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

by Kris Tualla

  Nicolas considered the boy and his over-sized handed-down clothes from the grooms. He was half-a-foot taller than Stefan, so that was no help.

  “Let’s go to town.” He rolled up the designs and tied them with a leather thong. “I have other business to attend to, and then I shall make sure that you, Leif, are suitably attired to meet the members of the Storting!”

  ***

  The next morning, Stefan and Nicolas emerged from their rooms, dressed in their best. Leif sat in the hallway in his new nankeen breeches, white shirt and black coat.

  His leg bounced as he waited.

  “Ready, Leif?” Nicolas handed him the roll of drawings.

  The boy scrambled to his feet. “Yes, Sir!”

  Nicolas and the boys took a carriage to the Cathedral School of Christiania. In the auditorium, he introduced them to Lord Wilhelm Christie, and to several of the members. He also explained why they were there.

  “So these boys have been working on a flag, have they?” Wilhelm nodded his approval. “Let’s take a look.”

  Leif handed him the rolled drawings. Wilhelm untied and flattened them. He gazed at each one with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. Then he looked at the boys.

  “These are very interesting. I particularly like this one.” He held up the red, white and blue one. “But I shall show them all to the assembly.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Leif breathed.

  Nicolas herded the boys to seats in the front corner. “You can watch everything from here, but you must be very quiet if you wish to stay. I’ll take you back to the castle when we break for lunch.”

  “All right, Pappa.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The Storting was called to order and attended to regular business. Through it all, Nicolas was glad to see the boys behave respectfully and quietly enduring their boredom. It wasn’t until right before lunch that they began to consider the flags, though no decision was made.

  Lord Wilhelm concluded the session by announcing, “I would like to publicly thank these fine young men and their efforts at creating a uniquely Norwegian flag.” Stefan and Leif stood to accept their applause.

  When Nicolas walked them back to the castle, he doubted either boy’s feet were even close to touching the pavers.

  March 31, 1821

  Anders stood with his feet planted and his hands behind his back. He was not smiling. “I have received some very distressing information, Nicolas.”

  “Sir?”

  “Your wife.”

  Nicolas frowned. “Sir?”

  Anders paced in front of him. “Did we not have a discussion concerning her activities?”

  “We spoke of her learning to be a midwife, as I recall.”

  Anders stopped and glared at Nicolas. “Yes. And what conclusion did we reach?”

  Nicolas shifted in his chair. “We did not reach a conclusion. You suggested that I tell her to stop.”

  “It was more than a suggestion, Nicolas.” Anders leaned on a chair back. “Did you speak with her?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you tell her to stop?”

  “I did.”

  “And did she stop?”

  Nicolas knew by the way he asked that Anders knew Sydney had not, in fact, stopped. “I believed that she did.”

  Anders straightened. “She did not.” He began to pace again. “She did not stop, Nicolas.”

  “How can you know?”

  Anders turned to face him. “She was seen following that girl—Agnes is it?—from the castle.”

  Nicolas jutted his jaw. “When?”

  “She goes out at night. Friday, Saturday and Sunday.”

  “Why do I not know this?” Nicolas challenged.

  One eyebrow lifted. “You are sleeping elsewhere, are you not?”

  Nicolas felt his face flush. “Am I being followed?”

  Anders snorted. “Of course.”

  Nicolas leaned on his knees, his eyes on the floor. “What do you wish me to do?”

  “Send her back to Missouri.”

  Nicolas’s head jerked up, incredulous. “What?”

  Anders spoke slowly, as if to a child, “Send her back to Missouri.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Tell her that you are staying here, and you need her to, I don’t know…” Anders waved impatiently. “Close out your interests there. Some such thing.”

  Nicolas’s eyes narrowed. “And if I do not?”

  Anders pulled a chair close and sat in front of Nicolas.

  “You. Nicolas. You could be king! Do you comprehend what that means? To you? To your country?”

  Nicolas winced. Anders grasped his hands.

