by Kris Tualla
Nicolas shook his head. “Well, they have no quarrel with the idea of a king.”
“What, then?” Anders turned to Karl.
“The titled elite. It seems the notion of equality amongst the king’s subjects is a popular concept,” Karl answered.
“And the sense of patriotism, which propels your own search for a Norse ruler, is very strong as well,” Nicolas added.
“Patriotism? What about the flag?” Anders asked.
“We are to be presented with three options in a fortnight. We will vote at that time.” Nicolas smiled in spite of himself. “My son, Stefan, and the stable boy, Leif, contributed some of their own designs.”
“Did they?” Anders glanced around the room, dismissing that information. “How will you men vote on the subject of the nobility?”
Karl leaned back in his chair. “I will vote for no new titles to be awarded. I will vote to allow those who have a title to keep it throughout the remainder of their own life. But the titles will no longer be passed on.”
Anders stared at Karl; his impassive expression gave no clue of his thoughts. Karl shifted in his chair.
Anders slid his narrowed gaze sideways. “Nicolas?”
Nicolas cleared his throat. “I support the same position that Karl supports.”
“Is that not a mite lazy?” Anders smirked.
“No, sir not at all. It’s because Karl is right.” Karl smiled a little at Nicolas, and nodded his head in thanks.
“Fine.” Anders stood. “Thank you both for coming. I believe we will need to select our candidate soon. Karl, if you don’t mind, I need a word with Nicolas.”
Karl’s jaw clenched, but he bowed politely and smiled. Once he was gone, Anders threw his punch. “Has your wife ceased practicing her avocation?”
“I believe so.”
Anders cocked one eyebrow, “And have you mentioned the possibility of her returning to Missouri without you?”
“No, sir.”
Anders clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “I need to make my choice, son.”
Nicolas nodded somberly.
“You are aware that I sought you out?”
“I am.”
“You are also aware that I have considered you the brightest hope?”
“Yes, sir.”
Anders swung one hand onto Nicolas’s shoulder. “You do not carry the madness, Nicolas. Do you understand the magnitude of that?”
“I had not truly considered it,” Nicolas confessed, surprised.
“Consider it now, son. If we claim the throne, we cannot risk it being lost, once again, by a raving lunatic!” Anders’ eyes held a spark of that very lunacy as they bore into Nicolas’s. “I believe you remember my eldest brother?”
“I remember him well, sir.” Nicolas hoped Anders did not detect his shudder.
Anders leaned closer. “We need a king of clean lineage.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
His voice lowered. “Norway needs you, Nicolas Reidar Hansen.”
“I am honored that you think so, sir.”
Anders put his lips to Nicolas’s ear. “Your wife is a liability.”
A jolt went through Nicolas. His heart pounded and he felt a trickle of sweat roll down the groove of his back. He forced himself to breathe slowly. “I understand.”
“Will you send her soon?” the snake’s whisper hissed.
Nicolas shook his head. “I—I will consider it.”
Anders pulled away. “The candidate must be presented quickly, before nobility is abolished.”
April 18, 1821
“Narfi rode up, with his shield and sword, and carried on strangely, rolling his eyes about like a hunted beast. Some men were up on the wall with Cormac when he came, and his horse sheed at them.”
Sydney leaned over and looked at the page Stefan read from. “Shied.”
“Shied at them. ‘Thou hast never a word but ill,’ said Cormac, and leapt upon him and struck at the shiled.”
Sydney looked again. “Shield.”
Stefan dropped the book on his lap. “That’s stupid.”
Sydney laughed. “No one ever said English made sense! Would you rather read Norse?”
Stefan shrugged. “How much more?”
Sydney took the book, The Life and Death of Cormac the Skald, and turned the page. “Only to here. That is the end of chapter nine.”
“Then I can go to the stable?”
“Yes.”
Stefan sighed and settled into his chair, book propped on his stomach. Sydney’s mind wandered to Nicolas’s question this morning, “Are you still bleeding?”
