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

by Kris Tualla

  “How much do you know of the situation here?” Anders asked.

  “I know that through a series of unfortunate circumstances, Sweden has gained Norway,” Nicolas began.

  “True.”

  “And I know from your letter that the descendants of Frederick are searching for a candidate to take the throne and make Norway her own sovereign entity.”

  “True as well.”

  “What I don’t know, is where I fit in.” Nicolas stopped walking. “I’m not a descendent of Frederick.”

  Anders rested his hand on Nicolas’s shoulder. “There are several possibilities, cousin. Are you ready to hear them?”

  “I am.” Nicolas folded his arms across his chest.

  “No, Nicolas, you’re not a descendent of Frederick. And you’re an American. For that reason, there are many who feel you have no rights here. They want you to give up your land and go home.”

  “I didn’t need to come all this way to do that!” Nicolas blurted.

  “No, indeed. So it’s obvious that I had other ideas, eh?” Anders withdrew his hand and rubbed his palms with anticipation.

  Nicolas leaned against a tree. “You have my attention.”

  “There are also those who wish you to support them in their quest for the crown.”

  “And by ‘support’ I take you to mean my holdings as well?” Nicolas picked a loose piece of bark from the tree. It crackled loudly in the quiet afternoon.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “Who, specifically, has that hope?” Nicolas narrowed his eyes at Anders.

  “Karl Fredericksen.”

  “The mistress’s son? Erling’s youngest brother?” Nicolas ran his hand through his hair. “How old is he now?”

  “Fifty-four. But his wife, Ingeborg, is only thirty-three. And she has birthed an heir-apparent. Borg is already eight, so Karl only needs to hold the throne for ten years, maybe less.”

  Nicolas tossed the bits of bark aimlessly. “So he’s the favorite, then?”

  “Until now.” Anders considered Nicolas. “Until you.”

  Nicolas attempted to sound uninterested. “Did you forget? I’m not Frederick’s descendent.”

  “No. But you are a direct descendent of King Christian. And you are pure Norwegian otherwise.”

  “And?”

  “And there are many who would back you as a legitimate heir, not one gotten off a mistress.” Anders pulled a leaf from the tree above them. “Think about it.”

  Nicolas stared across the river. “I expect I’ll have questions later. I wasn’t prepared, so they don’t come to mind presently.”

  “Of course!” Anders clapped his shoulder. “Are you hungry? How about supper?”

  The cousins dined on fiskeboller—fish balls with boiled cabbage and vegetables. Dessert of Jarlsberg cheese and sliced apples finished the meal. They washed it down with more small beer and akevitt.

  Nicolas retired upstairs to a small, clean room. He stripped off the dusty clothes of the day, shook them out, and draped them over the footboard of the bed. Then he washed, making use of the ewer of warm water that waited for him. He lay, naked and on a diagonal, across the narrow bed.

  Silent mountains were visible through his window. They reigned saw-toothed and gray, hovering, crowned with moon-gilt and star-diamonds, robed with an arctic summer’s lavender sky. Their presence reassured him; he didn’t feel alone.

  And he prayed that God would show him what to do.

  August 23, 1820

  In the land agent’s office, Nicolas listened politely while the wiry man who managed his lands extolled his own virtues.

  “That is well and good, Herr Jenssen. But I believe it’s time to do more, do you not?” Nicolas smiled. “While I’m here, I desire to raise the value of my land, and the conditions of my tenants’ lives as well.”

  Anders turned and stared at him.

  “Of course, Lord Hansen. Have you suggestions?” Herr Jenssen’s lips widened but his eyes didn’t return Nicolas’s smile.

  “I want to allot plots of land to be leased for logging. Once cleared, they can be used to pasture livestock. The current flatland pastures may then be cultivated for profit.”

  “Have you examined the land?” Herr Jenssen’s tone made it clear he expected a negative response.

  “I spent most of yesterday riding and walking through it. And climbing over it.” Nicolas leaned forward in his chair, tapping his forefinger imperiously on the man’s desk. “If we implement these changes, I believe it will benefit us both.”

  “Very well, sir. I shall see what can be done.”