  “You are our best hope. And your son, Prince Stefan? He can reign one day as well! Think of it, Nicolas. Think of all that you could accomplish!”

  Nicolas struggled to pull a steady breath. “I cannot send my wife away.”

  “It is temporary! Only until your estate there is settled!” Anders pushed.

  “I am sorry, Anders. I cannot.”

  Anders threw Nicolas’s hands aside and waved a finger under his nose. “Then get control of her, Nick! Or the consequences will be dire!”

  “Yes, sir.” Nicolas stood.

  Anders stood as well. “This is not a game, Nicolas, not at all. It is very serious business. An entire country hangs on your actions.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Do you?” Anders’ eyes bore into his. “I pray that you do, son. I pray that you do.”

  April 8, 1821

  A hysterical scream jolted Sydney awake and shot Nicolas from their bed. He grabbed his breeches and hopped into them one-footed across the floor. Sydney slid out of bed and wrapped her dressing gown around her as Nicolas opened their door. Dagmar’s maid stood in the hallway, hands over her eyes, screaming lungful after lungful.

  Nicolas leaned into her open door and staggered back. “Å min Gud…”

  Sydney grabbed the maid and shook her. She dropped her hands and babbled at Sydney in rapid, hysterical French. Sydney looked into the room.

  Dagmar sprawled naked on the bed, throat slit, blood everywhere. Her pale, slender body was completely hairless. And it had a penis.

  Sydney spun around to face Nicolas, hand at her throat. “Oh my God! Does Espen know?”

  Nicolas stared at Sydney in shock, the scar outlining his clenched jaw. He grabbed her elbow and shoved her back toward their room. She had to run to keep up with him. He shut the bedroom door and fell back against it. Then he slid down the door until he sat on the floor, his head resting on his bent knees, his face in his splayed hands.

  “Nicolas?”

  His shoulders began to shake. Sydney knelt beside him. “Nick?” she whispered.

  He was breathing too fast. Hoarse, incoherent sounds rumbled from his open mouth.

  “Nick, please?”

  Dilated eyes appeared over his hands. “Ah, Sydney. Sydney. Do you know what this means?”

  “Maybe Espen didn’t know she was a he.”

  “Oh, no. He knew.” Nicolas pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “He most definitely knew.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I saw them together.” In a ragged voice, Nicolas told Sydney about his evening in the window seat. “And… I heard him warn her, him, not to threaten him. Espen.”

  Sydney sat back on her heels. “They fought last night after dinner.”

  Nicolas frowned. “Where?”

  “In the hallway outside the Great Hall. When I went to use the privy, they were there.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “As best I could tell, Dagmar wanted Espen to make their relationship… ‘official’ was the word she, he, used.”

  “And Espen refused, of course?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Dagmar say anything else?”

  “She, he, said that Espen could not hide forever.” Sydney laid her hand on Nicolas’s arm. “D
o you think he did it?”

  Nicolas jerked his head sideways. “No. He loved Dagmar. He truly did.”

  Sydney pulled her dressing gown close as if to protect herself from that thought.

  “Gud i himmel! That man has to be Didrik!” Nicolas ran his hand through his hair. “It was Didrick passing as his own dead sister!”

  Sydney wagged her head in disbelief. “Are you saying that it was Dagmar who died in Paris? And then Didrik took her identity? To live as a woman?”

  “That seems the way of it.” Nicolas stretched his legs in front of him and sighed heavily. “Oh, Espen… Espen. Cousin. Friend!”

  Sydney rested her hand on his arm. Nicolas stared at her, his expression overwhelmed with pain and confusion.

  “He was a sodomite, Sydney!”

  “Both of them were,” she whispered. “Him and Dag—Didrik.”

  “Espen!” He shook his head. “How could I not have known?”

  “How could I not have known about Devin? My own husband?” she countered. “It isn’t always obvious.”

  Nicolas stared at his hands. “He’s not a killer.”

  “No.”

