“Then you had no such feelings when you met him this time?”
“No, only heartache over what had once been.”
“Nevertheless, you’re so ill at ease these days.”
“Is that so strange when I’m so afraid? In fact, I’m scared stiff!”
Cecilie could say no more. She didn’t know how to resolve the situation and she went to her bed that night with a great pain in her heart. She lay on her back for a long time, looking blankly up at the ceiling, unable to gather her thoughts. Sometimes, she reflected wryly, she wished her husband were a less complicated man.
***
Alexander’s sister, Ursula, stayed on at Gabrielshus, and kept an eye on the couple. She knew, of course, that they had separate bedrooms but Alexander was in the habit of leaving some of his own personal belongings in Cecilie’s room. She on her part would deliberately sleep on both sides of the bed each night to give the impression that he’d been there at her side. Besides, their conversations had never before been so genuinely affectionate as they were now, and as the days passed, Ursula could find nothing at all to criticise.
Most of the royal children had been moved back to Dalum Monastery to be with their grandmother, Ellen Marsvin. Only little Elisabeth Augusta remained behind at Frederiksborg because she was unwell and, and as she lived close by, Cecilie’s duties were to teach and take care of the girl.
One morning at the end of March, Ursula came down to breakfast and found Cecilie sitting at the table, pale and not feeling well. She was unable to face any food.
“Weren’t you supposed to be at Frederiksborg some time ago?”
“I’ve sent word that I’m unable to come today.”
“Are you feeling unwell?” asked Ursula, who had begun to treat her sister-in-law less formally.
Cecilie had always been good at telling the occasional white lie whenever she thought it a good idea. This was clearly yet another of her natural skills that had Sol engraved all over it, and she consequently used it with the same relish.
“Alexander believes that I’m pregnant,” she said, speaking very quietly. “I can only hope he’s right.”
Ursula was horrified. “Nonsense!” she roared. “You can’t be pregnant!”
Cecilie was too weak to answer. Her head ached and she felt sick.
“If that’s really the case, then who’s the father?”
Ursula’s words flew through the air like daggers. “Tell me this very moment!”
Cecilie got slowly to her feet. Her mind was muddled, but her voice had the clarity of crystal. This would be her great lie and she could be good at those too when they were called for.
“That, Ursula, was an extremely insulting thing to say – especially about Alexander!”
Ursula realised that she’d gone too far. She couldn’t fight against the rage that burned in Cecilie’s eyes, and eventually she lowered her gaze to the floor. Then, without another word, she left the room. But her ramrod-straight back and self-assured step made it very clear to Cecilie that this matter was far from over.
***
Alexander’s orders to march came in April. The great host of mercenaries and the small Danish regular army were to gather in Holstein and then deploy from there.
Alexander barely had time to say goodbye to Cecilie, who was genuinely sad to see him leave. His escort waited impatiently outside while he rushed here and there, hastily putting together everything he’d need. Finally, he mounted his horse. As Cecilie stood silently next to the horse, she felt a lump come into her throat.
Without looking up, she quickly brushed away tears that threatened to betray her feelings.
“It’s for the best this way,” he said softly, looking down at her.
“No, Alexander, no!” she cried. “It’s not. Please don’t say that!”
“I’ll write as soon as I have the chance.” He smiled sadly. “And, Cecilie, make sure we have a fine baby boy!”
Alexander set off. Cecilie stood and watched him and the troops ride away until they went out of sight. She was left with nothing but the dull ache of emptiness for company.
Chapter 5
Young Tarjei, son of Are and Meta and grandson of Silje Arngrimsdotter and Tengel the Good, was wandering distractedly through silent woodlands. He was famished, worn out and completely lost. At one stage he’d been on his way to Tübingen to continue his studies, but that now seemed a distant memory.
He’d managed to escape from the area where most of the fighting seemed to be taking place – but it could just have been a local conflict that had flared up. Tarjei didn’t know the facts or their background, and there was nobody to tell him. Every door he’d knocked on to ask for information and a crust of bread had been slammed shut in his face. He was certain that this was because of his accent. He was clearly taken for one of the dreaded foreign mercenaries who laid waste, stole and raped without discrimination as they advanced.
Exhausted, he sank to the ground with his back against a tree of an unknown forest. He had no idea where in Germany he might be. He’d simply sought refuge deep among the trees as an animal would when death draws near. He was only eighteen years old, but young Tarjei knew that he was one of the most promising talents in medicine of his generation. Now he feared that he’d never use the skills he’d learned at the university in Tübingen and from his grandfather, Tengel.
In his small bundle he had a few of the rare herbal medicines he’d inherited from Tengel. He pulled them close to him as if to protect them even in death. Everything else was still at Linden Avenue in a secret place that he and his granddad had found together.
‘What if I never return home again?’ he wondered distractedly, ‘and what if nobody ever finds that irreplaceable treasure?’
