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

by Kris Tualla

  Rydar looked at Grier and hoped she wouldn’t understand his next words. “We were wed the day we arrived. Would you have me rush so soon from the bed of such a beautiful wife to charge headlong into this battle?”

  Grier’s eyes widened, but other than a pinkening of her cheeks she evinced no further reaction. At this revelation, Lord Jakob and Delling turned to consider her. She smiled at the two men and fluttered her lashes in a gut-twisting way that Rydar had never seen her do before.

  She never trifled with me, he realized of a sudden.

  If she had, he would have been married a month ago and still living in Scotland. He yanked his errant thoughts back into the room and to the situation at hand.

  “And so, Lord Jakob, considering the circumstances we shall reside here. Will Delling be preparing our apartment? Or have we other staff that I must become acquainted with first?” Rydar arranged his features in as pleasant a manner as was possible. No need to further antagonize the man until he knew how he would go about proving himself.

  Lord Jakob glared at Rydar. “I shall order rooms made ready.”

  “And the midday meal? Will it be served soon?” Rydar pressed.

  Jakob’s response ground through a clenched jaw in a ruddy face. “I shall let you know.”

  “Excellent. Now, I’m certain you won’t mind if I show my wife around? I haven’t seen the place since I was a boy and am very interested in what has—or hasn’t—changed.”

  Rydar didn’t wait for permission. He crossed the room and offered Grier his arm. She accepted with a smile and they exited the hall. He determined not to flinch, though had a dagger been pitched at his back he would not have been in the least bit surprised.

  ***

  Grier watched her husband carefully, reading his expressions and discerning his mood in order to help understand his words. He was patient with her when they were alone, speaking slowly and switching to Scots English when he needed to. She had that advantage at least. When he first washed up on her chyngell, he had no one who spoke Norse to help him.

  But Rydar was so different here in Norway. She grew to know him when he was injured and unable to communicate. Now he was strong and healthy, and his language danced from his lips in long, lilting sentences. He teased, he informed, he debated, and he commanded. And her heart danced along with every exotic-sounding word he spoke.

  Rydar led her down the hallway away from the blustering Lord Jakob, and stepped into each room along their path, ignoring the curious glances of servants sliding past them. An expansive formal meeting hall hung with large tapestries that depicted Viking longboats and pastoral mountain scenes. A banquet room was anchored by an enormous polished table. A second parlor held a vast writing desk littered with parchment and quills. When they reached the huge kitchen in the back, Rydar nodded to the half dozen women working over the fires and checked the larder. He frowned, gripped Grier’s arm, and they retraced their steps.

  When he led her up the stairway and no one was visible within earshot, Rydar tried to explain in simple Norse what had transpired with the very arrogant, very irritating man who seemed to be in charge of Hansen Hall.

  “We will live here now,” he began.

  “Days? Months?” Grier asked in Norse. “How long?”

  “I don’t know. As long as we can.”

  Frustrated, she switched languages. “Does he ken ye are the son?”

  “No. Does no’ believe,” Rydar responded. “But he will.”

  How, she wondered.

  Rydar stepped into a sitting room and stilled. His face paled.

  “Rydar?”

  He didn’t respond. As he moved through the room, his hands reached toward the bedroom door, the window, the hearth; but he didn’t touch anything.

  “Rydar!”

  He whirled to face her, surprise chiseling the planes of his handsome face. “What?”

  Delling stepped into the room. “Sir?”

  His wide eyes shifted to the steward. “What?”

  Grier caught the words “rooms, Lord Rydar” and “Lady Grier please come with me.” Rydar reached for her arm and Grier let him take it again. Walking ahead of them, Delling grinned and babbled in rapid Norse, speaking far too quickly for her to follow. He opened a door further down the hall. Rydar nodded and thanked him.

  Once inside, Grier considered the rooms they had been given. As in the other apartments, a public sitting room led to a private bed chamber. She passed through both and examined them closely. The rooms were a little neglected and they required a deep and thorough cleaning. Their mattress should be re-stuffed. At least the bedsheets were clean.