The onset of her courses was always irregular, but this time over two months had passed. It came with such severity that Sydney was forced to her bed for two days, and bled for eleven days afterward. Nicolas was kind, expressing sympathy, and eager to massage her temples or knead her lower back, if either would give her ease. But he was no actor, and he could not conceal his immense relief that they had not made another child.
The long wait for her cycle had given Sydney pause. She had not felt sick, albeit with her first two pregnancies she had not been nauseous, either. But both her sons were born too early and never breathed. When she conceived Kirstie with Nicolas, she was ill within a month. Sydney glanced at the napping fifteen month-old’s light brown curls and smiled.
That boot to his balls last year most likely rendered Nicolas sterile at any rate.
“So Cormac set his feet against the hilts, and pulled until he tore the pouch off, at which Skofnung creaked and groaned, but never came out of the scabbard.” Stefan clapped the book shut. “Now?”
“Why did the sword not come out of the scabbard?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you wonder?” Sydney was beginning to wonder about Stefan’s concentration.
Stefan slapped his forehead, a precursory habit that Sydney assumed would morph into his father’s hand-through-his-hair. “It’s because of the warlock! But I don’t know why it won’t come out!”
Sydney smiled. “Go to yon horses, O Knight of Norway!” She waved her hand toward the door. “You have proven worthy.”
Stefan hopped from the chair, gave her a perfunctory hug, and ran out the door. Sydney picked up the discarded book. The clock on the mantle chimed a soft three-fourths of a tune. Sydney glanced at it; it was nearly four.
Tomas stepped into the room, arms weighed down with two ewers of steaming water. He hefted them onto the dressing table. Sydney paused in curiosity. “Tomas?”
“Mister Hansen requested these,” he explained.
“What is the occasion?” Sydney chuckled. “Has he landed in the manure pile again?”
Tomas rubbed the smile away. “I do not believe so. He seemed in quite good spirits.”
Nicolas blew into the room. “Thank you, Tomas! You are dismissed until seven.” He crossed to the children’s door, spoke briefly to Maribeth, then pulled the door shut and locked it. He crossed back and locked the bedroom door behind Tomas. Sydney watched, her head following her husband back and forth.
Nicolas faced her and clapped his hands together. “Your course has finally ended. We have three hours, wife.”
As realization dawned, Sydney stretched and sighed. “I do love the way you think at times!”
Nicolas came to her, took her face in his calloused hands, and kissed her well. He smelled of spring leaves and fresh wind, and tasted of beer.
As he undressed her, he rinsed a cloth in the rose-scented hot water and helped her wash. She did the same for him. Bit by bit, they shed both their clothing, and winter’s stale patina. Their unshrouded skin, fresh and vibrant from their ministrations, rivaled the bright spring day. Clean and naked, Nicolas lifted Sydney and carried her to their bed.
Nicolas’s hands were deliberately slow. Sydney’s skin raised in gooseflesh as he traced her shape. His tongue tasted every part of her. She squirmed beneath his touch and begged him to enter her. She reached for him, h
ard and standing against his belly, but he moved away. She could not hold back any longer, and she arched against him, her fingers pressed into his flesh. Her gasps echoed in the room. Waves of indescribable pleasure flowed to her extremities, and she fell limp.
“That was not fair,” she rasped, not truly complaining.
Nicolas’s tongue tickled her ear, his hot breath revived her gooseflesh. “That was only the beginning,” he promised. Then he climbed over her, spread her legs with his knees and nudged his way in.
“Å min Gud!” Sydney gasped again, and tightened on him.
“Å min Gud…” Nicolas echoed. He began to move. “I have missed you sorely these last two weeks,” he rumbled. His first climax was swift and loud.
When the clock struck seven, both wore their dressing gowns and looked quite respectable. Sydney had brushed her wildly disheveled hair, but there was not much she could do about her lips; their flushed color smudged outside their boundaries. Nicolas eased himself into the chair in front of the dressing table, knees wide. His reflection grinned at her.
“You are quite the wanton, Lady Hansen.”
“And you, Lord Hansen, are quite the performer. Three times in two hours, was it?”