He was the one solely responsible for all the ancient recipes and skills of the Ice People – a unique and sacred treasure. Some of the recipes were bizarre, requiring lizard skins, dragon’s blood, cats’ heads and the skulls of newborn infants. Others were truly exceptional and based on lesser known herbs or special combinations of different remedies. The old witch, Hanna, had left her hoard of potions to Sol while Tengel had his own inheritance. After Sol had died, her potions, which were by far the more valuable, were left to Tengel. Now it all belonged to Tarjei. His granddad had also made him swear that when the time came, he’d find a worthy successor within their kin – so long as it wasn’t the unfortunate Kolgrim.
Most probably, the true successor had not yet been born, he thought. Unless it was little Mattias – Kolgrim’s angelic, mild and gentle-natured half-brother, born to Tarald and Yrja – whom Tarjei had helped bring into the world. But there would be more children born to the Meiden and the Ice People’s families, wouldn’t there? And what about his own children and grandchildren?
No, this was just idle speculation, he reminded himself. He must be close to death. Tarjei felt certain he could tell. He had no strength left, not even enough to search for something to eat here in the forest. There would be little to find anyway this early in the year. He’d not eaten for several days, and the last things he’d eaten were a few nuts from some hazels he’d happened to find.
He told himself for the hundredth time he had to go on – that somewhere he’d be sure to find help. But he also knew very well that it was a fairly forlorn hope because nobody dared speak to a stranger nowadays. The poor, long-suffering population now had a deep hatred of all foreigners. Yet deep inside himself he knew that, for the sake of the sacred treasure of the Ice People, he must go on until he was no longer capable. But first he must sleep – just for a little while.
He was so very, very tired. The ground beneath him hadn’t yet lost winter’s raw chill, and although Tarjei could feel the cold embracing him, he could do nothing about it. His body and his mind were both numb and without realising it, he slipped into unconsciousness before he slept.
&n
bsp; And this is where the legend of the Ice People’s secrets would have ended if something quite out of the ordinary hadn’t happened. As he stirred from unconsciousness, Tarjei gradually heard somebody shouting at him as though from a great distance. But although he listened intently to the sound of the voice, he found he was completely unable to move. The unusual voice was young, insistent, impatient, demanding.
“Why are you lying here like this, you idiot?” the voice shouted in German. “Answer me, you stupid man.”
Tarjei struggled again to claw his way back to a state of full consciousness and the world of the living – but without success. “You must help me!” the voice squeaked, more impatient than before. “You must!”
Somebody shook him roughly by the shoulder and Tarjei struggled again to come to. Finally he managed to open his eyes, or more precisely, forced his unwilling eyelids to part slightly. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there but his body was stiff with cold and he was so weak that he was unable even to lift a hand. He could just about make out the figure of a small person blocking out the frosty spring sunshine.
“Well, that’s better! About time!” the angry voice told him. “I thought you were dead!”
“And so did I,” he mumbled almost unintelligibly in German. “Who are you?”
“Don’t address me as “you,” stupid man!”
The shadow was gradually revealing itself to be a girl of about nine. As Tarjei’s eyes began to focus, he could see that although she was dirty she was elegantly dressed. She was also covered in pine needles and had dead leaves in her hair. He tried to speak again but this time no words came from his lips.
“Who might you be?” she insisted in a sulky tone. “Tell me at once. If you happen to be one of those nasty mercenaries, then don’t bother to help me. I shan’t even speak to you.”
“No, I’m a Norwegian with a knowledge of medicine,” muttered Tarjei. “I’ve nothing to do with this war.”
“You’re a man with a knowledge of medicine? How splendid because I’ve broken my leg!”
Tarjei thought that a broken leg was unlikely. She wouldn’t be standing there so effortlessly if that were the case. He was relieved to find that having to focus on a medical condition was helping to clear his mind.
“Why haven’t you introduced yourself properly, you Norwegian man of medicine?” demanded the young voice impatiently. “Come on, make an effort right now!”
“My name is ... Tarjei Lind ... of the Ice People,” he mumbled. Then he fell silent again. He felt a new wave of tiredness and his eyes closed involuntarily once more.
“Damn the girl!” he thought. “How dare she insist on an introduction from someone who is dying?”
But Tarjei had introduced himself as Lind of the Ice People. This was the name the whole family had settled upon after long discussions. Lind came from Linden Avenue and they’d decided to keep the clan name of Ice People although granddad Tengel had hated it so much. Many years had passed since the people of Trondelag had hunted the Ice People to their death. Nobody really remembered the terrible slaughter of witches any more.
“Lind of the Ice People? That sounds aristocratic,” the young girl chirped.
“Yes, you’re right,” replied Tarjei, for the name did have a refined sound to it. “And what’s your name?”
“Don’t address me as you!” she shouted, stamping her foot hard on the ground – the foot on the end of her “broken” leg. I’m Mistress Cornelia! My grandfather is Count Georg of Erbach am Breuberg. My mother and father are both dead so I live at the home of my Aunt Juliana.”
“And now you want me to help you with your foot?”
“You may not address me as you! Nobody may do so. It’s forbidden.”
“I’ll do as I please,” muttered Tarjei, keeping his eyes closed.
“Then I’ll leave!” she answered and turned on her heel.