  “What I do?” she asked, finally. “And we live here?”

  Rydar smiled. He drew a breath and blew out his relief. “Love me.”

  “I do, Viking.” She curled under his arm and leaned into his ribs. “What more?”

  “Wait. Until I find the answer, it’s all we can do.”

  ***

  Rydar eased himself from Grier’s side. She shifted in her sleep then resettled; her slow breathing attested to her continuing slumber. Rydar passed silently through their bedchamber into their sitting room, opened that door, listened, and slipped out into the darkened hall.

  He padded barefooted along the row of apartments stopping outside his uncle Harald’s rooms. Rydar assumed that Lord Jakob would have claimed these rooms, but the doors were ajar and the summer night’s sky showed that no one rested there. Perhaps the man feared the shades of those men who died too young. A shudder twitched up his spine.

  Something was written on the wall.

  Rydar felt pulled into the room, recognizing the Norse runes. The wood floor, thickly dusted by abandonment, protested in a voice startlingly loud in the silent manse. As he approached the far wall the markings changed shape, undulating in the dim light. They whispered to him. Come.

  He fell back, squinting. The runes had not been used for centuries and to find them here was a surprise. He stared at the esoteric shapes. The moon’s path inched her light into the room, adding to the pale glow of the arctic summer. The shifting shapes held still.

  He saw reid; ‘riding’ was the basis of his name. It was aptly linked to purs, the giant. Rydar’s lips curved. Truly he was quite a tall man.

  Next were kaun and ur.

  Kaun is the children’s scourge… and canker’s seat.

  Ur is the clouds’ weeping, the hay’s ruin and the shepherd’s hate.

  Prompted by the runes, the forgotten childhood poems now echoed strong in his memory. They seemed to define his life quite well up to now. Rydar stepped closer and the runes changed shape. Now he saw fe, wealth.

  “What was that poem?” he muttered. “Wealth is kinsmen’s contention… and the slitherer’s track.” He couldn’t remember the middle part, but that seemed unimportant.

  “The contention is clear. Who is the slitherer?” he asked.

  Jakob Sander Hansen? Jakob Sander. Sander Jakob. Sandersen. Jakobsen.

  Sander Jakobsen! That was the name of Harald’s steward! That was why the man was familiar: he was steward when Rydar lived here as a boy! Recognition and realization tingled through his frame. The man was clearly a usurper.

  He jumped back from the markings as they shifted again.

  Ar. “Plenty is men’s blessing, a good summer and a richly grown field,” Rydar whispered. “Is that ever to be mine?”

  Then the wall glowed with one large, pulsating symbol. Rydar could feel it beating with his heart, surging through his veins, thundering against his temples. The symbol—and its meaning—urged him to take his place here, and use whatever means that claim required.

  It was yr.

  A bent bow, brittle iron… and the giant’s dart.

  ***

  Rydar jerked up in bed, covered in sweat. Grier slept peacefully next to him. Had he dreamt? Or had he truly been in his uncle’s apartment? And if he was, had the runes spoken their truth to him?

  He swung his feet to
the ground and stood, stretching. He crossed to the open window and pulled back the heavy curtain. Water far below reflected the lavender sky and glittered with moonlight. He breathed deeply of the night air. In time, his heart slowed and his sweat evaporated.

  Part of him wanted to walk down the hall and test his experience. But he was just as certain that the runes would still be there, as he was that they would not. It didn’t matter. He remembered ‘Lord’ Jakob’s true identity. And he planned to hoard that knowledge until the perfect moment.

  “Husband?” Grier’s sleep-husky voice reached out to him. He turned and looked at his wife in their bed, her hair spread in disarray and her eyes dark in the dim light. “Can’t you sleep?”

  He came back to her and slid between the sheets. “It’s nothing,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  Grier’s hand groped around under the covers until she found his yard. With a smile and a deep sigh, she squeezed it and sank into slumber once again.

  He woke her up.

