Leaving Norway: Book 1: Martin & Dagny (The Hansen Series - Martin & Dagny and Reidar & Kirsten)

by Kris Tualla

  “It’s me,” he announced as he entered so as not to frighten her. He closed and latched the door behind him.

  “What will we do?” she asked. Her eyes were as big as his supper plate.

  “He’s not a man who can be reasoned with,” Martin stated. “That much is clear.”

  A pounding on the door made Dagny jump so hard that Martin could see it. He waved to her to hide behind the bed. She quickly did as he bid. The pounding came again.

  “Hansen! Open the door!” Jorund shouted.

  Martin put a finger to his lips, warning her to be silent. He stepped behind the room’s door and stilled. Either Jorund would leave when he got no response, or he’d break the door’s latch and force his way in. If he did, Martin would jump him from behind.

  For a moment, the world halted. No one moved or spoke.

  Another shout, “Hansen! I know you’re in there!” preceded the loudest bang yet. One more hit and the door would give way. Was anyone in the hotel hearing this?

  Martin heard Dagny shifting and hoped she was slipping under the bed.

  The final crash came and the door swung toward him. Martin leapt out from behind it and launched himself onto Jorund’s back. The man’s knees buckled and the pair fell to the floor. Martin lay on Jorund’s writhing back and tried to grab the pistol from his wildly waving hand.

  He settled for grabbing Jorund’s wrist and slamming in on the floor over and over until he dropped the gun. When he did, Martin rolled off him and achieved his footing. He pulled back his foot and kicked Jorund in the ribs with his boot as hard as he could manage.

  Jorund grunted his pain and reached for his pistol.

  A feminine hand jutted from under the bed, grabbed the weapon, and disappeared from sight.

  With a howl of outrage, Jorund made to dive after it but Martin grasped his ankles and dragged him away from the bed. He reached down and gripped the man’s shoulders, yanking him to his feet. Martin made to spin the man around, but Jorund beat him to the action.

  And he held a knife.

  Martin leapt back as Jorund’s arm slashed the air between them.

  “Give me my money!” he screamed.

  “I didn’t take your money!” Martin hollered as he dodged another slash. “The jewels hidden in the chest were stolen by Tor!”

  “You are the reason they were found!” Jorund stepped closer, the knife moving in wide arcs in front of him. “I want what I’m due!”

  Martin felt the wall at his back. He calculated his ability to kick Jorund in the groin, but the man wasn’t close enough. Plus Jorund’s reach was extended eight extra inches by the jagged knife in his hand.

  The next swipe cut through Martin’s shirt.

  Martin kicked hard and high as he could without the ability to swing his foot backward first. Jorund jumped to the side and Martin’s boot only connected with the man’s empty fist.

  “I’ve got you now, Hansen,” he growled.

  “Over my dead body,” Martin retorted.

  “Precisely my plan.” Jorund pulled the knife back and lunged.

  Martin rolled to the side. The knife went through the side of his shirt and jammed into the wall. His fist connected with Jorund’s jaw and the man spun around in response. Martin tore his shirt loose from the knife and poised to hit him again.

  A blast so loud it made his ears ring stopped him.

  Jorund looked down at his chest and the violent red stain that bloomed there. He lifted his head and faced Dagny, still kneeling on the bed with the smoking pistol clutched in her shaking hands.

  “You shot me, you bitch.” The expression on his face screamed his disbelief. He lurched toward her.

  Martin shoved him away.

  Jorund fell to the floor.

  A uniformed soldier bolted into the room. He stopped short, his glance moving from Dagny with the gun, Martin’s weaponless hands and slashed shirt, and the twitching man dying on the floor in a puddle of blood.

  ***

  Dagny dropped on the bed in a different room as the clock finished chiming twelve times. She was too exhausted to undress.

  “Let me help you get your gown off, at the least,” Martin offered, his voice weary.

  Dagny turned over so he could undo her laces. Then she shifted her weight as he pulled her bodice over her head and her skirt from her hips.

  “Your stockings, too?” he queried.

  “Uh, huh.”

  Moments later, he laid down beside her.

  “Thank God that’s over,” he mumbled.

  “I am,” Dagny whispered.

  Though neither of them had been aware, a crowd gathered in the third floor hallway during their altercation with Jorund. Drawn by the vicious and hollered argument, they apparently heard everything that occurred—and several were willing to recite to the King’s representative word for word. Some even embellished Jorund’s threats, apparently eager to exaggerate the dramatic scene.

  Dagny was grateful to all of them, because they stated that she had no choice but to fire the pistol to save her unarmed husband. Even so, that shot killed a man.

  I killed a man.

  Dagny prayed for forgiveness, again and again, working her way through an imaginary rosary. Her lips moved in the dark, but no sound escaped her lips.

  “You acted rightly, Dagny.” Martin’s words floated from the other side of the bed.

  She hesitated, too tired to debate the matter. “He is still dead by my hand.”

  Martin rolled toward her in the dark. “If given the chance to do it again, what would you do differently?”

  That wasn’t the question she expected; she expected him to ask, would you prefer I was the one who died? Of course that answer was a loud and resounding no.