  Nicolas leaned back and waved his hand. “Might I see the chart of current land usage? And the topography?”

  “Now?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  Herr Jenssen sighed quite loudly to indicate it was, indeed, entirely too much trouble. “I shall need time to retrieve them, you understand. I wasn’t expecting you. Sir.”

  “Very well.” Nicolas stood. “My cousin and I shall enjoy an early lunch. Expect us to return in two hours.” He extended his hand.

  Herr Jenssen had no choice but to shake it. “Yes, sir.”

  They tried a different tavern this time. Anders considered him over a glass of stout while Nicolas grinned as though he had swallowed a whole flock of canaries.

  Anders eventually lowered his glass. “What are your thoughts, Hansen?”

  “It’s very simple, really. Whoever benefits from this land, whether it be me or the pretender, will benefit more richly if these changes are made. True?”

  Anders answered slowly. “True.”

  “And I haven’t made any decisions as yet, regarding my own path. In the event that I don’t remain in Norway, then these changes must happen quickly. It’s late August. Adaptations must be implemented before spring.” Nicolas lifted his glass in silent toast, then sipped his beer.

  Anders nodded. “That’s good thinking. Very good thinking.”

  Their food was served; plates of smoked fish, sausages, cheeses and fresh bread. The men ate in hungry silence. When they were nearly finished, Nicolas asked, “Are there other candidates besides Karl?”

  Anders set his fork down. “All of Louise’s children have passed on except the youngest, Luise. She’s seventy and unmarried. My mother, Juliana-Maria, has four living children: myself, Canute, and our spinster twin sisters, Ellen and Elisa.”

  “Why don’t you or Canute take this role for yourself?” Nicolas did not want to make the mistake of assuming anything in this game. Anders’ wry smile acknowledged what Nicolas guessed.

  Anders dropped his napkin on the table. “I’m sixty-four, Canute is sixty-one. We seek a king who can hold the throne for some time. One who is not yet in his dotage!”

  Nicolas chuckled. “You’re far from dotage, cousin.”

  Anders waved his hand and pressed on. “As for heirs, I have only the one daughter. You’re well acquainted with Sigrid. Of course, she has no children.”

  Nicolas startled, wondering for the first time if Anders knew of their intimate past. “And Canute?”

  “Eirik and Espen. Eirik’s wife is English, so Canute has been pressing for Espen.”

  “Does Espen aspire to the throne?” Nicolas asked, curious as to Anders’ beliefs concerning his cousin’s denied aspirations.

  “It’s best to assume that he does.”

  Nicolas drained his beer as he considered that twist. “That leaves Else’s children,” he prompted. “Are Karl’s siblings still alive?”

  “His brother Erling is sixty-two. His sister Petra is gone. She had a son and a daughter. The daughter lives in Paris, and the son is deceased.”

  Nicolas summed it up. “So Karl is overt, Espen is covert.”

  Anders lifted his glass in challenge. “And you, our American cousin, are the spoiler.”

  Back in the land agent’s office, Herr Jenssen had the charts spread out on his desk in a hectic spill of paper. Nicolas used
a charcoal pencil to sketch out the plot borders he wanted, based on the topography lines. He stepped back and considered his plan, nodding his satisfaction.

  “I want the plots leased immediately,” he instructed Jenssen. “That is of utmost importance. In order to facilitate that, I’ll wave the first year’s rents and taxes.”

  “Wave rent! And taxes?” As such, Jenssen’s profits would be waved as well. “Lord Hansen, I must object!”

  Nicolas stared him into silence. “I’ll pay your percentage, Herr Jenssen, on every plot with a signed contract. Rest assured, I have no interest in seeing you starve.”

  “Uh, thank you, Sir.” Jenssen swallowed audibly.

  “In fact, if all the parcels are leased by November first, I’ll pay you a bonus!” Nicolas tempted. “Your Christmas would be quite pleasant, I assure you.”

  “That was very impressive,” Anders commended later, as his carriage rocked them back toward Christiania. Then he added with a wink, “Your Highness.”

  Chapter Twelve

  August 21, 1820

  Haldis shook her head. “Jeg ikke forstår.”

  “Du taler Engelsk?” Sydney asked, though she already discerned the answer.