“Yes, do. Then at least I can die in peace. You’re of no help anyway. You’re nothing but a selfish, uninteresting little girl.”
Her young ladyship, Lady Cornelia of Erbach am Breuburg, contemplated the depth of this insult in silence but didn’t move further off because her curiosity was getting the upper hand.
“Should I help you? What do you mean, you commoner?”
“Nothing. Now go away, you nasty little troll!” She began moving off again, then hesitated: “Are you in pain?”
“No, I’m not in pain but I haven’t eaten any food for seven days, and I’ve no idea where I am.”
“No food?” she echoed, taking a step closer again. “Are you a beggar?”
“If only I were! Then I’d be alive now.”
“But you are alive!”
“Only just.”
The girl looked at him and said nothing for a few moments.
“If you can put my broken leg back again, then I’ll let you come home with me. Then you’ll be given food – at the scullery door.”
“Like a beggar?”
“No, maybe not – you do have a title. Are you listed in the Almanach de Gotha?”
“What is it?”
“It’s a record of the royal and noble houses of Europe. It lists all the imperial nobles of the Holy Roman Empire.”
“Then you can be sure that I’m not listed in it.”
“A lower order of nobility, then?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, in that case I’m not sure ...”
“Oh, why don’t you just go and get lost in the woods!”
“You’re the one who’s lost in the woods, silly man,” she replied. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“Hmm, show me the leg, then.”
She lifted the hem of her skirts just a little.
Tarjei stared in disbelief. She didn’t have a broken leg but a horrible gaping wound below her knee.
“How did you get that?” he exclaimed.
When she saw that Tarjei was quite impressed with her injury, she played the role of heroine to the full.
“I tripped and fell over a tree root,” she told him. “And it was a stupid branch that hurt me.”
“How long ago did it happen?”
“Just before I found you. “
“Did you cry from the pain?”
“I never cry!”
“No, of course not – but we must be quick. Come here!”
He found some dressing and healing ointment in his bundle. His hands were trembling and he’d broken out in a cold sweat. He was also feeling nauseous. It washed over him in waves like the sea breaking on the sand. Little Cornelia watched wide-eyed. Suddenly he groaned. His eyes wouldn’t focus and he slumped forward.
“You’ve gone all white,” she said disdainfully. “Wake up, man! You must help me!”
“Let me ... just ... rest ...”
“No! Get up!”
“I ... must ... eat ...”
“I’ve told you – you’ll get food at my home at the scullery door!”
“You damned arrogant ... conceited ... little ... troll,” muttered Tarjei. Sheer anger was driving him on. “Now let’s see if you cry or not, young lady! That wound needs to be sewn up – at once.”
“Sewn up!”
“Yes. Sit down and squeeze the edges of the cut together – unless you want a terribly ugly scar on your leg for the rest of your life.”
Little Cornelia sat down and did as she was told. She decided that pain was better especially because Tarjei had pointed out that any blemish would make her less attractive to future suitors. She screwed up her face and gritted her teeth as she watched Tarjei thread a needle made of a fishbone.
“Ouch!” she yelled loudly as he began work. “That hurts. You stuck that in me!”
“Well, of course I stuck it in you. Do you want this sewn up or not, girl-who-n
ever-cries?”
“Just you carry on sewing, silly man! Don’t concern yourself about me.”
His arms and hands were shaking badly and he paused several times for a minute or two and finally managed to sew up the wound. The girl flinched each time he pushed the needle into her delicate skin – three stitches were needed in all – and although she was pressing her lips tightly together, she couldn’t stifle an occasional desperate whimper. Tarjei dared not look up at her face. But he had to admire her fortitude and courage.
When he’d finished, he rubbed an aromatic herbal ointment onto the gash and finally wrapped a poultice around her thin leg. After he was satisfied with the task, he closed his eyes and slumped back against the tree once more, allowing her the time to dry any shaming tears unobserved.
She gradually brought her breathing under control as the fierce pain of the stitching subsided and Tarjei sensed she was slowly regaining her composure.
“You’re almost handsome, you know,” she announced suddenly, without any warning. “But in quite an ugly way.”
“Thank you!” he replied acidly.
“And what about me, then? I’m beautiful, don’t you agree?”
He opened his eyes again and strained to focus properly on her. She was a princess from a children’s fairy tale although a slightly chubby one, with dark hair in ringlets, now knotted and untidy, falling halfway down her back. Her well-defined mouth was small and pursed. Dirty streaks were running from her large brown eyes to her ears where she’d angrily wiped away some tears. ‘Well,’ thought Tarjei, ‘she did cry after all’ – he’d have been amazed if she hadn’t.
“You’ll do!” he told her. “Like a cake straight from the oven.”
“You’re stupid!”
“Not as stupid as you.”
“I’ll tell my Aunt Juliana’s husband. He’s commander of the garrison in Erfurt, and he’ll have you flogged.”
“So that’s how he treats people who’ve helped you, is it? Now let me just tighten that dressing and you can go – and let me say, you’ve been quite brave.”
Friendship Page 8