A Prince of Norway: Nicolas & Sydney: Book 2 (The Hansen Series - Nicolas & Sydney)

by Kris Tualla

  Sigrid sat at the opposite table, facing them. An obese older man, shuffling with a cane and panting with the effort, dropped into the chair next to hers. His skin was pasty but for splotches of red on his cheeks, and his enlarged scarlet nose betrayed a life of debauchery.

  That must be the ‘fat hairy beast’ Sigrid was married to. In spite of the way the woman glared at her, Sydney felt a moment of pity for the much younger wife.

  Then her stomach growled; she was hungry and the food smelled wonderful. Uniformed servants hurried around the room, pouring wine, beer and akevitt at each place. Sydney pointed at the unfamiliar liquor.

  “What is that?” she asked Nicolas in English.

  “Akevitt. It’s Scandinavia’s answer to Russia’s vodka. It’s distilled from potatoes then flavored with anise, dill or fennel.” Nicolas lifted his glass and sniffed. “This appears to be anise.”

  Sydney sniffed hers and recognized the scent. “Why is it so yellow?”

  “The darker color either means it’s been aged longer.” Nicolas’s eyes twinkled and he whispered in her ear, “Or, to save money, the use of young casks!”

  Sydney observed others at the table. Most were on their second or third glass. “Should I drink it now?”

  Nicolas nodded. “Give it a try.”

  Sydney downed the alcohol and regretted it immediately. Her chest burned all the way to her stomach, and that recepticle clenched in violent protest at being set on fire. Her eyes watered. She grabbed her beer glass and gulped the cooling liquid.

  “Perhaps I should have warned you. It’s quite strong.”

  Sydney’s voice pinched. “That would have been helpful!”

  “Most do follow akevitt with beer, that’s why both are poured. Purists, however, claim beer ruins the delicate flavor and aftertaste,” Nicolas explained.

  Sydney rolled her eyes. “Who can tell that when one’s gullet has been stripped?”

  “Here.” Nicolas speared her appetizer and lifted it from her plate. “Taste this.”

  Sydney sampled the pink smoked fish. It was good, and did seem to complement the akevitt, now that her taste buds were beginning to recover. “What was that? I liked it.”

  “Smoked salmon.”

  “And what is that?” She pointed at another dish.

  “Lutefisk. Don’t try that tonight.” Nicolas spooned it onto his plate. “Even more than akevitt, this is an acquired taste, to be sure!”

  The appetizer course was completed and soup was brought out. The server at their table turned suddenly and dropped a bowl of soup right in Nicolas’s lap.

  “Gud forbanner det all til helvete! De uvitende suckling av en fatherlass plugg! Hellig dritt!” he bellowed. He blotted his breeches and continued with a paragraph of curses so intense that even Sydney understood his point.

  Guests within earshot responded with stunned silence. Mouths gaping and eyes wide, they stared, horrified, at Nicolas. He looked at Sydney as realization dawned, and he bloomed scarlet. Unlike their family and friends in Missouri, these people understood his words.

  Every single one of them.

  Sydney slapped her hand over her mouth. Nicolas’s eyes rounded and his lips moved silently for a long moment. Then he stammered the Norse words of his apology.

  “I—I’m so very sorry! Please forgive my rude outburst and accept my truly humble apology.”

  “Hmm.” Anders, at the head table, considered his younger cousin. He quirked one brow. “You ignorant suckling of a fatherless pig? I must confess that’s one I have not yet heard.”

  Someone snickered, then coughed to cover it.

  Anders moved his gaze around the room. “Perhaps we can learn from our American cousin after all, eh?”

  The next snicker was not disguised. Nicolas blew a slow breath in relief.

  A maid used the disruption to slide next to Nicolas and whisper urgently. Her eyes darted to Sydney. She spoke so rapidly, Sydney couldn’t follow. Nicolas put up his hand to stop the maid, and turned to face her.

  “It seems, Madam, that your services are required.”

  Sydney was confused. “Mine? How?”

  “As best I can make out, my cousin Eirik’s wife Linnet is confined with birth pains. She is English and speaks no Norse. The midwife speaks no English.”

  “But I don’t speak enough Norse!” Sydney objected.

  Nicolas spoke deliberately to the maid but she would not be dissuaded. She reached over and grabbed Sydney’s arm.

