by Kris Tualla
“Thank you, Father.” Sigrid’s face heated. Then her thighs heated.
“It is my pleasure, Daughter.” With a wink, he was gone.
September 20, 1820
The men of the royal family met in a room off the Great Hall. They greeted each other pleasantly, then grouped beside their preferred, though as yet merely assumed, candidates. Some men were openly solicitous in their attentions, others held back, waiting to see which way the wind might blow.
Servants set bottles of akevitt and pitchers of beer in the center of the table and glasses at each seat. Anders stood, cleared his throat and clinked two glasses together to begin the meeting. After jockeying for position, everyone settled around the table.
“Thank you all for being here. I believe that our purpose today is clear.” Anders made eye contact with each man. “It’s time for Norway to regain her identity. And that means placing a Norseman on the throne in Christiania. Everyone here is a member of the royal family, and for that reason, under consideration. Are we agreed, thus far?”
The men nodded and exchanged veiled glances.
Erling spoke up next to Anders. “Perhaps it would be helpful if each of us stated our qualifications? We may not all be familiar enough.”
“Or even our desire to take the throne!” Canute Fredericksen added.
“Canute, you make a good point. Shall I begin?” Anders looked around the table; a couple men waved permission. “You all know me; Anders Fredericksen, Duke of Stavanger, and son of Juliana, King Frederick’s second wife. At sixty-four I, personally, have no aspirations to the throne. But I love Norway with all my being and I want to see her come into her own in my lifetime.”
He lifted his glass as a rumble of approval swelled and subsided. “Until the 1348 plague, Norway was the strongest of the Scandinavian countries. Our Vikings ruled the North Sea! We settled in Iceland and Greenland, Scotland, England, North America. France was our stronghold. King William was of our lineage; Viking courage made him a conqueror!”
Another murmur of agreement circled the room.
“Gentlemen, it is the year 1820! For centuries we have lived under a Danish king. Now we have been given to Sweden as a spoil of war.” Anders shook his head in warning. His blue eyes darkened as he gazed at the men. “We are more than that, are we not?”
The murmur grew louder and morphed into table-pounding support.
“Do you share my dream? Are there those among you who would step forward and lead Norway as her King?”
“I shall!” Karl Fredericksen stood. “I am King Frederick the Fifth’s son, and brother to King Christian the Seventh.”
“His illegitimate half-brother,” someone muttered.
Karl’s piercing gaze rounded the table. “The ‘legitimate’ line has had its turn, has it not? And we are where we are today, as a result!” he bellowed.
“How old are you?” someone else asked.
“I am a strong and sound fifty-four years of age. And, I have an heir of eight years, who will reach the age of majority before I reach years equal to my brother’s today!” Karl pointed at Anders. “There is no doubt as to the vitality of our line.”
“And your wife?” Anders prompted.
“Ingeborg is second cousin to Caroline Mathilda, King Christian the Seventh’s wife.”
“Thank you, Karl.” Anders faced the room. “I propose to this assemblage that Karl Fredericksen be nominated as a candidate for King of Norway.”
The glasses on the table bounced with thumps of approval.
“Thank you.” Karl bowed, and then sat. Canute Fredericksen was next; he stood and spoke loudly.
“I am Canute, legitimate son of Juliana, King Frederick’s second wife, and full brother of Anders. I am sixty-one and do not seek the throne for myself, but for my son, Espen.”
“Father!” Espen blurted. “Am I not to decide for myself?”
Canute didn’t pause. “My son is well-educated and a direct descendent of the King. He is thirty-three, and in fine health. He would hold the throne for enough years to firmly establish Norway in her own right!”
“Father!” Espen stood, red-faced with anger.
“All you lack is a suitable bride!” Canute now acknowledged his son’s presence. “That’s easily provided.”
Espen shook his head. “I have told you repeatedly! I do not desire to marry simply for political reasons!”
“Then fall in love with an aristocrat!” Canute bellowed, his face mottled.
“What about Eirik?” Espen pointed at his silent brother. “He has a wife and a son!”
“An English wife!”