  August 4, 1354

  Rydar leaned on the mantle and gazed around his parents’ bedroom. Some of the furniture was different. No doubt several occupants had moved through these rooms in the twenty years that passed, each with their own needs and preferences.

  “My mother stood there,” he pointed to the window. “My father stood here, by the fire.”

  “Where you?” Grier whispered.

  “I held the post at the foot of their bed.” Rydar wrapped his arms around an imaginary pole in front of him. “Like this.”

  “Sisters?”

  “Crying into my mother’s skirts.” Rydar rubbed his eyes and pulled a deep sigh. “How am I going to accomplish this, Grier?”

  She planted her feet and gazed up at him. “What you need?”

  He pulled a face. “Only documents that no longer exist.”

  Grier shrugged and he recognized his own signal that the language was beyond her. He switched to English. “Papers. Like at church when we marry.”

  “Oh…” Grier’s shoulders slumped. She returned to Norse. “You not have.”

  He tossed her a look of irritation. “No!”

  Grier stepped back, away from him. “You know Jakob now?” she probed.

  “I’m certain that I do. And I don’t believe his story about being my uncle’s cousin. If only I could prove… baugh!” Rydar jammed both hands through his hair.

  Aggravation built inside him like lightning in a storm cloud. He loosed a thunderous roar and slammed his fists on the mantle, expressing his frustration in a consummately masculine manner. Angry, and feeling the weight of his continuing failure, he pounded the stones again, and again.

  “Rydar!” Grier grabbed his arm. “Stop!”

  Rydar jerked from her grasp and pummeled the carved fireplace with every agonized statement.

  “I have no proof! It’s my story and his story—and he has been here and he has moved into the role! And every trace of my father has been destroyed!” His fists stung, still tender with healing blisters, but he ignored the physical pain.

  Grier pulled his hands toward her. “Stop it, Rydar!”

  “Grier! Is no way to show!” he shouted in English.

  “Ye need to stop, Viking!” she insisted. “This is no’ going to help!”

  Rydar’s shook his head. “Tell me, then—what will?”

  “I have no idea. But breaking your hands will no’ and that’s certain,” she stated, still cradling his fists in her warmth. “And breaking the mantle with your bare hands is no’ possible!”

  She lifted his stinging fists to her lips, unfolded them and kissed his reddened palms. He watched her in the midst of his misery, and thanked God for giving her to him.

  Then he began to shake.

  “Are ye hurt?” Grier turned his hands over, searching for injury.

  But Rydar didn’t answer her. His gaze shot to the mantle. Was it possible? He tried to swallow but his throat was dry. He gulped air and tried to slow his heart.

  “I need a hammer,” he croaked. “And a chisel.”

  “What?”

  He was back to Norse and he lost her. “Stay here!” he barked—in what language he didn’t know—and he ran from the room. Down two flights of stairs, out the front door to the courtyard, across to the carpenter.

  He was dripping sweat and winded when he returned to the chamber. Grier awaited him there, sitting on the bed, equal parts confusion and concern marring her features. She jumped to her feet when he appeared.

  There was no possible way for him to explain to her what he was about to do. But it had to be done, even if they were thrown into the streets of Arendal in disgrace afterwards. He smiled a little, tossed Grier a shrug and turned to the fireplace.

  “Rydar?”

  He lifted the chisel and set it against the edge of the carved stone mantel.

  “Rydar!” Grier moved to stop him.

  He shook her off. “Grier. Trust me.”

  Her blue eyes darkened under rusty brows, but she stepped away. She crossed her arms over her chest and rested one trembling hand at the base of her throat. She nodded.

  Rydar readied the hammer.

  He drew a deep breath and held it.

  He brought steel down against steel with a powerful singing ring.

  And…

  Nothing happened. Rydar snorted and tried again. This time a granite chip fell off. He leaned forward and searched for a seam, a crack, a weakness. There, closer to the wall. He wedged the chisel between plaster and stone. He hit it as hard as he could with the hammer. Again and again.

  With each resounding clang, stone and wall separated in barely perceptible increments. And each resounding clang echoed throughout the manor, summoning Lord Jakob. The man strode into the room, anger pulsating from his tensed body.