Tomas knocked and entered the room. He crossed to the wardrobe without a word and pulled out Nicolas’s dinner jacket. Haldis followed and curtsied to Sydney.
“I will wear the green tonight,” Sydney stated. “It is the perfect color for such a beautiful spring evening. Don’t you agree, Nicolas?”
“Anything you say, my love.” He winked, his navy blue eyes shining.
Chapter Twenty Seven
April 18, 1821
Nicolas sat next to Sydney at dinner, not across from her or down a seat or two, as was the custom. He kept a hand on her, as if he wished to continue their afternoon’s play. He spoke into her ear often; his deep voice vibrated her soul. She rested her hand on his thigh under the table, and felt exceedingly content for the first time in months. Even Anders’ scowl from the head table did not disturb her mood. She lifted her chin and smiled at him.
Anders motioned for one of the butlers. He spoke in the man’s ear, and then leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his forefinger under his nose while eyes that missed nothing swept the room. When the butler returned, Anders nodded and stood.
Sydney watched him from under lowered lashes while he walked to the end of the Great Hall. She was surprised to see Haldis waiting in the doorway for him. Anders bent his head to the maid’s, turned his back to the Hall, nodded, then walked back toward the front of the Hall.
Sydney turned to ask Nicolas what he thought was happening when she realized Anders had not returned to his seat. He was nowhere in sight. She tugged at Nicolas’s sleeve.
“Yes?”
“Something is afoot,” Sydney whispered.
Nicolas leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Something is always afoot.”
Sydney gave him a look. “This time, I believe it involves us.”
Nicolas glanced around. “Whom should I be concerned about?”
“Anders.”
“Oh.” Nicolas adjusted his stance in the chair so he could see his uncle. The man sat in his seat once again, looking as calm as a tortoise. “Why?”
“He was speaking to Haldis.”
Nicolas shifted his gaze back to Sydney. “Do you think she informed him of our afternoon activities?” He grinned. “It’s so decadent, is it not? So unsuitable for a king!”
Nicolas planted a long, solid kiss on Sydney’s upturned mouth. Sydney saw a shadow pass over Anders’ face. He turned away.
“Be careful, husband,” she whispered. “The game is dangerous.”
Dinner was served. Nicolas and Sydney conversed with an older couple from northern Norway, who had traveled south to meet the candidates now that the weather allowed. Fresh bread and pickled herrings started the meal, followed by a delicious lentil and fish chowder. The meat dishes were brought out next, lamb and pork roast primarily, with a small platter of liver and kidneys.
Sydney noticed Nicolas’s face grow alarmingly red. He began to pull at his stock and squinted at her through dilated pupils. “Is it hot in here?”
“No. What is amiss?”
“Can’t—can’t breath…” Nicolas pushed to his feet, swaying. He grabbed the back of his chair and took two steps before falling sideways to the floor.
“NICOLAS!” Sydney screamed. Her mind flashed to Vegard’s death. Reflexively she turned and caught Sigrid’s eye. The woman’s face was gaunt and pale, her sunken eyes glazed over. Sydney knelt by her husband.
“Nick! Nick! Look at me!”
Nicolas blinked at her, but his eyes kept moving from hers. “Where are they going?” his voice rasped.
“Who?” Sydney looked over her shoulder. A crowd had gathered, but all stood rooted in place so as not to miss a thing.
“Those Indians!” He shook his head, his voice husky and dry. “Make sure they don’t get the horses.”
“I will.” Sydney’s tears dripped on Nicolas’s cheeks.
“Water…” he croaked.
“Bring him some water!” she shrieked. A glass was thrust at her. She tried to lift his head, but could not. Karl appeared at her side, and he lifted Nicolas’s head and shoulders. Sydney poured some of the water into his mouth, but most of it onto his chest.
“Thank you,” she sobbed.
Karl nodded, his face was so white it looked blue.
“Nicolas?” Sydney leaned her face in front of his. “Do you want more water?”
Nicolas’s eyes rolled around and finally landed on hers. “What?”
“Water?”
“Water?” he repeated. His voice was so pinched, Sydney tried to pour the last drops from the glass between his lips. He coughed and gagged.
