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

by Kris Tualla

  He opened the letter.

  Rydar ~

  Here are the documents and ring that prove who you are. If you found this, then you have returned from the banishment that my foolish pride is now forcing on our family. Only God knows how it will be in Grønnland but I pray you might set things aright with your uncle and claim your rightful place at Hansen Hall.

  Please forgive me.

  Your father,

  Petter-Edvard Hansen

  May 29, 1333 Arendal Norway

  Rydar handed the letter to Jakob. The man crumpled to the nearest chair and his lips moved silently with every word he read. He seemed to shrink and age before them as realization pushed him farther and farther down.

  “So you see, Sander Jakobsen, I am who I am.” Rydar waited until the man’s stunned eyes rose and locked on his before he swung the final stroke.

  “And you are, once again, who you always were.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  June 3, 1355

  Arendal, ten months later

  Grier endured the intensifying pains quietly throughout the light summer’s night. When the clock in their bedchamber showed seven in the morning, she eased her bulk from the bed and went in search of her maid. She found Astrid in the kitchen

  “I’ll need the midwife in a couple of hours,” she told the girl. “After your breakfast, you will go and tell her?”

  “Yes, my lady. Are you feeling well now?” Astrid had three children of her own and was unlikely to panic at the first signs of labor.

  “I feel fine for nine minutes out of every ten!” Grier joked. “So you see, there is no hurry.”

  “First babes can be stubborn, and that’s God’s truth.” Astrid laid her palm over Grier’s belly and waited. “Does Lord Hansen know?”

  Grier shook her head. “I tried not to disturb his sleep. I think he is unaware.”

  “Unaware of what, my love?” Rydar asked, smiling in the kitchen doorway. His gaze dropped to Grier’s swollen abdomen before Astrid could pull her hand away. Color drained from his face. “Are you—is it—”

  “Um-hmm,” Grier grunted. She winced and tried to draw slow deep breaths while Astrid gripped her shoulders, offering support.

  “What must be done?” Rydar demanded.

  “Staying calm must be done!” Grier rasped. She couldn’t speak again until the spasm passed. Then she straightened and glared at her anxious husband.

  “I’ve delivered enough babes on my own to know what to do and when. You needn’t shout.”

  “I’m sorry, Grier. But is your babe coming now?” A visibly panicked Rydar took her from Astrid and forced her to sit down.

  “Today. But not right now,” she assured him.

  “But you have pains?”

  “Yes. Since midnight,” Grier confessed. “But first babies take some time.”

  Rydar’s expression vacillated between fear and irritation. “All night you’ve had pains and you didn’t tell me? Why?”

  Grier laughed. “If you could see your own face right now, then you wouldn’t need to ask!”

  Rydar blushed. “It’s only because I love you.”

  “I know, Viking. And I love you for it.”

  “What can I do for you?” he pressed.

  Grier grinned and patted his bearded cheek. “Stay by my side and provide for my every need. Until the midwife banishes you, that is.”

  ***

  Rydar sat on the floor outside his apartment door and leaned against the wall with his legs splayed and his feet wiggling nonstop. He listened to his wife as she strained and groaned her way through the birth pains, holding his breath with every contraction, as if his own intensity might give her strength.

  “It’s not long now,” Astrid assured him as she went for fresh water.

  She said that an hour ago. Rydar was thinking that by ‘not long’ she meant before the sun set. And being this close to the solstice, the sun never set. He shifted his bottom a little and listened for the next pain.

  A brisk knock at the manor’s door diverted his attention. He waited to be summoned if he was needed, unwilling to leave Grier’s vicinity. But the familiar voices he heard below prompted him to clamber to his feet. He bolted down the stairs.

  “Gavin? Kristofer?” Rydar called.

  “And Lars!” the youngest fisherman cried.

  The three young men swamped him like a litter of excited puppies, slapping his back and yelping in chaotic joy.

  “You did it, Sir!”

  “Guess where we’ve been?”

  “You’re lord of the manor!”