Shouts of dissent swirled around the room.
“Gentlemen!” Anders waved his hands in the air. “Let’s not argue amongst ourselves!”
“I propose to this assemblage that Espen Canutesen be nominated as a candidate for King of Norway!” Canute shouted.
All eyes shifted to Espen. He glared first at his father, then at the assembled faces eyeing him with varying support. He nodded and dropped into his chair, pressed into acquiescence. Tentative palms hit the table in approval.
Introductions continued, but no one else volunteered to be a candidate. Nicolas remained quiet, watching and listening to the other men.
At last, Anders turned to him. “And that leaves our American cousin.” Nicolas made eye contact around the table. He stood slowly and bowed deeply.
“Gentlemen, I am Lord Nicolas Reidar Hansen, Greve of Rollag, great-grandson of King Christian the Sixth, great-nephew of King Frederick, cousin to King Christian the Seventh. My father was pure Norse, so my bloodlines are acceptable. I am also thirty-three years of age. I spent a year here in Christiania when I was nineteen.
“I have been educated at universities in Philadelphia and Boston. Life in the American wilderness has made me strong, both in body and in resolve. I, too, have a son, an heir. He is intelligent and personable.”
Anders smiled, obviously pleased with Nicolas’s words. “And you are willing to be considered as a candidate?”
“I am.”
“What about your wife?” Karl asked.
Nicolas met his gaze. “My wife is beautiful, intelligent, and capable.”
“And her background?” Karl pressed.
“She is American.”
“Of what lineage?”
Nicolas straightened. “Her father is Scots, her mother is Irish.” Someone snorted.
Anders stepped beside Nicolas. “I propose to this assemblage that Nicolas Hansen be nominated as a candidate for King of Norway.”
Pounding palms filled the room with thunder. Nicolas nodded his acknowledgment and sat.
“So we have three candidates. What’s next?” Espen asked.
“Who makes the decision? And how is it to be made?” Canute looked to Anders.
“That’s ours to determine.”
“Are there any ideas?” Erling opened the discussion.
Eirik faced Nicolas. “How are leaders selected in America?”
Nicolas lounged in his chair. “Well, once the candidates are chosen, they spend the next months telling the people why they are the best choice. Then the people vote.”
“The commoners elect your king?” Canute was aghast.
“President. Yes and no.” Nicolas straightened and leaned on the table. “The Congress selects the President, and generally they go along with the wish of the populace. But they may vote with their conscience, if they seriously disagree.”
“Then that is what we shall do!” Anders smacked the table. “We shall place our candidates before the people throughout the winter, and ask them to choose. Then, this group shall act as a congress, and decide in spring.”
“So, we are free to follow the people, or not?” Canute clarified.
“Yes. Though, the wisdom of selecting the people’s choice needs not be explained!” Anders chuckled.
“And will the candidates, themselves, be allowed to vote?” Karl looked at Nicolas and Espen.
�
�In America, the candidates may vote. Generally it’s not enough to change the outcome.” Nicolas glanced around the table. “But this is a considerably smaller group.”
“I believe the candidates should be allowed to vote,” Anders decided. “There is always the chance they could choose other than themselves!”
“I second that!” Eirik called out. Agreement wafted toward him.
Anders rubbed his hands together. “I will commence the planning of a series of candidating opportunities. Balls, dinners, hunts—whatever I can conceive—and invite the aristocratic society of Christiania to participate. By April, we should be ready to vote. Are we agreed?”
The pounded approval lasted nearly three minutes.
September 25, 1820
The castle door opened and a woman swept inside. She pushed the ermine-trimmed cloak off her shoulders to reveal a dark red gown with silver embroidery. Her deep walnut hair was parted and brushed back, held in place by a pearl and silver snood. She was stunning.
“Oh, my! I had no idea I would be greeted in such a manner!” She smiled coquettishly as her face followed her black-lashed eyes around the waiting dinner crowd. Her Norse lilted with a French accent. “Is Karl Fredericksen here?”
Karl stepped forward, squinting. “Dagmar?”
