Chapter Twenty-Three
Brynja
The next day, Brynja stood at the edge of the training yard, watching Hagen work with a chestnut mare.
The horse was young, still learning, and clearly testing the boundaries of her handler’s patience.
Hagen murmured something too low for Brynja to hear, and the mare’s ears flicked toward him, her stance shifting from defiant to curious.
“She trusts you,” Brynja said.
Hagen glanced over his shoulder, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Not yet. But we’re getting there.” He ran a hand along the mare’s neck. “Want to try?”
Brynja hesitated. She could ride, the nuns had kept a few ponies for travel to the abbey, but those had been placid, elderly creatures content to plod along the coastline. This mare was different. Young. Powerful. A warrior’s mount.
“I won’t be verra good at it.”
“Then you’ll learn.” Hagen led the mare over, reins loose in his hand. “Besides, if you’re going to stay at Grant holdings, you need a proper mount. Can’t have you stuck afoot when there’s trouble.”
The practicality of the argument appealed to her. She hadn’t had the opportunity to excel at horseback riding at the nunnery or on Tiree. Learning to ride well meant one more skill, one more way to control her own fate.
“All right.”
Hagen’s smile widened. “Good. First, you need to understand her.” He handed Brynja the reins. “What do you notice?”
Brynja studied the mare. “Her ears keep moving. Listening.”
“Aye. She’s paying attention to everything—you, me, that lad by the stable, the wind in the trees. Horses are prey animals. They’re always watching for danger.”
Something in Brynja’s chest tightened. She understood that. Being always alert, never quite at ease.
“So how do you make her trust you?”
Hagen moved closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her back.
“You show her you’re not a threat. That you’re calm.
That you notice what she needs.” His hand covered hers on the reins, adjusting her grip.
“Too tight and she’ll think you’re afraid.
Too loose and she’ll think you’re not paying attention. Like this.”
His fingers were warm against hers, callused from sword work. Brynja’s breath caught. She forced herself to focus on the mare, not on the way Hagen’s voice had dropped lower, more intimate.
“Now stroke her neck. Let her learn your scent, your touch.”
Brynja reached out with her free hand. The mare’s coat was warm and smooth, her muscles shifting beneath the skin. “She’s beautiful.”
“Aye.” Hagen’s voice held an odd note. When Brynja glanced back, he wasn’t looking at the horse.
Her cheeks heated. She turned her attention firmly back to the mare.
“What’s her name?”
“Doesn’t have one yet. She’s too new. Da just had a few more brought over from Oban. They don’t like the ship so I’m trying to calm her, get her used to her new world.” Hagen stepped back, giving Brynja space. “You could name her, if you’d like.”
“Me?”
“Why not? You’re going to be the one riding her.”
The casual certainty in his voice, that she would stay, that she would need a horse of her own, should have rankled her. Instead, it felt like a gift. Like he was offering her an opportunity she hadn’t dared imagine.
“Freya,” Brynja said softly. “Freya is a goddess in my mother’s tongue. She looks regal the way her coat catches the light.”
“Freya.” Hagen tested the word, his accent making it sound different but no less lovely. “It suits her.”
The mare’s ears flicked toward Brynja at the sound of her new name, as if she approved.
“Now,” Hagen said, all serious again, “let’s get you in the saddle. Come here.”
He led Freya to the mounting block. Brynja climbed up, suddenly aware of how high the horse’s back looked from this angle.
“Put your foot in the stirrup. Aye, that’s it. Now swing your other leg over. I’ve got you.”
His hands steadied her as she mounted, one at her waist, one at her elbow. The contact was brief but sure, and then she was seated, looking down at him from an unfamiliar height.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
“Strange because I’m so high off the ground. Powerful.” Freya shifted beneath her, and Brynja gripped the reins tighter.
“Easy.” Hagen’s hand covered hers again, loosening her grip. “Remember, she feels everything you do. If you’re tense, she’ll be tense. Breathe.”
Brynja drew in a slow breath, then released it. Freya’s ears swiveled back toward her, listening.
“Better,” Hagen said. “Now we’ll walk. Just around the yard at first. Press with your legs, gently, and she’ll move forward.”
Brynja did as he instructed. Freya moved into an easy walk, Hagen keeping pace beside them, one hand resting lightly on the mare’s shoulder.
“Good. Keep your back straight, shoulders relaxed. You’re doing well.”
They circled the yard, and with each circuit, Brynja felt more confident, more attuned to the mare’s movements. It was like learning a new language, subtle cues and responses, a conversation without words.
“Want to try a trot?” Hagen asked after a few rounds.
Brynja nodded, her earlier nervousness replaced by something close to excitement.
“Press a bit more firmly with your legs. She’ll speed up. And you’ll need to post, rise and fall with her rhythm. It takes practice, so don’t worry if it feels awkward at first.”
Brynja pressed with her legs. Freya’s walk shifted to a bumpy trot, and Brynja found herself bouncing uncomfortably in the saddle.