  “Skitt!” Nicolas slammed his fists on the floor. “So who did him in, if not Espen? Who was last seen with him?”

  Sydney tapped her lips, considering the question. “At dinner he was flirting with that businessman from Stavanger. The one with the fleet of fishing boats.”

  “Ah, yes. Yes. He was well into his cups, as I recall.”

  “And his hands were all over—Dagmar—when they danced.”

  Nicolas nodded, frowning. “I remember. Espen was in a fit.” He snorted. “Now we know why.”

  “Dagmar seemed to be taunting him—” Sydney’s voice caught on the realization. “She, he, must have been trying to push Espen to… oh, dear.”

  “Did Dag leave the Hall with that man?”

  Sydney paused, recalling the scene. “Yes. I think so.”

  Nicolas’s jaw rippled. “It would seem, then, that the man from Stavanger was none too pleased to discover the truth of whom he invited to his bed.”

  “You believe he killed her, him, when he discovered he was a man?”

  “It would make sense.” His cheerless voice was barely audible. “I’d be tempted. The humiliation would…”

  Sydney squeezed Nicolas’s arm consolingly. The unsettling ramifications of the murder and the search for a king flitted through her mind.

  Nicolas shuddered and wiped his eyes. He spoke her thoughts aloud, unaware.

  “This is the end of Espen.”

  April 10, 1821

  The businessman with the fleet of boats was gone. Anders ordered a search of Christiania and the port, but nothing turned up. He declared the murder the work of the fleet owner and sent a letter to Stavanger, though he told Nicolas that he doubted anything would come of it.

  It was, as Anders put it, “hard to drum up outrage over the killing of a pervert.”

  Canute took to his bed and would not see anyone.

  “Is he eating?” Nicolas asked Eirik.

  “What?” Eirik looked confused. “Who?”

  “Your father. It has been said that he has locked himself in his room.”

  Eirik shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been otherwise occupied.”

  “Oh?”

  “We have been packing. Linnet says we must leave as soon as possible.” Eirik poured a glass of beer from a pitcher on the table. “She is quite distraught.”

  Nicolas patted his cousin’s shoulder. “As are you, I would imagine.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  Nicolas paused. “Because of Espen.”

  “Espen? What does this have to do with Espen? He did not commit the murder!” Eirik downed the beer and poured another.

  “But, he had a relationship with Dagmar. Or perhaps, I should say, Didrik?”

  “Lies!” Eirik shouted. “All Espen heard was lies! He had no idea!”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “And why would he tell me anything else?” Eirik’s face flushed and his chin jutted. “A brother tells his brother the truth!”

  Nicolas lowered his voice. “Of course he does.”

  “Yes. That’s the way of it.” Eirik gulped the second beer. “I must go help Linnet. Thank you for your concern, Cousin. As you can see, you have nothing to worry about.” Eirik stomped from the room.

  Nicolas poured himself a glass of beer and took a healthy gulp. He felt numb in his grief. All he believed to be true about his cousin had been challenged the moment he saw the corpse.

  He knew he needed to talk to Espen. Maybe no one else suspected that his relationship with Dagmar was physical. Maybe they believed he was deceived. Maybe his reputation was not completely ruined.

  Maybe only Nicolas knew the truth.

  His first two knocks on Espen’s door did not elicit any response. At the third knock, a voice from within asked who was there.

  “It’s Nicolas, Espen. Might I come in?”

  Silence.

  “Please, Espen. I need to speak with you.”

  More silence.

  “Espen, I have something to tell you.”

  The door cracked open, emitting no light. “What?”

  Nicolas pushed on the door. “You do not want me to state it in the hallway.”

  Espen stepped back and let Nicolas into a room that stank of urine and vomit. He shut the door and turned the lock. Nicolas counted three empty bottles of akevitt and five or six beer pitchers. There were plates of uneaten food on a table. The drapes were closed and the only light in the room came from a weak fire.