  “What in hell are you doing, Rydar?” he bellowed. He grabbed for the hammer and tried to wrestle it away.

  “Leave me alone, Jakob!” Rydar shoved the older man aside.

  “Have you lost your mind? I’ll throw you out of here if you take one more swing!”

  Rydar snarled and turned back to his task. He swung the hammer with all the desperation of his situation. This had to be the answer. Or there was none to be had.

  He pulled back to swing again when a flash of fabric stopped him. Grier had her arms around Jakob and the pair tumbled to the ground. Grier clambered to her feet and faced Rydar. Her fierce expression resembled an arctic bear protecting its cub. She was furious and wild and glorious.

  “Grier! What you—”

  She straightened and held an unfamiliar dagger, aimed at the usurper. She glared at the man and uttered one guttural word.

  “Jakob.”

  Rydar’s jaw clenched and everything he saw turned red. Loosing a primal yell he ignored the chisel that clunked to the floor. With both hands wound around its shaft, he slammed the hammer into the mantle using every enraged muscle in his body.

  Grier screamed and covered her ears.

  A chunk of stone came loose, separating from the front piece. Rydar hit it again and again until it tumbled to the floor, shattering into scattered pieces. Sweating and panting, he stared at the empty space behind the mantle.

  His breath came in raw, rough sobs. He knew his hopes were hung on a tenuous thread, an enigmatic phrase mumbled by a bitter and dying man. My chamber behind the mantle.

  After the debacle of the destroyed hearth in Grønnland, he never really believed there was anything to it. He had even forgotten about it.

  Until today.

  Rydar’s hands stung from the effort and new blisters rose on his palms. He knew he was crying, loud and ragged, but he didn’t care. The hammer fell from his useless fingers. He looked at Grier. She was crying, too. Then he closed his eyes and reached into the hollow dusty space.

  Too many hopes rested on what he did—or did not—find there. For a moment he paused. Then his shoulders slumped in stunned disbelief.

  “Å min Gu
d.”

  As he drew a ragged breath, Rydar gripped a leather-wrapped roll that had patiently waited in the dark for him all these years and pulled it into the light of day.

  “What that?” Grier cried.

  Lord Jakob clambered, wheezing, to his feet. “How did you—”

  Rydar struggled to corral his erratic emotions. He faced the former steward and glared him into silence. The miraculous package in his hand secured his ability to prove himself. He worked to gain his composure. With a quick glance at Grier, he spoke.

  “Because I am the Lord Rydar Martin Petter-Edvard Hansen, the last living heir to Hansen Hall!” he stated in a chilling tone. “And the documents here will prove it!”

  The leather packet unfurled like a newly released butterfly. Inked on its wings was a complete family tree backing up five generations from Rydar and his sisters to their eleventh century forbearers.

  A small pouch fell to the floor with a muted thud. Rydar bent down to retrieve it as baptism records and marriage records fluttered to the floor, yellowed with age but still legible. He handed the pouch to Grier to open, the leather packet pressed close to his chest.

  She untied the bag and dumped its contents into her palm. A heavy Nordic-carved silver and gold ring, its recesses blackened with soot, rested in her hand.

  “Oh my God,” Jacob wheezed. “I believed it to be lost.”

  Grier looked at Ryder, her eyes wide. “What?”

  “My father’s ring. The chamberlain’s ring.” Rydar extended his hand and Grier slid the ring onto his finger. It was thick and solid and it fit like it was meant for him.

  Overcome with a sense of his destiny, Rydar closed his eyes. He was finally here. And he belonged here. With a deep sigh, he blinked his eyes open and looked down at the packet in his arms.

  Folded in the center was a letter addressed to him.

  Rydar’s heart rammed his ribs when he saw his father’s strong, vertical script. He had no idea what to expect from the man who smoldered with bitterness until the day he died. Grier came to him and wrapped her arm around his waist, sliding her shoulder under his arm. He felt her warmth against his ribs.