“Try to find her rhythm,” Hagen called, jogging alongside them. “Up, down. Up, down. There. You’ve almost got it.”
It took another full circuit before Brynja found the timing, and then suddenly it clicked. She rose and fell with Freya’s gait, the bouncing smoothing into something almost graceful.
“That’s it!” Hagen’s grin was infectious. “Now you’re controlling her on your own.”
A laugh bubbled up from Brynja’s chest, surprising her with its lightness. When was the last time she’d laughed like that? Not the bitter, angry sound she’d grown used to, but genuine joy. This was different than riding a pony or riding with Hagen. This was a relationship between her and Freya.
After another few circuits, Hagen signaled for her to slow. Freya slowed to a walk, then halted. Brynja’s heart was racing, her cheeks flushed with exertion and pleasure.
“Well done,” Hagen said, reaching up to help her dismount. His hands spanned her waist as she swung her leg over and slid down. For a moment, she was pressed against him, close enough to see the silver flecks in his blue eyes, close enough to feel his breath against her forehead.
Neither of them moved.
Then Freya nudged Hagen’s shoulder with her nose, breaking the moment. He stepped back, his hands falling away, a faint color rising in his cheeks.
“Now for the important part,” he said, his voice slightly rough. “Horse care. Come with me.”
He led Freya toward the stable, Brynja following. The interior was dim and cool, smelling of hay and leather and the warm, dusty scent of horses. Hagen led Freya into one of the stalls at the far end and began removing her saddle.
“Always tend to your horse before yourself,” he said. “She’s given you her strength, her trust. You owe her care in return.”
They worked together, Hagen showing her how to brush Freya down, check her legs for heat or swelling, give her fresh water and grain. The repetitive motion was soothing, almost meditative. Freya stood patiently, her eyes half-closed in contentment.
“My grandsire used to say,” Hagen said after a while, “that you can tell a man’s character by how he treats his horse.”
“What does that make you?”
He looked up, meeting her eyes across Freya’s back. “I hope it makes me someone worth trusting.”
The weight of the words settled between them. He wasn’t just talking about horses, and they both knew it.
“You are,” Brynja said quietly. “Worth trusting.”
Something shifted in his expression, relief, perhaps, or hope. He reached across Freya’s back, his hand finding hers on the mare’s withers, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a touch that could have been accidental but wasn’t.
The strangest thing happened. A heat suffused her that was different. She’d had similar reactions to Hagen’s closeness, his touch, but this was something almost otherworldly. “Hagen?” she whispered, staring at his face to see if he caught it too.
He swallowed hard, his gaze following his hand as he reached for hers again. As soon as they touched, the same thing happened.
Warmth, heat, something shot from his hand to hers in an instant, a burst of light illuminating the small area.
“Did you feel that?” he asked.
She nodded, afraid to speak. “I saw it too. Just like the first time.”
He did it again, this time gripping her hand and holding her, and an intensity shot through them that made them both take a step back, breaking their bond. “Hagen, what was that?”
“I don’t know.” His gaze locked on hers while he reached for her again, but this time, nothing happened. “I’ve never felt anything like it before.”
This time, it was a simple touch. Hagen shrugged. “Must be something odd in the air. Mayhap a storm is coming.”
She accepted his explanation because she had no other explanation for the oddity.
They finished caring for Freya in companionable silence, then walked out into the afternoon sunlight. Brynja’s muscles ached pleasantly from the ride, and her hands smelled of horse and leather. She felt… grounded. Present in her body in a way she hadn’t since before that terrible day on Tiree.
“Many thanks to you,” she said as they walked back toward the keep. “For the lesson. For…” She gestured vaguely, unable to articulate all that the afternoon had meant.
“For what?” he asked.
“For treating me like I’m capable. Like I’m more than just…” She trailed off.
“More than just what?”
“Broken,” she said quietly.
Hagen stopped walking. He took a step closer, his expression serious. “Brynja. You’re not broken. You’re a survivor. There’s a difference.”
“It doesn’t always feel that way.”
“I know.” His hand lifted, hovering near her face, then dropped back to his side as if he’d thought better of the touch.
“But I see you for what you are, Brynja. Not your past. Not your scars. Not your losses. You. And what I see is someone strong. Someone brave. Someone who rides a strange horse for the first time and laughs.”
Her throat tightened with unexpected emotion. “I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure it doesn’t take a long time before the next one.” His smile was gentle. “On the morrow, we’ll work on cantering. And then, if you’re willing, we’ll take Freya out on the trails. There’s a path along the coast that’s bonny this time of year.”
“I’d like that,” Brynja said. And she meant it.
They walked back to the keep together as the sun began its descent toward the western sea. Brynja’s body ached in unfamiliar places, but her heart felt lighter than it had in longer than she could remember.
Perhaps trust wasn’t something you gave all at once. Perhaps it was something you learned, like riding—one careful step at a time, until suddenly you found yourself moving forward with confidence.
And perhaps Hagen Grant was exactly the teacher she needed.