  Even so, Nicolas could see the red that rimmed Espen’s puffy eyes. He was half dressed, wearing a nightshirt over loose breeches. But no hose or shoes. He was unsteady in his stance.

  “Sit down, Cousin.” Nicolas pressed him into a chair. He brushed off the seat of another chair and pulled it next to Espen.

  “What did you want to tell me?” Espen’s raw voice betrayed hours of sobbed grief.

  Nicolas swallowed the bile that crept up his gullet. “I know. About you and Dagmar. Or Didrik.”

  Espen’s eyes rounded and he jumped up. He tipped over the chair as he scrambled to put distance between him and Nicolas. “What do you know? Or think you know?”

  “I saw you together once. I was sleeping in a window seat one night, when you both came into the room.”

  “Oh… God, no… You saw?”

  Nicolas nodded.

  “Everything?” Espen moaned.

  “Yes.” Nicolas looked away.

  “So you knew she was a man?”

  “Not at the time, no. I had no idea. But you had your hand on her, pleasuring her.”

  Espen groaned and grabbed his temples. He folded in on himself.

  Nicolas continued, “When I saw the body, then I realized. You were aware Dagmar was a man, and even so, you fell in love with her. Him.”

  “I am ruined…”

  Nicolas remained seated and spoke in a low, determined voice. “I’ll not betray you, Espen. That is not my point in coming here.”

  Espen’s shoulders slumped, but his dull, bloodshot eyes lifted. “So it’s to be blackmail then?”

  Nicolas shook his head. “No. Honestly, I doubt that’s even possible.”

  “Why?” Espen’s eyes darted around the room. “Am I in danger?”

  “Espen, look at me.”

  His frantic gaze lit on Nicolas’s face.

  “Eirik insists that you were deceived. Some will choose to believe him. Others?” Nicolas shook his head. “Others have already decided as to your predilections.”

  Espen blanched. “So what is it, Nick?”

  “I only wanted you to know that—” His voice caught. He ran his hands through his hair. “I cannot believe I am about to say these things to you!”

  “What things?”

  Nicolas swallowed again. “Espen, I cannot understand why you—why any man for that matte
r—it’s not in any manner normal…”

  Espen’s lids drooped. “That is what you came to say? For God’s sake, Nick!”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  Nicolas stood and paced around the room. He longed to open a window and let fresh air into the fetid chamber; he wished it could wash away all that had transpired as simply as it could wash away the stench. His hands went through his hair again and he drew a deep breath through his mouth.

  “Espen, I pray that you will find a woman to satisfy you that way. If you cannot, it is probably best that you remain alone,” he said.

  Espen nodded, hands muffling his exhausted sobs.

  “But, because of our friendship, I wanted to tell you that I understand your loss, I truly do. No one else here can tell you that.”

  After a pace, Espen reached out one shaking and tear-dampened hand and, though he hesitated, Nicolas clasped it.

  “Thank you, Nick.”

  They sat for a while without speaking. The fire hissed and popped its death.

  “What will you do now?” Nicolas finally asked.

  Espen straightened and wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his already rank shirt. “I expect I shall go to Paris. Dag had friends there. They deserve to hear of her passing from someone who cared about her.”

  “Will you return to Christiania?”

  He shook his head slowly. “No. Never.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  April 14, 1821

  Anders summoned Karl and Nicolas. He sat the two men down in his private chamber, offered each a drink, and settled into a chair facing them. Nicolas saw his hand tremble. They waited in silence for Anders to gather himself.

  “We have a narrowed field.” His eyes did not lift from his glass.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Nicolas ventured. He glanced at Karl; Karl stared at Anders.

  “A narrowed field…” Anders downed his drink and poured another. “I summoned you two to talk of the throne. What is happening in the Storting?”

  “Well…” Nicolas gestured to Karl. “We have been hearing attestations concerning the nobility in Norway.”

  “There is a general feeling that all titles should be abolished,” Karl expounded.

  “All titles?” Anders straightened.