  “Behag Madam. Vær så snill og komm.” Please, Madam. Please come.

  Nicolas shrugged, but his eyes implored her to comply. Sydney sighed and pushed back her chair.

  “Ja, jeg kommer,” she said to the maid.

  Then she addressed Nicolas, “If I don’t return presently, please send a dinner tray. And Maribeth, when Kirstie is hungry.”

  Nicolas squeezed her hand. “Thank you, min presang.”

  Chapter Nine

  A few minutes after the maid summoned Sydney from Nicolas’s side, Sigrid moved across the tables to her vacated chair.

  “Where has Siobhan gone? To nurse her baby?” Sigrid signaled to a server.

  “She was summoned to Eirik’s wife’s birthing.” Nicolas poured her a glass of wine.

  “Good lord! Is she a midwife?” Sigrid’s derision was clear.

  “No. But his wife is English and apparently doesn’t speak Norse. She wanted someone with whom she could converse,” Nicolas explained.

  “I’m glad to hear she’s confined at last. And it’s quite fortunate that the maid was aware that Siobhan speaks English!” Sigrid took a bite of the dish set before her. “This is delicious!”

  “Sydney.”

  “Nicolas?”

  “She goes by Sydney, not Siobhan.”

  “Oh. Well.” Sigrid shrugged and helped herself to a bite off Nicolas’s plate. “At the least, she hides her Irish heritage! Have you tried the venison?”

  Sigrid dangled a forkful in front of Nicolas’s lips. Her light blue eyes met his and her lips parted in invitation. Unwilling to make yet another scene on his first night in Christiania, Nicolas opened his mouth and allowed Sigrid to feed him.

  “Very tasty,” he mumbled, and sipped his wine. Deliberately changing the subject, he pointed his chin at Sigrid’s empty seat. “How is Vegard these days?”

  Sigrid’s eyes darted to her husband. “His health is bad. But he refuses to die and leave me in peace.”

  “What are his complaints? I don’t believe he used a cane, last I was here.”

  “The gout is most recent. Thus the cane. His only pleasures are food, wine. And my hand.”

  Nicolas choked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Sigrid leaned close and whispered in his ear, her voice husky with drink. “He begs me to satisfy him, but it is akin to kneading biscuit dough. If he asks, I ply him with plenty of akevitt first. He falls asleep, and then I can stop.”

  “And that suffices?” Nicolas was appalled at her situation.

  “I assure him the next day that he was hard as a cedar and came like a whale.” Sigrid flipped a hand in front of her face. “I don’t know if he believes me, and I don’t particularly care.”

  Her hand dropped to Nicolas’s thigh. “My memories of you inspired that particular description.”

  She leaned back into her chair and smiled across at Vegard. He sneered in return. Nicolas nodded a greeting to the old man. He didn’t desire to make any enemies before understanding the political landscape at Akershus Castle. He was even willing to tolerate Sigrid’s advances.

  To a point.

  He laid his hand over hers to keep it from drifting closer to his manhood. “Have you your father’s ear?” Nicolas asked as his gaze shifted to Anders.

  Sigrid straightened. “Do you mean in the quest for a king?”

  Nicolas kept his tone casual. “In anything.”

  “I express my opinions. On occasion, he concurs. Other times he does not. Why do you ask?”


  Nicolas gave Sigrid his best smile. “I only need to know whom I can trust, is all. And who might be my champion.”

  Sigrid’s pale aquamarine eyes brightened with hope. “I might be able to help you. In anything you need. Anything at all.”

  “Thank you, Sigrid. That’s very comforting to know.” He squeezed her hand.

  ***

  Sydney hurried after the nimble maid. When they reached the second story hallway, she tried without success to appreciate the towering ceilings, carved wood paneling, intricate wrought-iron sconces and endless paintings that lined the window-casemented walls that she was practically running past. Behind heavy doors, she could hear screaming.

  With a quick knock, the maid opened one.

  “Her er kvinnen!” She put her hand in the middle of Sydney’s back and shoved, slamming the door shut behind her. The woman on the bed stopped screaming and stared at Sydney.

  “Are you English?” she demanded from amidst a massive mountain of pillows and lace.

  Sydney approached the imposing brocade-canopied bed. “I’m American.”