  “My arm is fine!”

  “Where is Lady Grier?”

  “We went as far as the Holy Roman Empire!”

  Rydar grinned broadly in amused silence until the boys realized he wasn’t answering them.

  “Sir?” Gavin paused for a breath. “Is anything amiss?”

  “No, Gavin. Everything is wonderful. In fact, the Lady Grier is—”

  An urgent call from the second floor knifed his gut. “Lord Hansen! Where are you?”

  “I’m here!” he shouted. He whirled and took the stairs three at a time. “What has occurred?”

  “Wait!” Astrid disappeared infuriatingly behind a solidly closed door. The three sailors tumbled up the stairs after him.

  “What is it, Sir?” Kristofer asked.

  Lars chimed in with, “Where is Lady Grier?”

  “She’s—” But Rydar was interrupted when Astrid’s head popped through the doorway.

  “Don’t go away!” she ordered before evaporating again.

  Gavin touched his arm. “Sir Hansen?”

  A long straining groan pushed past the doorway and the four men froze. When it ended in abrupt silence, none of them moved. Or breathed.

  “Was that—” Kristofer began. An indignant howl cut him off.

  A loud, urgent, tiny, indignant howl that gasped in minuscule pauses and wailed again and again. Rydar found it hard to breathe and his legs were numb. He didn’t remember sitting down, but he was splayed on the floor once more. Three frightened faces hovered over him.

  “Sir Hansen! Are you well?”

  The door to his apartment blew open and Astrid looked around the hall. Her face registered her surprise when she found him lying on the floor. “Sir Hansen? Are you well?”

  “What is it?” he bellowed. All he could see were teeth. Lots of teeth. She must be smiling.

  “You have a son!” she squealed. “A big healthy and beautiful boy!”

  “I do?” Relief released him.

  “You do?” the three visitors exclaimed in surprised unison.

  “Can I see him?” Rydar ventured.

  “In a few minutes. The midwife needs to finish up. Wait here.” And Astrid was gone. The human puppies swarmed all over him again, laughing and poking and calling him ‘pappa.’

  ***

  When Rydar was at last allowed to see Grier he felt all chewed up and spit out dry. He marched through his sitting room, eyes on the doorway. Firelight beckoned him through and he followed its undulating light. And there, in his bed, was his wonderful, amazing, magnificent wife.

  She wore a soft cotton gown and a sheet pulled to her waist. Her ginger curls were tangled and dark hollows accented her blue eyes. An exhausted smile lifted her cheeks and pinched the corners of those same eyes.

  And his son suckled at her breast.

  “Grier,” he whispered. He sat on the bed, careful not to jar her. “You did it.”

  “We did it together, Viking. We made a son.” She rubbed the babe’s hair, which was as orange as a carrot. He stopped sucking and turned away from his mother and peered at his father. His eyes were dark, murky blue.

  “He has your colors,” Rydar whispered again. He couldn’t force his voice to be any louder.

  “Right now he does. That might change. But he has your height.” Grier un-swaddled the infant and he threw his arms and legs wide. Rydar was astounded at the length of the newborn
boy’s limbs.

  “How did he fit inside you?” Rydar marveled.

  Grier laughed. “How did he get out of me is the bigger question!”

  Rydar stroked Grier’s cheek. “Are you well? Have you survived, wife?”

  “I have never been happier in my entire life!” Grier placed her hand over his. “What will you call your son?”

  “If you’ve no objections, I’d like to call him Arne Rory Hansen, after Arne Jorgensen and your father. If it wasn’t for Arne, I never would have met you. And,” Rydar bit back his teasing smile, “if that ridiculous hair color sticks, he’ll be aptly named.”

  June 4, 1355

  The fishermen were allowed to see Grier and baby Arne the next day. Astrid brushed Grier’s hair and helped her into a clean cotton gown and silk over-wrap in preparation. She was so excited to see all the boys again, but especially Lars. She yearned to examine his arm and see how it mended.

