by Kris Tualla
Grier leaned around him. “Bloody murderers!”
“Victors!” Margoh retorted.
“Rapists! Pillagers! Thieves!” Grier shouted.
Rydar held his crutch with one hand and grabbed Grier’s shoulder with the other. He pulled it around so she was forced to face him.
“Stop!” he bellowed.
Grier gaped at him, her face suffused with red. It matched her hair and made her eyes look even bluer. They rounded, as did her mouth. “Oh, my Lord! You’re a Viking!”
“I?” he blurted, incredulous. “No!”
“Ye’re Norse! You came on a boat!” Grier backed away.
Rydar looked at Margoh, eyes wide in question.
“Du kom på en båt,” she translated, watching the exchange with an expression he couldn’t name.
He turned back to Grier. “I’m no’ vikinger!” he protested.
“But you’re born of them, are ye no’?”
“Of course he is. Be quite certain,” Margoh stated with great authority.
Rydar frowned at her. “What you speak?”
Margoh waved her hand dismissively. “Come back to the table, Rydar.”
She whirled and walked toward the dining room. Her backside swayed in exaggerated punctuation and his eyes were drawn there.
“Ach! No’ a Viking, ye say?” Grier sneered. She disappeared out the door.
Rydar hobbled into the hallway and slammed his hand against its stone wall, stinging his palm on the cold surface. He never was a patient man and his inability to communicate well infuriated him. He spoke three—three!—fukking languages, but he was reduced to childish babble in this country.
And to compound the situation, he couldn’t walk any better than an infant! Rydar angrily tried to put weight on his left leg, but the pain was intolerable.
“Skitt!” he thundered.
He felt he would explode with frustration at his continual failures. He failed to comprehend his father’s dying words. He failed to build an adequate boat. He failed to reach Norway. He failed to save Arne.
And he failed to understand Grier. That was particularly enraging, since she always understood him.
“Gud forbanner det all til helvete!” he bellowed, and threw the crutch as hard as he could. It bounced off the wall and tumbled down the hallway. The clatter of wood against stone echoed through the keep.
Margoh’s face appeared at the door of the formal dining room, blanched with shock at his strident profanity. He stared at her through the haze of his fury.
“Rydar?” she ventured.
He clenched his fists and ground out his apology. “Jeg er trist.”
Hopping on one leg to the staircase, he sank to a step. He rested his forehead on the heels of his hands. His words came out hard.
“No! No Norse. I am sorry.”
Margoh appeared in front of him. He raised his head and squinted into her blue-gray eyes. “Go home,” he said, not in Norse. “No more learn now.”
She tucked his hair behind his ear and ran her finger along his jaw. He smelled her expensive perfume and wondered briefly why she wore it to the lessons.
She whispered, “I’ll come back tomorrow. In the morning.”
Rydar nodded. “Come back. In the morning. Aye.”
He didn’t move until she was gone from the keep and he was alone. Then he hopped one-legged down the hallway after his crutch.
May 26, 1354
The summons came in the early afternoon. Fergus MacDonald fell from the roof he was repairing and his arm was injured. Grier walked the half mile to his farm in less than fifteen minutes, even with the stops.
She kent it was foolishness, but she felt as though she was being followed. The back of her neck tingled and she startled at forest sounds that she never normally noticed. Now and again she paused to pick a plant and put it in her basket, to pull off her short boot and tip out a non-existent stone, or set her basket down and stretch her back. She glanced around then, trying to discern if she truly did hear suspicious movement in the woods. But she saw nothing.
But then, if a skilled hunter was tracking her, she wouldn’t see anything, would she?
“Ach, ye’re going daft!” she chided herself, pushing away memories of Grif’s attack. “It’s the middle of a bonny day and you’re summoning shades!”
Fergus lay where he fell, his legs working in silent agony. His wife fluttered over him in a flurry of useless movement. The man’s dark eyes met Grier’s and his colorless lips parted in his pale face.
“What have ye done here, Fergus? Will you do anything for my attention?” Grier teased as she knelt beside him. Her fingers skimmed over his shoulder and arm.