  “Good Lord! I am surrounded by nothing but barbarians in my hour of need!” the woman wailed. She flopped back against the pillows and pressed one limp wrist against her brow.

  Sydney shrugged. “Fine, then. If you’ve no need of me, I’ll return to my husband and my dinner.” She turned toward the door.

  “No! No! I’m sorry! I just… I’m so… Ooohhhh!” The woman’s face turned scarlet and she grabbed her enormous belly. “I’m gooooing tooo diiiiiieeee!”

  The midwife heaved an exasperated sigh and crossed to Sydney. She placed her palm against her own chest. “Ingrid Olavsen.”

  “Sydney Hansen.” Sydney extended her hand.

  “Du taler Norse?”

  “Bare litt. Du taler Engelsk?”

  Ingrid nodded and held up her finger and thumb half an inch apart. “Ikke forteller henne!” Don’t tell her!

  Sydney laughed.

  “What are you laughing at?” the natal beast on the bed snarled.

  Sydney waved her hand in an offhand manner. “My Norse. I misspoke.”

  “Hmph.” She glared suspiciously at the midwife.

  “We’ve not been properly introduced, so that convention falls upon us. I’m Lady Siobhan Sydney Bell Hansen, wife of Nicolas Reidar Hansen, Greve of Rollag.”

  “Lord Nicolas Hansen? Eirik’s cousin?”

  “I suppose so. And you are?”

  “Lady Linnet Windsor-Worthingham, wife of Eirik Frederick Canutesen, Duke of Hamar.”

  Lady Linnet looked to be in her thirties. She was a comely woman with rich brown hair and gray eyes. But while her brow was ridged in permanent furrows, she lacked laugh lines.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Your Grace. What, precisely, do you wish from me?”

  Linnet’s eyes shifted back to the midwife. “I cannot understand a word that woman utters! I must have someone in attendance with whom I can communicate.”

  “I understand your concerns, but she is a midwife and I’m not. And my Norse is fundamental at best…”

  “Have you birthed any children?”

  Sydney swallowed, her mouth gone suddenly dry. “Three.” One that lived.

  “So then you know what hell I am going through!”

  “Your Grace, birthing a child is not at all the same as delivering a child!”

  Another pain gripped Linnet. She rolled on the bed and wailed, “I doooon’t caaaare! Oooohhhh! God help meeeeeee!”

  Sydney looked to Ingrid.

  The midwife shook her head and rolled her eyes, lips puckered. “She will not tillat me nær,” she complained.

  Sydney considered her options. She really wanted to go back to her dinner and leave this obnoxious woman to her own end. She turned a little to the door, trying to convince herself the problem wasn’t hers to solve. After all, Lady Linnet was a stranger to her. And a rude one, at that.

  But.

  This was her first night in Norway and at Akershus Castle with the royal family. And Nicolas had a great deal riding on the outcome of this journey. What she chose to do now would have an impact on his future. And hers. And their children’s. She sighed and turned back to Her Grace.

  When Lady Linnet’s pain seemed to have passed, Sydney rested determined fists on her hips. “I’ll help you as much as I’m able. But you must attend to what I say!” she declaimed.

  Linnet’s eyes focused slowly. Then she nodded, her muddled gaze riveted on Sydney.

  Sydney waved a pointed finger in her direction. “This baby is going to come. You may help it, or you may hinder it. The choice you make may determine whether you live or die in the process!”

  Linnet’s eyes rounded. “I don’t wish to die!”

  “You needn’t,” Sydney quickly assured her. “But you must do as I—and Ingrid—tell you.”

  “Ingrid?”

  Sydney huffed. “The midwife.”

  “Oh.” Linnet had the decency to blush.

  Sydney pulled a deep breath. “All right, then. First of all, lay on your side. And put that pillow between your knees.” Linnet shifted awkwardly in the bed until she was in position. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Yes.” Linnet began to gasp.

  “With this pain, Your Grace, I want you to relax.”

  Linnet glared at her. “Relax? How can I possibly relax when my very body is being torn brutally asunder?” When the birth pain strengthened, Linnet’s body twisted and she cried out, “I cannot! I cannot! Ooooohhhh!”

  Good Lord, Sydney thought. This had better be worth it.