  Rydar stood beside the bed when they entered, holding his son and oozing pride all over the room. After giving the trio enough time to examine the slumbering infant boy and say many nice things about him, Grier waved Lars to her side.

  “Show me your arm,” she begged.

  Lars rolled up his sleeve and bared his arm to his shoulder. Grier felt the jagged pink scar, impressed with how well it had knitted. “Is it strong? Your arm?”

  “Yes, Lady. I can do all the work I did before,” he assured her.

  “And do you have pain?”

  Lars’ expression turned apologetic at that, as if she would feel her skills lacking were he to admit to it.

  “It’s common in a mended bone,” she continued. Then she leaned closer and whispered in a conspiratorial manner, “Sir Hansen’s leg plagues him in the winter even still.”

  “Does it?” Lars answered in kind. “Can anything be done?”

  Grier nodded. “I have a salve that helps. I’ll give you some before you sail off.”

  “Thank you, Lady. And now I’ll do a favor for you.”

  Grier leaned back against her pillow. “Thank you Lars, but that’s not needful.”

  “Oh, but it is! You’ve no idea where we’ve been! Or where we’re going!” he exclaimed. He turned to his brother and cousin. “Have you told him?”

  Rydar quirked his brow. “What have you been about, boys?”

  “We sailed all the way to the Holy Roman Empire!” Kristofer exclaimed. “Lars’ arm hurt in the cold, so after we left Lady Margoh in Áslo, we sailed south looking for warmth.”

  “We kept the land on our left and followed the coast. We fished and traded and just kept going.” Gavin explained. “We saw so many places! It was amazing!”

  “And then we wanted to come back to see what happened with the two of you, and if Sir Hansen got his land.” Kristofer added.

  “And now, we’ll sail to Scotland. Back to Durness,” Lars concluded. “So Lady, if you wish it, we’ll carry a letter to your cousin. Then he might know how things have turned out for you and Sir Hansen.”

  Grier’s throat tightened and she couldn’t speak. All she could do was nod and grin like a lunatic.

  ***

  My dearest Logan and Malise ~

  I never expected it, but these three wonderful sailors have offered to carry my letter to you. I hope you are both well and happy and that the castle, Durness and your Mercat Fair all continue to prosper. Afore I tell you about myself however, let me assure you that Margoh reached Áslo safely. She was given over to her husband’s family by these same three men who hand you this paper.

  The very same day we landed in Arendal, Rydar and I were married by a priest. His proposal was the greatest surprise of my life, and the greatest joy. We are well suited and very much in love, as you surmised.

  Within a fortnight of our arrival, Rydar was able to claim his inheritance. The Black Plague was even more devastating here in Norway than it was in Scotland, and we soon discovered that Rydar was the last living member of his family (excepting his oldest sister secluded in a nunnery). We moved into Hansen Hall and I have spent the last months cleaning and setting the much neglected rooms to rights. We brought in new servants and are hoping to start a Mercat Fair here in Arendal later this summer.

  Our son, Arne Rory Hansen, was born this very week. He is a fine, strong boy with his father’s length and his mother’s coloring. Rydar could not be more pleased with me or the boy.

  I have, over time, become quite comfortable speaking in Norse, though I struggle still with the writing and defer to my husband. Norway is very beautiful but the winters here are quite harsh. Hansen Hall is built of strong stone with an abundance of hearths and plenty of wood so we are snug.

  Dearest cousins, I could not be happier. I hope the same can be said for both of you. I send you my most faithful love and keep you always in my prayers. Please do the same for us.

  Grier MacInnes Hansen

  June 6, 1355 Arendal Norway

  Following is an excerpt from:

  Loving the Knight

  by

  Kris Tualla

  Chapter One

  Castleton Village

  Scottish Borderlands

  December 1, 1354

  Eryndal grabbed William, her fingers circling his scrawny arm. Though the nine-year-old tried to twist free she held tight.