The diversion worked, and his cheeks lifted in a stiff grin. “I’ve a fondness for red hair,” he rasped.
“You’ve knocked your arm from its joint.”
“C-can ye fix it?” he stammered.
“Aye. But I’ll need some help. Is your boy near?”
Grier sat the adolescent behind his father and had him wrap his arms around his father’s chest, putting his head between Fergus’s head and the misplaced joint.
“Hold tight now. This will hurt a bit, but no’ for long.” Grier grasped Fergus’s arm, braced herself, and pulled.
Fergus let out a cry that would shame a banshee. His wife screamed as well. A few choice curse words followed before the man realized that his shoulder was fixed. He gaped at Grier.
“Is that it?” he croaked.
“Aye. But you’ll be sore for a week or so. And you mustn’t move it too much for ten days. You don’t want it to come out again,” Grier cautioned.
His mouth relaxed into a relieved smile. “My thanks, Lady Grier. You’re a good woman. Just like your Mam, God sain her soul.” The three adults crossed themselves.
“The next time you wish my attention will ye just come up to the castle, then?” Grier lifted her basket. She winked at the man. “And bring your wife.”
On the way back to the keep, Grier watched and listened. But all she heard were birds. All she saw was a brace of rabbits skittering across her path. All she felt was the spring breeze pushing her gown against her body, then pulling it away again.
Shaking her head at her earlier imaginings, she strode purposefully toward home and planned the evening meal along the way. She would check the garden when she got back. For sure there would be new onions.
***
The mare Salle was in love with Rydar.
Whenever his uneven gait approached her stall every part of her strained in his direction. She pressed her long nose against his chest. She sidled against him so he could mount her in his awkward manner. She sighed when he climbed on her back. And she did anything he asked of her.
Rydar tried to explain it to Grier when she found him in the stable with his shoulder tucked under the mare’s neck, scratching the animal’s nose. She carried a basket of onions and spring greens.
“Are ye coming in for supper?”
“Aye,” he answered. He closed the gate behind the horse and hobbled quickly from the stable. Salle’s plaintive whinny called after them.
“Salle like me,” Rydar said.
Grier matched his stride and peered up at him. “How do ye ken?”
Rydar smiled at that. He knew his explanation, limited as it must be by language, would sound silly. “She happy when I come. She moves.”
Grier’s brow puckered. “Moves?”
Rydar stopped his progress and tucked the crutch under his arm. With his hands he imitated ears flicking, tail swishing and hooves prancing. “Moves!”
Grier laughed loudly.
Rydar laughed as well, realizing he must look quite funny. He wagged his finger in Grier’s face. “She love me!”
Grier’s expression shifted at those words, but he couldn’t read it before she turned away. He felt he missed something important, but couldn’t puzzle out what it might be.
Inside the keep, Rydar followed Grier to the kitchen. The coa
lescing aromas of roasting meat and baking bread made his stomach grumble thunderously.
“By crivens, man, are ye never full?” Grier tossed over her shoulder.
Rydar sat at the table and watched Grier finish preparing their meal. His thoughts drifted to his daily ride. The tenants who lived within the castle walls had regarded him with curious suspicion at first. He understood why; an incoherent stranger riding bareback with multi-colored threads in his cheek and wooden spoons strapped to one leg would naturally draw suspicion.
By now, the end of his second week here, he had visited them all: the butcher, the chandler, the brewer, the grooms, the miller, the weaver, the glazier, the carpenter. He communicated as best he could. He found it odd that none of them appeared to have enough to do, yet they complained about a lack of goods. True, according to Grier the population had declined by more than half in the plague’s wake, and Grier and Logan’s needs seemed few. But it was an unsettling waste of skills.
He needed to think more on that.
“Might be because you do no’ use a saddle.”
Startled back into the kitchen, Rydar looked up. Grier’s piercing blue eyes met his. He puzzled out every word but saddle.
“The wood and leather seat a man rides on,” she explained.