  Dagny recalled what did occur.

  Martin had no weapon in his hand. Words were not going to dissuade Jorund, who was crazed with greed and frustration. She held the loaded pistol which Jorund intended to use on her husband.

  “Murder is a choice, Dagny,” Martin whispered. “Did you have a choice?”

  “I didn’t feel like I did,” she answered truthfully.

  “Looking back on it now, do you think you had a choice?” he pushed her.

  She pulled a deep breath. “I believed he was going to hurt you.”

  “Did you have a choice?”

  She finally succumbed. “No, I didn’t. I was watching a man who desperately wanted to kill my unarmed husband. I pulled the trigger to stop him. I wasn’t trying to kill him.”

  Martin pulled her into his arms. “You acted exactly like the strong, brave woman that you are.”

  Dagny caught her breath as the startling idea climbed in and settled behind her heart. I am brave. And I am strong enough to protect what I love.

  I always have been.

  “You are also forgiven, Dagny,” Martin continued. “You won’t forget tonight for as long as you live, but never think for a moment that you will be damned for it.” He kissed her forehead.

  “Have you ever killed anyone?” Her question was soft and didn’t hold any condemnation.

  Martin was silent for so long she thought he had fallen asleep. When his quiet whisper warmed her brow, she was not surprised by it.

  “Yes. Now go to sleep.”

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  July 21, 1749

  It’s been a week on land and I’m still not right.

  Dagny washed her face, irritated that Martin had acclimated so well while she was still feeling puny. She took his advice, walking for hours through the streets of Boston, exploring the shops and businesses, and learning her way around the city. She had to admit that even though Boston was very different from Norway, she liked what she saw.

  Most of the houses were constructed of wood, two stories high. Their windows were sashed—panes of glass set in wooden frames which slid up to allow fresh air into the buildings.

  I want windows like that when Martin builds our house, she decided.

  The
remainder of houses and most of the commercial buildings were made of red brick. On one of their walks together Martin said the bricks, as well as the cobbles which paved the streets and kept them passable during inclement weather, were initially ballast on cargo ships.

  “The ships sail here with lightweight passengers, and return heavily laden with resources,” Martin explained. “It only makes sense to use them.”

  She had to agree. That philosophy meshed with her frugal upbringing.

  Even with the similarity in materials, the buildings took on their own personalities with different designs and their white-washed wooden trims. When Dagny mentioned that most of the buildings in Norway were stone, Martin commented that these were substantially built as well.

  “And in excellent architectural taste, if I was asked,” he added.

  She laughed. “I was going to ask. I promise.”

  Martin smiled at her, his beautiful blue eyes alive with excitement. “Might you be content here in Boston?”

  Dagny stopped and looked around her. “I would think so. Though I haven’t seen any other cities on the continent, I can’t imagine they would offer wider opportunities.”

  Martin nodded slowly, his expression pensive.

  “Are you thinking of settling here” she asked.

  He gave her an odd look. “I might be.”

  Now he sat on an upholstered chair in their room while she washed her face, staring at her in a way that made her uncomfortable. “Are you still not feeling well?”

  Dagny shrugged and folded her towel. “It’s getting better.”

  He patted the chair next to his. “Come sit. I want to discuss something with you.”

  Not once in her life had words like those portended anything good might follow. Dagny crossed the room and sank into the proffered chair. She met her husband’s gaze resolutely with her chin high.

  “Dagny, I need to ask you a very personal question, but as your husband I feel it’s my right.”

  “Of course, Martin,” she said as his words compressed her chest. She clasped her hands in her lap. Whatever he was about to throw at her, she was ready.

  “When was your last course?”

  Except for that.

  “I beg your pardon?” she squeaked.

  He leaned forward. “When did you bleed last?”

  Dagny felt the blood drain from her face. “The last days before we sailed. I was still spotting the first couple of days on the ship.”

  Martin took her hand. His fingers felt so warm because her hands had turned to ice. “We married on June the twentieth, two-and-a-half weeks into the voyage. I bedded you that night. That was thirty one days ago and you haven’t bled since.”

  The room began to swirl and she lost feeling in her limbs.

  Martin scooped her up and deposited her gently on the bed. He walked away and reappeared with a wet cloth which he laid across her forehead. “Dagny?”

  “Is that why I’m sick?” she croaked. “Because I’m going to have a baby?”

  “Dear God, I hope so,” Martin whispered.

  Dagny closed her eyes and let the possibility work its way into her life. “I have felt different, it’s true,” she said. “I thought it was because of all the things that were happening on the ship…”

  “And I thought that was why your course didn’t start,” Martin admitted. “But this past week when you were still feeling unwell I counted the days.”

  Dagny opened her eyes. “Is that why you asked me if I would be content in Boston?”

  He squeezed her hand. “I can’t drag you around this vast countryside in your delicate condition.”

  Dagny marked that he didn’t look disappointed. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “Would you be happy here?” she asked. “Be honest.”

  Martin smiled. “I will be happy anywhere, as long as you and my children are by my side.”

  Dagny pointed a finger in his face. “That’s not an answer, Martin Hansen. You made plans to travel first and then make a decision.”