“Where am I?”
“Akershus Castle. In Christiania,” she answered and accepted another glass of water from someone’s hand. “Drink this.”
Nicolas obliged for a moment, then began to writhe. “Get it off my chest!” he growled.
“Get what off?”
“I cannot breathe! It’s crushing me! Get it off!” Nicolas began to bat at the air. Karl tried to hold him down, but had to let go of the furious man. “God damn it all to hell, get it OFF!”
Nicolas rolled to his knees and tried to stand. He fell backward into the crowd. Women screamed and men lowered him again to the floor.
Sydney looked around for help and saw Anders. At a distance from the crowd, his expression was unreadable. His eyes bore into hers. She lifted her chin in defiance and called out to him, “Has anyone summoned a doctor?”
He paused. “Yes.”
Sydney knelt again and poured water into Nicolas. She untied his stock and opened the neck of his shirt while she kept talking to him. “Nicolas! Look at me!”
He squinted as though he could not quite make her out. His pupils were fully dilated; large black holes in the whites of his eyes. “Where am I?” he asked over and over.
“Akershus Castle. In Christiania, Norway,” she replied every time. “Do you know me?”
“Min presang?” his thin voice sounded childlike.
“Yes. Drink this.”
“I cannot breathe.” He panicked again and tried to stand. He fell sideways and was again lowered to the ground. “Where am I?”
The doctor pushed his way through the crowd. “What are the symptoms?” he asked without preamble.
“He turned red. He lost his balance. His voice sounds dry and rough. His pupils are dilated. He is confused. He has hallucinations. He feels like he cannot breathe,” Sydney reeled off what she observed, her midwife’s training making her aware.
“Belladonna.” The doctor pushed Nicolas’s sleeve up and rested his arm on a metal basin. He produced a steel fleam, centered it over a likely vein, and tapped it. Burgundy blood began to run over Nicolas’s arm into the basin. The doctor nodded, satisfied. “Good cut.”
“Bel
ladonna? Deadly Nightshade?” Sydney fought rising panic. That was what killed Vegard. “Will he—” She could not say it. “Will he live?” she asked instead.
The doctor shrugged. “Some do.”
Nicolas began to panic again. It took six men to hold him down until the bleeding was complete. The doctor wrapped a bandage around the wound.
“Give him plenty of water. More than he wants. Was he healthy before the poison?”
That afternoon’s lovemaking seemed a century past. “Yes,” Sydney managed.
“Then he might recover. But I cannot promise anything.” He packed his instruments. “I shall return tomorrow morning. If he lives through the night, he has a chance.”
The six men struggled to carry a faint, though uncooperative, Nicolas to the bedroom. Tomas helped Sydney undress him as he coughed and wheezed and asked where he was. Sydney saw a tear drip down Tomas’s cheek.
“Don’t you dare do that!” she admonished. “I cannot hold myself together if you fall apart.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady.” Tomas brushed away the offending moisture.
“The doctor said to give him water, even if he fights it.”
“I shall do so.” Tomas turned to Haldis. “Bring pitchers of water. And one of beer.”
Haldis looked at Sydney. “Please do as he asked,” she confirmed.
“Very good, Madam.”
Sydney cocked her head. “Beer?”
“To flavor the water. It may make him more amenable.”
Sydney smiled for the first time in hours. “Good thinking, Tomas.”
A moan from the bed drew their attention. Nicolas began to thrash against the covers. “I cannot breathe!” he squawked.
Sydney and Tomas held their vigil over Nicolas. They poured countless glasses of beer-flavored water into him. When he tried to climb out of the bed, Tomas pushed him back. When he claimed he could not breathe, Sydney fanned his face. When he spoke nonsense, they responded with reality. And when he asked where he was?
“Akershus Castle. In Christiania, Norway. Do you know me?”
“Min presang…” he whispered.
Sydney held the lamp over Nicolas and peered into his eyes. They rolled back, still dilated, but now dark purple circles underlined them. His skin was clammy and pale. She could tell by how hard Tomas had to push to keep him on the bed, that Nicolas was growing weaker.