  “Ingen, Madam.”

  Sydney tried her best to voice her request in Norse, “You get midwife for me?”

  Haldis frowned as her eyes flicked to Sydney’s trim waistline. “Midwife? The woman who delivers babies?”

  Sydney nodded, relieved to have made her request clear. “Yes. Ingrid Olavsen.”

  “When would you like her to come?”

  “Today.” Sydney smiled, hoping she looked encouraging. “You get Ingrid Olavsen?”

  Haldis curtsied, obviously puzzled. “Yes, madam. I will summon Ingrid Olavsen today.”

  “Takk du, Haldis.”

  “Velkommen, Lady.”

  Ingrid came to the castle that afternoon. Sydney met her in the entry hall and led her to a private room on the first floor. She spoke in Norse as best she could.

  “Thank you for coming, Ingrid.”

  “You’re welcome, Lady. How may I help you?” Ingrid’s eyes swept over Sydney’s narrow-waisted body in an echo of Haldis’s speculative gaze.

  Sydney spoke with confidence, “Learn me to midwife.”

  Ingrid rubbed the amused smile from her lips. “Learn you? Do you mean ‘teach’? Teach you to be a midwife?”

  Sydney laughed at her own gaff. “Yes! Teach me. Please?”

  Ingrid waved her hand around the well-appointed room of the castle. “You are the Lady Hansen, Grevinne of Rollag. Why do you wish to learn this?”

  “In America, is no nobility. I want to help mothers, babies…” her Norse failed her at that point. She gave Ingrid an imploring look.

  “Oh! You wish to be a midwife back in America?”

  “Yes!” Sydney sighed her relief. “You teach me? I pay you.”

  Ingrid sat back in her chair and considered Sydney. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. Then, “I saw your face when that Englishwoman’s baby slid into your arms. It was magisk, was it not?”

  Sydney nodded, having figured out the unfamiliar word. Frustrated by her lack of Norse, her mouth worked silently and her hands waved in mute circles. She already surmised that noble women didn’t lower themselves to such menial tasks. But she wasn’t noble—not really. And deep inside of her a need to do this had been awakened. How could she explain it?

  “Nothing is the same!” she finally blurted.

  Ingrid laughed. “You have the gift, Lady, that’s sure. I never saw anyone with such ability and yet no training.”

  Sydney got the gist of the compliment. “Thank you.”

  Ingrid leaned forward. Her gaze pierced through the warm haze of emotion, straight to Sydney’s reality. “If you are serious, it means you must come with me when I send for you. In the middle of the night, in the rain and in the snow, even during a dinner or ball here at the castle.”

  “Yes!” Sydney grinned. She would agree to anything—even if she only understood half the woman’s words—because she wanted this so dearly. “I come!”

  Ingrid nodded, narrow-eyed. “I shall send my girl, Agnes. She’ll bring you to the birth.”

  “Yes. Good.”

  “When do you want to begin?”

  “Today!” Sydney shrugged happily. “Why wait?”

  “All right, then. I will expect you the next time I am called out.” The corner of Ingrid’s mouth curved. Clearly she wondered if Lady Hansen would follow through on her request.

  “What, um, my dress?”

  “Wear a simple, dark gown. Nothing expensive or fancy. And bring a forkle or two.”

  “Forkle?”

  Ingrid traced the outline of an apron over her dress.

  “Oh! I understand.” Sydney stood and offered her hand. “Thank you, Ingrid. Thank you very much!”

  “We shall see if you still thank me ‘very much’ in a month!” Ingrid laughed.

  ***

  “She bade me fetch the midwife,” Haldis whispered to the pierced wooden screen in the dark room. A single candle on each wall provided only enough light to ensure a body did not fall over the furniture.

  “Why? Is she with child again?”

  “No, sir, I don’t believe so. She still suckles the babe.”

  There was an unmuffled grunt of disgust. “She doesn’t use a wet nurse, then.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Has she had her courses since she arrived?”

  “No, sir.” Haldis blushed at the intimate question.

  “And she sleeps in his bed every night?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her whisper was barely audible.

  Several moments of assessing silence passed before she was dismissed. “Very well then. Be sure to let us know if anything changes. That’s all.”