  “You are no’ my mither!” he bellowed, stomping a foot. The clomp of his wooden soles echoed off the stone walls of the Great Hall. Young Liam was as indignant and red-faced as a boy his age could ever be.

  “I’m not your mother, true. But since the Death, I’m all you’ve got!” Eryn bent her face to his. “And I’m all that stands between you and starvation—or a much worse fate. So I suggest you stop trying to destroy this estate afore it’s yours!”

  “He’ll want a whipping,” Geoffrey McDougal drawled from behind the boy.

  Liam twisted his head to glare over his shoulder. “It’s no’ your concern!”

  “Since I’m constable of Castleton now, your punishment is fully my concern, William.” Geoffrey crossed muscular arms across his chest and gave Liam a stern look. “When ye open a gate and the sheep wander off it’s akin to stealing then, isn’t it?”

  Eryn bit her lips between her teeth, damming any show of amusement. Friends since she was an adolescent, watching Geoffrey in his new position of authority made her want to grin. Instead, she gave the boy a little shake and bolstered Geoff’s point.

  “Haven’t the reivers done enough damage, Liam? Why do you do such things?”

  The boy shrugged one skinny shoulder and shoved ragged hanks of red hair out of his eyes.

  Geoffrey considered her from beneath gathered brows. “He’ll want a whipping,” he repeated with a bit more emphasis.

  Eryn nodded reluctantly. She’d had her share of whippings from the nuns of Elstow Abbey for being as contrary as Liam was acting right now. Even so she still had trouble curbing her tongue, so she doubted a willow switch would do much for Liam. But it needed to be done.

  Jamie, her newly elevated steward, stepped into the corner of her vision. “Lady?”

  The summons pulled her attention from the pouting boy. “Yes?”

  “The men are starting to arrive.”

  Eryn nodded and glanced out the window at the lowering gray sky. “Have them wait in the courtyard, but serve them something warm to drink while they’re standing.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  “And William?” Geoffrey pressed.

  “Will you do it, Constable?” she asked sternly. “I’ll need to send some men to round up the sheep, and then meet with the tenants.”

  Geoff’s gray eyes narrow slightly; long acquainted, he clearly discerned her reluctance. But one corner of his mouth lifted and he dipped a quick nod. “Of course.”

  She let go of William’s arm and—to his credit—he didn’t bolt. Instead, he lifted his chin in defiance. But it was wobbling.

  “Come on, then.” Geoffrey walked toward the kitchen and the b
ack door. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Liam followed with very small steps. Once they were gone, Eryn pulled a deep breath. At twenty-six, she could easily be mother of a nine-year-old son. But she wasn’t. She wasn’t even married.

  And raising a sudden orphan that wasn’t her child, living in a home that wasn’t truly hers, and acting in a position that she assumed when none else was left to take it was harder than anything she could imagine; excepting, of course, those horrible years that the Black Death swept across Europe and left no town, no estate, no family untouched.

  At least she was already an orphan. All she lost were employers.

  Eryn sent two youths after the wandering flock and headed out to the courtyard to meet with her remaining tenants.

  ***

  Less than four dozen men stood in the courtyard, their feet stomping and their reddened hands wrapped around steaming wooden cups. Eryn lifted her chin and refused to look discouraged. She pulled her cloak tighter as if that action would hold the men here. Falling snow dusted all of their heads and frosted the ground.

  Before the Death nearly a hundred and fifty men worked the Bell estate. Half of those had died. Now many were simply leaving, going in search of abandoned land to claim as their own. If Eryn couldn’t find a way to keep them as tenants, young William and those still serving at his estate would starve.

  “Gentlemen!” she shouted.

  The crowd stilled. Gazes full of fear, hope and suspicion met hers. She gave them a smile and prayed that she exuded confidence. “Thank you for coming. We have been through a very rough patch, but I do believe we have turned a corner.”

  “What else is new, missy?” one man called out.

  “New?” She lifted one brow. “How about this: I am prepared to let you earn your land.” A rumble rose amidst a sea of wagging heads. “Do you want to hear more?”