“Uncle! It is indeed your own niece! I have come from Paris!” Her voice was deep and smooth, like a dark pool in an old forest. It rippled with her laughter. “I hope you are pleased to see me?”
“Of course!” Karl took her hands and kissed her cheeks. “I wish I knew you were coming! How long will you bide?”
“I shall winter here. I understand much is under consideration!” Dagmar glanced at Nicolas. He dipped his chin in greeting.
Anders joined Karl. “Indeed it is! May I welcome you to Akershus Castle, Mademoiselle?”
“Uncle Anders?”
“One and the same.”
“You are looking well, Uncle!” Dagmar tipped up on her toes and kissed Anders’ cheek.
“As are you, my dear. Come, join us for dinner. I shall have my butler assign staff to settle you in.”
Dagmar turned and waved her hand toward the door. Two servants waited there with luggage. “There’s no need, Uncle. I have my maid and footman with me. They are accustomed to my peculiarities and care for me quite well. I do appreciate your offer, but shall not require any additional servants. If they could be shown to my rooms, that would suffice.”
“Of course!” Anders clapped his hands and a butler appeared at his elbow. He spoke in the man’s ear, then turned and took Dagmar’s arm. “Shall we dine, Mademoiselle?”
Dagmar curtsied, slid her hand into the crook of Anders’ arm, and followed him into the Great Hall.
Willowy; Sydney thought Dagmar embodied the word. Everything on her was long, lean and graceful. She swayed as if blown by a breeze. Her throaty laugh sounded like birds. Sydney looked up at Nicolas. He stared oddly at his cousin as they followed her into the Hall.
“Captivated?” she murmured in English.
“Who would not be?” Nicolas turned to her. “Unless they were married to the most exceptional woman in the room, of course.”
“Of course. Very politic remark, Lord Candidate.” Sydney squeezed his elbow.
***
Dagmar carried a fan as an expressive extension of her arm. She sashayed toward Nicolas after dinner, and tapped his chest with its folded tip. Her gaze slid slowly over every inch of him.
“We have not been introduced. I am Dagmar Lunde, Duchess of Steinkjer. My mother, Petra, was Karl and Erling’s sister.”
Nicolas bowed. “My pleasure, Your Grace. I am Lord Nicolas Reidar Hansen, Greve of Rollag, great-grandson of King Christian the Sixth.”
“And an American, by your accent, eh?” Dagmar moved the fan tip back and forth on his chest.
“Oui, Mademoiselle.” Nicolas reached for Sydney. “May I present my wife, Grevinne of Rollag, Lady Siobhan Sydney Bell Hansen?”
“You are married? Hm. What a shame.”
“And happily, so it seems,” Sydney said in Norse as she slipped her arm around Nicolas’s waist.
“So you say. He has not said a word!” Dagmar’s fan ran down Nicolas’s body.
“I would expect my contentment to be so obvious, that words are not necessary,” Nicolas parried.
“Touché, Cousin.” The fan withdrew. “Perhaps you would introduce me to those I need to know?” Dagmar’s lashes fluttered over her cheeks, then lifted. “I have been away so long, I feel like a stranger. You, of course, understand that?”
Nicolas glanced at Sydney; she squeezed his waist. “I’ll check on the children. Take your time.”
“I shan’t be long,” he promised. Sydney smiled at him in a way that assured he would not.
Nicolas offered Dagmar his arm. The couple walked through the room at a casual pace. “Are you aware of the search for a Norse king?” he asked.
“I am. That’s why I came. It seemed far too delicious to stay away!”
“Then you know that your uncle Karl is a candidate?”
“Yes. But I don’t know who else.”
Nicolas pointed with his chin. “Espen Canutesen.”
“Is he?” Dagmar stared at her cousin. “Is he married?”
Nicolas chuckled. “No. And he seems oddly opposed.”
“Really?” Dagmar turned back to Nicolas, her delicate brow wrinkled. “Has he had any prospects?”
Nicolas shrugged. “I have only been in Christiania since August. But none that I have seen or heard of in that time.”
“Interesting. He is not unattractive. Not at all. Introduce us, would you?”
