter of the wall and tenants were already about their work. A gate in the south wall stood open to a wooden bridge and forested land beyond. If he remembered rightly, the graveyard was on the east side of the keep. He knew the kitchen door opened to the west.

  Rydar followed the raucous clucking of chickens to a low wooden building sheltered against the northwestern outer wall. On the way he passed a substantial vegetable and herb garden outside the kitchen, near the well. That explained why Grier’s cooking tasted so good.

  “Oh my Lord! Rydar!” She took a quick step backward into the noisy henhouse juggling several eggs in her apron. She managed to keep all but one of them from splattering on the ground.

  Rydar lifted a hand in supplication. “Sorry, Grier!”

  He hadn’t intended to frighten her; though it did bring delightful color to her cheeks and turned her eyes into flashing sapphires. Thus distracted Rydar paused, trying to recall what he should say.

  Remembering, he pointed at the broken egg. “I—I much sorry.”

  She nodded and flipped her abundant rust-colored curls over her shoulder. Rydar wondered what those fascinating curls might feel like if he ran his fingers through them.

  Stop it.

  “What are you about, then?” she asked.

  Rydar shrugged. He created a sentence he hoped made sense. “I come out today morning. See all, aye?”

  Her countenance softened with understanding. “Aye. I suppose being cooped up inside would grate on a soul.”

  He didn’t know all her words, but he knew her tone and he knew she understood him. She stepped around him and called to Moira.

  “Take these eggs to the kitchen, will you?” she asked.

  Moira set her bucket beside the well and edged toward Grier to accept the eggs. Her gaze ran up and down Rydar’s frame, and she hurried away once she had the eggs tucked in her own apron. A full week in his presence now and the maid was still unaccountably skittish around him.

  “If you’re of a mind, I could show you around a bit,” Grier offered.

  Rydar watched her lips and shrugged; his adopted response when he didn’t understand.

  She smiled gently. “Come with me.”

  Those words he knew. “Aye. Thank you.”

  She turned and walked toward the stable, set against the opposite wall. He noticed that she set a pace he could manage with the crutch. It seemed that was her habit—looking out for others, offering hers
elf in even the smallest manner. Comforting in ways that truly helped. But she was not a rug to be walked on; he’d seen her temper.

  A smile tugged his uninjured cheek.

  The morning bloomed. Spring’s encroaching warmth and last week’s rainstorm conspired to coax flowers from beneath the sandy soil. Snippets of color edged the buildings and ran along the bottom of the castle’s outer walls. Castle tenants greeted Grier and cast curious glances at him, the limping stranger by her side.

  Rydar paused when they passed the cemetery. He squinted at the fresh pile of stones snugged against the far wall, trying not to see it and hoping it wasn’t there; but of course it was. He pulled a deep breath, attempting to quell the deep ache of grief, and crossed himself with a silent, God take his soul.

  Arne was never far from his conscious thoughts. His determination to continue on his journey to reach Norway was, in part, to give Arne’s death a purpose. He suddenly decided that if he ever had a son, he’d name the boy Arne. Arne Jorgensen Hansen. Yes, he would. If ever.

  Grier tugged at the thick gold chain around her neck until her crucifix topped her neckline.

  “Did you have one of these?” She held it toward him.

  Rydar reached for the icon, warm from lying against her skin, and lifted it reverently. Even to his eyes it appeared unexpectedly delicate in his large, voyage-roughened hand. He stared at it, examining the intricate gold handiwork. He’d seen things like this as a boy. Then he lifted it to his lips, closed his eyes, and kissed it.

  “Velsignet Jesus,” he whispered.

  “It was my Mam’s.” Grier slipped the crucifix back inside her kirtle.

  Rydar watched it fall inside her gown and swallowed thickly, his mouth gone dry. The desire to reach inside her dress in pursuit of the cross, and nestle his hand between her warm, rounded breasts, jabbed him in a very responsive spot.

  He twisted his hips away from Grier so she wouldn’t notice. His face heated. Skitt. Was he no more than a lusty teen? Growing hard at the mere thought of caressing a pair of tits?

  Mercifully, Grier walked again. Rydar followed, staying behind her until his inconvenient arousal eased.

  As they approached the stable, a groom led out a pair of well-conformed coursers, a bay mare and a black gelding, and tied them to a rail. Rydar crutched forward and looked over his shoulder at Grier, then back at the horses. He hadn’t seen a horse since Norway. His heart thumped its encouragement.

  “Do you ride?” Grier asked.

  “Ride?” Rydar scrubbed his face with one hand, rasping his four-day-old whiskers. He assumed her meaning—it matched the root of his name, after all—and tucked the easy word into his rapidly growing vocabulary. “Norway, aye. Grønnland, no.”

  Dare he try to mount one of them? He was pulled to do so even though he hadn’t ridden in so many years.

  “You lived in Norway?” Grier looked confused. “I thought ye were from Greenland.”

  “No.” Rydar shook his head and moved cautiously, inexorably, toward the big animals. He remembered to hold out his fist for them to sniff. He sidled up to the mare and rubbed her neck. He flashed Grier his most encouraging grin.

  “Good?”

  “Aye, she’s a fine mount. Why do ye ask?”

  All Rydar heard was ‘aye’ before he dropped his crutch and rested both hands on the mare’s back. He jumped up with his right leg, supporting his weight on his straightened arms, and threw that leg over the horse’s rump before he could be tumbled by her startled side-step. He hitched himself forward, his long legs dangling on either side of the animal.