“Aye, saddle.” Rydar nodded, learning the new word. He said slowly, “No. I do no’ use a saddle.” He looked at her. “Why is ‘might be’ that?”
Grier pointed her meat-carving knife at him. “Because she feels you, ye ken?”
Rydar blinked. “No.”
“Your legs, your muscles, your warmth?” Grier patted her own thighs with the un-knifed hand. “There is nothing between you and her.”
Rydar understood in a gut-warming glimmer.
“She feels me,” he repeated. “My legs, my warmth.” A mischievous smile split his cheeks. “Like woman? I move her with my warmth legs?”
Grier straightened. Her face turned scarlet. Her mouth worked, her brow worked, her shoulders worked, but no words escaped the plethora of motion. She whirled back to the meat.
“Aye” she croaked.
Rydar laughed to cover his unanticipated and undeniable arousal.
Skitt.
Chapter Ten
May 27, 1354
“You skrive?”
Morning light pushed through the uneven windowpanes and slanted across the kitchen table. Grier looked up from her book, quill poised over the sheep-skin parchment. Rydar’s astonishment irritated her and she frowned at him.
“What?”
“Skrive.” Rydar mimicked writing.
“I ken. Aye, I can scribe. And I can read, too!” she retorted with not a wee bit of sarcasm.
“Read,” Rydar repeated, thoughtfully. “Aye.”
“Can you?” Grier challenged.
One corner of Rydar’s mouth twitched. “I read Norse. Latin. German. And I learn…” He pointed at Grier’s parchment and grinned at her.
Grier’s jaw dropped. “All that?”
She regarded her surprising guest with new appreciation. Even a Viking warrior might become civilized, she supposed. She patted the bench beside her.
“Come here. Let me see your cheek.”
Rydar crutched forward and lowered himself beside her. “What you—scribe?” he asked.
“I keep an account of the people I treat; what their ailment was, what I did for them, and how they did after.” Grier turned the book to face Rydar. “See? Here you are.”
Rydar took the pen and, with an engaging grin, changed the spelling of his name from ‘Rider.’ Then he added ‘Hansen.’ And ‘Norway.’
Grier read his entries without comment. She was glad to know how to spell his name. But when she saw it written correctly, and in his strong, clear hand, she felt like something inside her slipped into place. She had no idea what it was, much less what she should do about it. For a moment, she was disoriented. The black letters seemed to dance on the page.
Then Grier pushed the book aside. Determined to maintain her equilibrium, she gripped Rydar’s jaw and pulled him close to examine the stitches.
“They need to come out.”
“Need come out? Aye.” His gaze questioned, but she looked away.
Grier retrieved her sewing basket from its home by the hearth. Inside was a tiny razor, very sharp for cutting cloth. She held it up and faced Rydar. “Ye can no’ move, now. Be still, aye?”
Rydar started to nod, then froze. “Aye.”
Grier carefully cut the thread below each knot, now buried in two weeks of new beard. She thought about how his face had filled out in those two weeks, how his pale skin had gained color, how his cropped hair framed his smile, and those thoughts sent a tickle through her belly. She reached for a small pair of pinchers and gripped the end of one thread.
“It may hurt a bit,” she warned.
Rydar waved one hand, and otherwise did not move. He didn’t even flinch when she tugged the stitches from his skin. He held out his palm and she dropped the threads there.
“Done. Now don’t go tearing it open,” she scolded.
Rydar nodded and tossed the tiny knotted bits of cotton yarn into the fire. He skimmed his fingers over the wound, exploring.
“It’s most likely time to change the dressing on your leg, as well.” Grier wiggled her fingers toward Rydar’s bandaged shin. Understanding, he removed the left leg of his hose, then rested that limb on the bench.
Images of him nearly naked after the rescue pushed their way into Grier’s awareness. Well formed in spite of his lack of flesh, he would certainly look better now that he ate regularly. She clamped her teeth together and bent over Rydar’s leg, not meeting his gaze lest he somehow guess the improper path of her thoughts. She unwound the dirty linen strips that held the wooden spoons-cum-splints in place. When she lifted away the wool padding she was pleased with what she saw.