Nicolas happily led her to Espen's side. Espen turned toward them when he sensed their approach. His eyes swept over Dagmar, but showed no light of interest.
Nicolas bowed. “May I present your cousin, Her Grace, Dagmar Lunde, Duchess of Steinkjer?”
Dagmar dropped to a deep curtsy and faced the floor. She lifted her face and looked at Espen from under her dark lashes. Pink lips parted and curved in a slow smile as she rose and spread her fan. “It’s my pleasure, Espen. It has been far too long.”
Espen looked at his cousin as if he was puzzled. “Dagmar?”
She swirled the fan and snapped it shut. “You look wonderful, Espen.” Her sultry voice was mesmerizing.
“Thank you, Duchess. You look rather amazing yourself.”
“Please call me Dagmar, Cousin. I hope you will find time for me. I should very much wish to re-establish our childhood friendship.” The fan re-opened and fluttered. “And perhaps find new ground?”
“Yes. Yes, I—I believe, I would enjoy that.” Espen blushed, obviously caught off guard. “I shall send for you.”
“I look forward to it.” Dagmar held out her hand.
Espen took it and pressed it to his lips as his eyes met and held hers. Nicolas cleared his throat. Dagmar pulled her hand away and grasped Nicolas’s elbow.
“I’m tired,” she sighed.
“Do you wish me to escort you to your rooms?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you.”
He tipped his head toward Espen. “You may have caught his eye, after all. I cannot remember the last time I saw him blush!”
Dagmar glanced back over her shoulder, though they were gone from the Great Hall. “Truly?”
Nicolas led Dagmar to the same hallway where his rooms were. As he said good evening in front of her door, she stopped him from leaving.
“Are there only two candidates, then, for the throne?” she asked.
“No, Mademoiselle Duchess. There are three.”
“And who is the third?”
Nicolas grinned. “The American. Have a pleasant sleep, Your Grace.”
Chapter Eighteen
October 1, 1820
Sydney dressed for the Ball in a forest green dress trimmed with white lace; the fit of it caressed the arcs of her slender form and made Nicolas ache to do the same. The color echoed
her gray-green eyes in a way that caught the casual observer and required a second, more studied consideration. Haldis coiled Sydney’s nearly-black hair around her head, exposing the white skin of her graceful neck. A single pearl dripped from a green velvet ribbon around her throat.
Though her scar prevented her from wearing revealing gowns, the effect of her refined beauty was even more pronounced.
Nicolas shrugged into a skirted coat of navy blue over a brocade waistcoat shot through with golden threads. Since arriving in Christiania, he had gold buttons made with the Christiansen’s royal crest, and Tomas sewed them meticulously in place. His lace linen shirt, tan breeches and cream-colored hose completed the look.
“You are definitely the most handsome of the choices,” Sydney stepped behind him as he examined himself in the mirror. “In case that helps your cause!”
“Hm. If it were only that simple,” he said, smirking at her reflection. Then his countenance softened. “I have made a decision about something.”
“What might that be, husband?” Sydney’s eyebrows lifted and her tone was too light. He turned to face her.
“I believe it’s important for me to pay a visit to my father’s family.”
“Oh!” Her shoulders sagged in apparent relief. “Is that all?”
Nicolas kissed her forehead. “It’s a bit of a journey, I’m afraid.”
“Where are they?”
“Arendal. It’s to the south and west. I believe it will take three or four days to get there.”
“You believe?” Sydney’s brows dipped. “Have you not been there?”
Nicolas rubbed the back of his neck. “No. I didn’t see a need when I was here last.”
Sydney’s demeanor shifted. “And now that you might be king, you do?”
“Well, yes. To make a fine point of it.” He ran his knuckles up her arm. “How would they respond to know that one of their own was a candidate, but did not care enough to present himself in person?”
Sydney’s mouth shaped into a half-serious pout. “You have a point,” she conceded.
“And then”—how might he explain it?—“I feel strangely drawn. When I was a careless lad of nineteen, not here of my own choosing, it didn’t occur to me. But now…” he faltered.