  Sydney walked around the bed so she was behind Linnet. She leaned close and rested her left hand on Linnet’s belly. With her right hand she massaged Linnet’s lower back. Linnet sagged as the contraction ended and her tension decreased.

  “Close your eyes,” Sydney whispered. “With the next pain, push your stomach against my hand when you breathe in. Can you do that?”

  It took a few tries, but Linnet gradually gained a modicum of control over her body. And—thank God—she stopped screaming.

  “You’re doing very well, Your Grace,” Sydney murmured.

  “Thank you, Madam Hansen,” she whispered.

  Ingrid tapped Sydney on the shoulder. “Er De en doktor?”

  Sydney shook her head, no.

  “Du har en presang.”

  Sydney understood presang, gift. “Takk du.”

  A knock on the door preceded a maid with Sydney’s dinner tray.

  “I’m hungry.” Linnet whined, looking over her shoulder at the tray.

  Sydney remembered Rosie’s words when she birthed Kirstie and repeated them to Linnet. “Your body doesn’t have time for food. You would just vomit it up.”

  Ingrid encouraged the fading fire back to life and set a pot of water to warm. She pulled an apron for Sydney and a stack of clean rags from her bag. Sydney heard her daughter in the hall before Maribeth knocked on the door. The clock on the mantel showed half past eleven. Sydney had come to Linnet’s room at eight.

  “Come in, Maribeth. Might you loosen my laces?” Sydney reached for Kirstie, crooning, “How is my darling girl? Are you hungry, sweetheart?”

  Kirstie fussed and smiled and frowned as she fidgeted. Sydney sat near the bed and opened her gown. Kirstie latched on hungrily. She reached up to Sydney’s face and Sydney kissed her small palm.

  “How old is she?” Lady Linnet watched from the bed.

  “Seven months.”

  “And you’ve not made use of a wet nurse? How very odd… I suppose it’s because you’re an American. How old are the other two?”

  Caught off her guard, Sydney didn’t look up. “They were born too early and didn’t breathe.”

  When Kirstie was satisfied, Sydney kissed her and handed her back to Maribeth. “Might you bring me some cooking oil?”

  Ingrid tapped Sydney’s shoulder and pointed at Linnet. She made a circle with her forefinger and thumb, and pushed th
ree of her fingers through the circle. Sydney nodded.

  “Your Grace, Ingrid needs to examine you inside…”

  “No. You do it.”

  “But I don’t know how!”

  “She can show you. I don’t want that woman touching me. She stares at me oddly. And she mutters under her breath. I don’t trust her.”

  Sydney slid her worried gaze to Ingrid. “Hjelper meg gjør det?” Help me do it?

  Ingrid sighed and nodded, talking to herself. Sydney squelched her snicker when she recognized the words “stubborn” and “ignorant.”

  Ingrid showed her what to do. Sydney felt the baby’s head pushing against a ring of tough flesh just wider than her three fingers. When she showed Ingrid, the midwife nodded and began to place the hot rags against Linnet.

  “Babyen kommer.”

  Maribeth returned with the oil and, between hot compresses, Sydney massaged it into the opening to Linnet’s womb—the way the St. Louis midwife had done for her—then checked her again. As she did so, Linnet abruptly cried out. The baby’s head pushed Sydney’s hand back as it surged into the birth canal.

  Panic overtook Linnet. Another pain caused her to curl on the bed, groaning and twisting.

  “That’s your baby!” Sydney cried. “Push it out, Your Grace, just as though you were using the chamber pot.”

  “But I’ll soil myself!” she wailed. When another pain rolled over her, Sydney pushed her knee aside.

  “I can see the head, Your Grace! Push!”

  Lady Linnet’s red face screwed tight as she finally bore down. Six straining pushes later, the baby’s head emerged wet, bloody and cone-shaped. Ingrid jumped forward and wiped mucus from the infant’s mouth and nose. Then she placed her hands over Sydney’s.

  Ingrid guided Sydney as she worked first one shoulder, then the other, through the tight opening. Suddenly the baby slithered into Sydney’s arms. She cried out her own surprise.

  “It’s a boy! You have a son!”

  Ingrid lifted the babe from Sydney and laid him on Linnet’s chest. Linnet stared at his pinkening, slimy body in open-mouthed shock. He squirmed and threw his limbs wide before giving a wail of indignation.