  August 22, 1820

  Sydney pulled a dress over her shift as the clock on the mantle chimed softly, four o’clock. Nicolas was gone to his land with Anders; Maribeth would care for Kirstie and Stefan until she returned. It was helpful that Kirstie ate solid foods now.

  Sydney followed Agnes out of the fortress into the city. They walked for twenty minutes until they reached the house. Light glowed through the second floor window. Agnes led her up the stairs and handed her over to Ingrid. The room smelled of sweat, beeswax and wool.

  “Welcome, Lady Hansen!” Ingrid smiled. “So you have come.”

  “Please, my name is Sydney. I say, I come,” Sydney said in rudimentary Norse. She turned to the young woman in the bed. “Good morn, madam.”

  The woman nodded and closed her eyes.

  “This is Mistress Arnesen. This is her second child, and her first birth was quick. She is already nearly open.” Ingrid motioned for Sydney to come to the other side of the room. She held up her bag. “You will need a bag of your own. I recommend leather, it needs to be sturdy.”

  Sydney nodded. “I buy one today.”

  “Inside,” Ingrid opened her bag, “You will need to keep a supply of rags. They are for soaking the mother’s skin to soften it, remember? And for wiping the baby’s nose and mouth before it breathes. The mother should have towels to clean and swaddle the infants, but if not, you will need rags for that as well.” Ingrid spoke clearly and demonstrated with her hands to help Sydney understand.

  “Yes.”

  Ingrid turned to face her, “You wash them out and use them again. It is a large bekostning only to begin.”

  “Bekostning?”

  “Um…” Ingrid rubbed her fingers together. “Money?”

  “Oh! Cost!” Sydney nodded.

  Mistress Arnesen moaned and Ingrid moved to her side. She spoke to her softly and madam nodded. Ingrid looked over her shoulder at Sydney.

  “I have olje in my bag. Would you bring it?”

  Sydney dug in the bag and found the corked bottle. She handed it to Ingrid, but the midwife shook her head, pushing the bottle back toward Sydney.

  “Please show
me how you used it on Lady Linnet.”

  Sydney sat on the edge of the bed and gently spread madam’s legs. She poured a little of the deep golden oil over her finger tips; it smelled of olives. Gently, she massaged the opening to the birth canal, stretching it a little. “The midwife did for me when my baby born,” she explained.

  “And she used hot komprimerer as well? The hot rags, pressed against the skin?”

  “Oh! Yes, she did one, two, one, two. Understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.” Ingrid checked the water heating in the fireplace. She placed several rags in the pot, then rung one out and handed it to Sydney. Sydney pressed it against madam’s cunnus. Madam smiled her thanks, then winced with the onset of a birth pain.

  Ingrid and Sydney worked together for the next hour, while Ingrid explained everything she did. Mistress Arnesen’s birthing progressed rapidly. Her water broke over Sydney’s hand as she massaged in the oil, soaking the sheets. With the next pain, the baby’s furry head crowned.

  “Do you remember Lady’s birth?” Ingrid sat close to Sydney. She nodded, eyes wide with concern. Ingrid pressed a clean rag into Sydney’s hand. “Do it again.”

  Completely focused, Sydney’s lower lip slipped into her mouth and her teeth held it there. When the head emerged, Sydney determinedly wiped the baby’s nose and mouth. She eased one shoulder, then the other, with the next contraction. The baby girl somersaulted into her guiding hands.

  Ingrid told Mistress Arnesen she had a daughter and Sydney laid the newborn on her mother’s chest. Ingrid showed Sydney when the cord stopped pulsing, and then she tied it close to the baby’s stomach and again a few inches away. She let Sydney cut the tough cord between the strings.

  Rags, oil, string, a knife. Sydney repeated the mental list until she could write it down. And a whetstone to keep the knife sharp.

  Ingrid helped madam put the baby to her breast. “The sucking årsaker the womb to sammentrek.” Ingrid tugged gently on the cord. “That pushes the afterbirth out.”

  Sydney figured out what Ingrid was telling her. Ingrid helped her deliver the afterbirth so she would become familiar with the feel of it.