“Is good?” Rydar asked, reading her expression.
“Aye. It’s no’ swollen and the bruises are faded.” Grier washed the skin gently with vinegar, then rewrapped it with fresh wool and clean linen strips.
“When I can walk?”
Grier pointed an imperious finger in his direction. “Four more weeks! And not a day sooner!”
Rydar rolled his eyes in exaggerated compliance. He pulled his hose on and tied it in place.
Grier stood and put her implements away. She started to speak with her back to him, but realized he wouldn’t understand without watching her mouth and seeing her expression. She turned to face him across the kitchen. “I’m sorry.”
Rydar’s brow lifted. “Sorry? Why sorry?”
“When Margoh was here. I lost my temper.” Grier knotted her fingers behind her back. “It was no’ proper. I’m sorry.”
“Temperament. Aye, I ken. Proper?” Rydar queried.
“Right. Acceptable. Ladylike.”
“Akseptabel; I ken.” Rydar patted the bench. “Come here. Let me see your cheek.”
Grier could not help but smile at his mimicry and she did as he asked. He faced her and took her chin in his long fingers. Clear green eyes, which she noticed in the morning sunlight held tiny flecks of gold, met hers.
“Vikingers old, not here now. I no’ Viking. I no’ hurt you. You save me. No Grier? I dead. You ken?” he spoke earnestly. She knew he meant so much more than he was able to say.
Grier shifted, embarrassed. “It was no’ you that made me wroth. It was that hen that provoked me.” At Rydar’s bemused expression, she clarified. “Margoh.”
“Ach!” Rydar began to chuckle. “Margoh the Hen!” And he laughed.
Grier winced. “Is it funny?”
Rydar pushed up onto his good leg and bent his arms like wings. He began to hop around the room, naming off items.
“Chair! Table! Door!” Then he clucked and gestured with one elbow-wing. “Come here! Come here!”
Grier burst into appreciative giggles. She jumped up to join him and snuggled under his left arm for su
pport. They moved around the kitchen practicing words, and then went into the hallway. Grier had one arm around Rydar’s waist and one of his ‘wings’ relaxed so his large palm cupped her shoulder.
“Steps! Wall! Ceiling!” Grier called out.
Rydar said the words as if he were a squawking chicken. Grier laughed so hard, she was afraid she might piss herself. She could no longer speak. Rydar threw his head back and crowed loud as an arrogant rooster. Grier dropped to the floor in hysterics, abandoning her supporting role. Rydar wobbled precariously and grabbed the edge of the staircase for support, wheezing with laughter.
Logan tromped down the stairs. “This is a pretty scene. And you’re loud enough to wake the dead! Is breakfast made?”
Grier wiped her eyes. “Breakfast? No, no’ yet. I’m in need of eggs.”
“Eggs?” Rydar repeated, his eyes twinkling. “Need eggs?”
Rydar screwed up his face and pretended to try and lay an egg. Logan looked at him as though he were daft.
Grier pushed to her feet and grasped his shoulders. “You get eggs from a hen, no’ from a rooster, ye foolish Viking!”
For a moment, bafflement dominated Rydar’s features. Then he gripped her meaning and crumpled to the floor, bellowing in unrestrained howls.
May 31, 1354
Rydar’s grasp of his new language amazed Grier. True, many words sounded the same as Norse and he often mixed up the pronunciations, offering to ‘hjelp du’ and saying he ‘vil komm.’ But there were plenty of words that didn’t match. Rydar pushed himself hard, unafraid to make mistakes. With Grier’s constant help, and Margoh’s annoyingly long and frequent visits, he was learning hers so much faster than she could learn his.
But then, he had more at stake, did he not? After all, she was not living in his land; he was living in hers. And he might be here for some time to come, she hoped.
It was this very trail that her thoughts meandered along when she was supposed to be attentive to the language lesson, so she startled when she realized both Rydar and Margoh were staring at her apparently waiting for some sort of response.
“What?”