  He gave her a chastised nod. “Yes, Dagny. I would be happy here.”

  “Are you certain?” she probed. “I don’t want to prevent you from doing what you dreamed.”

  Martin threw his head back and laughed out loud. “Dearest Dagny, don’t you see?”

  “See what?”

  “Now, don’t take this in a wrong way,” he cautioned. “Promise you’ll hear me out?”

  Dagny thought she might faint or vomit, but she nodded her pledge even so.

  “When I left Arendal, I thought I knew what would make me happy. So I made plans,” he began. “Along the way, every one of those plans has been waylaid. Except two.”

  “Which two?”

  Martin spread his hands. “I am in America.”

  She nodded. “And the other?”

  “I was accepted as partner in an architecture firm yesterday afternoon.”

  Dagny swatted his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Ouch.” He rubbed his arm feigning injury. “I wanted to confirm your condition first.”

  “I’m so sorry about your other plans,” she offered.

  “As it turns out, I didn’t know I wanted to marry,” Martin continued. “But God gave you to me and I am thrilled. I also hadn’t thought about children, but now that we are fairly certain you are expecting, I can’t contain myself. I want to shout it from the highest rooftop!”

  He looked giddy.

  Dagny sat up of a sudden as the truth gripped her heart. “God in Heaven, I am pregnant!”

  Her grinning husband rested his palm over her womb. She pressed her hand over his. He kissed her reverently, not pulling away for several minutes.

  “You said you owed me another life,” he murmured. “Thank you, Dagny.”

  ***

  March 2, 1750

  Seven months later

  Boston

  Dagny closed her eyes and bore down hard, again. She had been laboring since last night, and for the past two hours she tried to push her stubborn American baby out of her body. She was beyond tired and collapsed back onto the pile of pillows.

  “Fine!” she shouted at the ceiling, startling the roomful of women assisting her. “We’ll teach you to speak Norse! Maybe even take you back for a visit—will that make you come out?”

  Someone wiped the sweat from her forehead while she waited for the next contraction to clamp down on her womb. When it did, she spoke to her babe again.

  “Get out here and meet your pappa before he comes in after you,” she threatened.

  Dagny focused all of her remaining energy on her belly. She pushed with every ounce of determination left in her.

  “Keep pushing, his head is almost out,” the midwife encouraged.

  There was no way in hell she would stop now.

  She felt the head leave her body and panted in relief.

  “Easy on the next contraction,” the midwife instructed. “Let me work his shoulders out.”

  Dagny did as she was told. The babe slid out in a rush.

  “You have a son!” the midwife announced as he began to squall. One of the women left the birthing room to tell Martin, waiting somewhere nearby. Dagny relaxed on the pillows, rendered speechless by the amazing experience.

  Martin was allowed to enter about thirty minutes later, after the birth was completed and Dagny and her son were cleaned up. The look on his face when he approached the bed made all the nineteen hours of torture worth the effort.

  “We have a son,” she murmured. “Do you want to hold him?”

  Martin nodded and held out his arms. “Are you well?” he asked as he took the eight pound infant from her.

  “I will be. There were no complications,” she assured him.

  Martin touched his son’s palm and the boy’s hand closed around his finger. “Reidar Magnus Hansen, welcome to the world.”

  “I had to promise him we would teach him Norse before he would come out,” Dagny informed her husba
nd. “We also might need to take him to Norway for a visit if he remembers that part.”

  Martin looked at her as if she had lost touch with reality.

  She laughed. “Don’t look at me that way—he’s your stubborn son!”

  “Are you saying that I’m the stubborn one?” Martin had the nerve to actually look surprised.

  Dagny laughed again. “I did owe you a life for saving mine. Now we are even.”

  “I disagree, my love.” Martin winked at her, beaming his joy. ”We’ve only just begun.”

  Following is an excerpt from:

  Finding Sovereignty

  by Kris Tualla

  Chapter One

  September 6, 1781

  Philadelphia

  Reid Hansen tried to open his eyes but something was holding them closed. He lifted his arm to remove the obstacle. Warm fingers and a soft palm stopped him.

  “Let it be.” The voice was soothing and female.

  His hand was placed on his chest. The stranger’s hand rested on top of it.

  Reid’s head throbbed with his pulse and his right leg ached. When he flexed his calf, a slice of searing pain slid up his thigh. Whatever happened to him, at least he still had a leg.

  He searched his mind for an explanation, for the last thing he remembered. He knew he was in Philadelphia. He marched here with the New Jersey regimen as they headed south toward Williamsburg.

  Reid stayed behind as an emissary to General Rochambeau and the French army, who were expected to arrive in Philadelphia the next day. He was directed to an encampment of Pennsylvania soldiers stationed in the city and housed at the docks on the Delaware River. He planned to spend the night with them.

  He recalled being surprised to find a modest stockpile of munitions; Charleville muskets, several kegs of gun powder and a canon strapped to a huge caisson and aimed toward the river.

  Something happened to me there.

  The incident pranced around the edge of his thoughts but wouldn’t be reined in.

  “Am I blind?” he blurted.