  Rydar patted the mare’s neck, murmured Norse caresses in her ear, and leaned forward to grab her tether. Tugging on it, he indicated with his chin for Grier to loose it from the rail.

  “Are ye daft?” she responded. “Your leg’s broke! And I’ll no’ be responsible for you losing it, and you hurt it further!”

  A bubbling well of mirth surged through him and spilled into the morning, in spite of the constant throbbing in his shin. Rydar laughed with the joy of being off his feet and away from his crutch. Sitting astride the mare felt so good, it was worth any incumbent risk.

  “Come, Grier. I ride, aye?” he asked, grinning.

  Grier grumbled several more words he didn’t catch and with quite a bit of chiding emphasis. But she untied the leather strap and handed it to him. He turned the mare’s fine-boned head and tapped her side with his right heel. The horse snorted at the unaccustomed weight and sidled nervously away from the stable into the grassy courtyard.

  ***

  Fascinated, Grier watched as Rydar tested Salle, her favorite mare, with increasing confidence. He walked her in circles, trotted her in figure eights, and then urged her to an easy canter. Sitting tall, he held himself on Salle’s bare back with his knees. Grier could see his thighs tense and flex through the close-fitting knit hose as he urged the mare to do his bidding. His splinted shin rested loose along her belly.

  Rydar rode in the yard of the castle for near half an hour. As he did, the anxious lines in his face eased and grew into a relaxed grin. His cropped hair blew around his cheeks. His pale eyes glowed in the slanted morning sunshine. He was so completely different when he was free of his injury’s constraints. He was strong. He was in control.

  He was magnificent.

  The unheralded image of his thighs gripping her hips—the way they gripped the mare—set Grier’s cheeks on fire. Long-denied need ached behind her breastbone and spread downward to her thighs. She wrapped her arms around her waist and breathed slowly, trying to calm her rebellious heart. No good could come of such unbridled thoughts. Even so, Grier could not pull her gaze away from the Norseman.

  “Breakfast!” she blurted.

  Rydar reined the mare and nudged her toward Grier. “Aye?” he asked.

  “I need to make breakfast. Are ye no’ hungry?” She patted her stomach.

  Rydar nodded emphatically. “Make breakfast. Hungry. Aye!” He pointed to his crutch.

  Grier retrieved it for him. Rydar swung his right leg over Salle’s neck and slid from her back, dropping to the ground on one foot. He almost fell and grabbed Grier for support. She gripped his waist and steadied him. Scowling up at him, she intended to scold but stopped when their eyes met. He looked so happy.

  “Takk du, Grier! That good! …Thank you.”

  His eyes dropped to her lips. They felt his perusal and parted.

  “I ride more, aye?”

  “Whene’er you wish,” she breathed.

  Rydar stared at her. His gaze traveled over her features like the fingers of a blind man; she swore she could feel them. She leaned closer without thinking.

  “Hungry,” he murmured.

  Grier yanked her hands from his waist and stepped away.

  “Aye!” She thrust the crutch toward him, then whirled and ran toward the keep, not daring to look back.

  Chapter Seven

  May 21, 1354

  Lady Grier?” the puppy whispered. It sat up on its haunches and waved its two front paws in supplication. “Lady Grier? Will you wake up?”

  She blinked open her eyes, slowly separating from the dream.

  Moira’s pale face floated in the dark doorway above the flame of a single candle. “Lady Grier?”

  Grier mumbled, “What is it?”

  “There’s a woman. Says her husband’s hurt his back. Says he’s in a lot of pain.”

  “Who is she?” Grier asked, severing her dreams from reality.

  “She said they’re but passing through. I’ve never laid eyes on her.”

  Grier rubbed the remnants of sleep from her eyes. “Aye. I’ll come.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The candle moved away, leaving a trail of dancing shadow-shards in its wake.

  Grier tossed back her blanket and reached for the blue wool kirtle she left draped over the foot of her bed. She pulled it over her shift and nudged around for her tall leather boots. She plaited her hair on the way down the stairs.
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  The woman was middle-aged and shabbily dressed, and candlelight deepened the soiled valleys of her face. Grier wondered if the woman worried that her man might die. Or perhaps, the odd thought occurred to her, she worried that he might yet live.

  “I’ll get my cloak and my basket,” Grier said.

  “Thank you, m’lady.” The woman’s voice was as flat as her expression.

  The night was cool and moonless, but the sky was twilit gray. The summer solstice was only a month away; the sky would not go dark at all then. The two women walked through the silent castle yard without need of a lantern or rush light.

  “Where do you bide?” Grier asked.

  “Outside the castle wall, in one of the abandoned huts,” she mumbled. “At least, we believed it abandoned.”

  “Aye.” Grier nodded. When their men and sons fell to the Death, many of the poorest families built lean-to hovels from what wood they could find, seeking the protection of the little castle’s solid outer walls. They begged and scavenged until either they fell as well, or an opportunity arose and they moved on.

  The two women left the castle yard, crossed over the dry moat, and turned west. A fire glowed in one of the ramshackle huts about a hundred yards from the gate. When they reached it, the peasant woman stepped forward and pulled back a canvas drape that covered one side. The man inside moaned.

  Grier bent over and went in. The woman followed.

  “Is this the healer?” the man rasped. “Have you the poppy medicine for my pain?” His wrinkled face was unevenly flushed. Cropped white hair stuck wildly in all directions like a newly hatched chick. The air reeked of unwashed bodies.

  “Aye, I’ve got that. Might you tell me what happened?” Grier set her basket down. “How were ye hurt?”

  The man was trembling, sweating. His countenance twisted with suffering. His eyes jumped to his woman’s then back to Grier.