by Tualla, Kris
When King Frederick IV offered a title for solving the opium murders, that only added an extra layer to the sweetest revenge.
Shit! Now what would he do?
Brander arrived where he hadn't consciously intended to go. He yanked open the door and entered Valhalla Tavern and took his regular seat. When the buxom serving girl saw him, her face transformed into hopeful joy. She hurried to him with a tankard of ale and a glass of akevitt.
"Welcome back," she said.
Brander nodded, downed the liquid hell his countrymen enjoyed so well and then gulped the ale to soothe the akevitt's burning trail. He waved to her and indicated he wanted another. And another after that. And one more; why the hell not?
"Do you want to go up?" she asked him that time, pressing her breasts and hips against his seated frame.
Yes.
He followed her up the stairs. The alcohol streamed through him, tingling and stealing his extremities. He tried unsuccessfully to blink away the dizziness he had so fervently sought. Behind the closed door, he stretched out on the bed.
He didn't want to undress, that required too much effort. He lay on the undulating mattress while the girl lifted his tunic and shirt out of the way. She fumbled with the ties of his drawers and ended up knotting them. He closed his eyes.
Regin's face appeared, looking at him in horror the way she had when she nearly ran into him in Gulbrandsen's office. He imagined that same disgusted and horrified look now, as real as if she stood beside the bed. He couldn't do this, not with Regin's spectre of disapproval blazing in his mind.
With a huff of frustration, Brander lifted the girl away from his groin, though she kept reaching for the tangled laces.
No. Sorry.
He rolled to his stomach to make his intention clear. The vibration of the slammed door jarred through him. He buried his face in a pillow and tried to suffocate his anger over past slights. Eradicate his grief at the impending loss of Kildahlshus. Kill his exasperation that his life's goal was pushed that much farther afield.
And bury his doomed attraction to the woman who would now marry his younger brother.
*****
Decently sobered, Brander trudged upstairs to his room at the Lunde Boarding House. Niels waited in his own room, door ajar. He leaned against the doorjamb.
"Did it help?" he asked.
Did what help? Brander grumbled.
"The drinking? The whoring?"
No whoring.
Niels seemed to relax a bit at that. He followed Brander into his room. He centered a sheet of paper on the desk and jotted: Jarl doesn't know you are Lord Olsen.
Brander blinked slowly up to Niels' eyes: Are you certain?
Niels wrote: Gulbrandsen said he asked about Lord Olsen because he has heard about the man's spotless reputation for discretion.
Brander nodded his acknowledgement.
Niels hesitated, and then gestured: I told him we would accept the task.
Brander didn't move. He stared at the words that danced and taunted from the rough paper. Perhaps he was still drunk.
Before he acquiesced, he had to ask: How much is he paying?
Niels reached into his pocket. A rain of gold coins bounced on the desktop. Brander counted them.
A hundred and fifty dalers? He met Niels' eyes again: Each direction, I hope.
Niels smiled a little. "Why not? We are his only option, as I understand."
Brander reached for the paper. Tell Gulbrandsen to inform the honorable Lord Jarl that Lord Olsen will collect the second payment when he delivers the bride.
"I will. How soon shall we leave?"
Has Lady Kildahl agreed to the terms?
"I believe so."
Brander sighed, trying to restrain his visceral aversion to this twist of events. He did not succeed.
Tell Gulbrandsen to write to her tomorrow that we are one day behind his letter. We will prepare tomorrow and leave the next day.
Kildahlshus
Hamar
October 2, 1720
Regin's hands shook as she read the alarming letter from Mister Gulbrandsen aloud. Marthe's eyes were wide, her expression somber but hopeful.
...Jarl Hansen, Lord of Hansen Hall in Arendal, has accepted your terms. He is quite anxious to meet you and have the marriage performed, but is worried about the approaching winter. He does not believe he has enough time to come to Kildahlshus and return with you to Arendal for the marriage before the weather turns perilous and makes travel unwise.
For this reason, he has engaged the services of Lord Olaf Olsen...
Regin gasped, horrified. "He has hired Lord Olsen! Do you think he knows all about me, then?"
"No, Lady. You yourself said that Lord Olsen was 'a discreet gentleman of discovery,' did you not? When you first wrote to him?" Marthe posited.
"Yes, of course..." She forced her attention back to the letter. "I did, didn't I?"
...of Lord Olaf Olsen to collect you, and any servants you may wish to accompany you, and escort you to Arendal.
While I regret the inconvenience, circumstances require that you make preparations to begin your journey one day after you receive this letter. Lord Olsen and his valet will arrive at Kildahlshus on the morrow and you will begin your journey immediately.
Please accept my congratulations on the success of your endeavors and best wishes for a long and fruitful marriage. Do not hesitate to contact me again, should you ever need further assistance.
"Tomorrow?" Regin yelped. "We leave tomorrow!"
"Shall I go with you, Lady?" Marthe asked.
Regin gasped her maid's arm and swallowed the rock lodged in her throat. "Who else, Marthe? No one else has been so faithful to me. I cannot face this without you beside me."
*****
Regin fingered her bed curtains. Was tonight truly her last night in this bed? This room? In the manor? It did not seem such a thing was possible. But on the morrow, a man she had come to think of as a type of hero would appear at her door. And his purpose was to carry her away and hand her off to another man.
Why this made her so sad was beyond her ability to fathom.
She had no idea what Lord Olsen looked like. Or even how old he was. Or if he was married. But over the last several months, he had been her ally. Unable to stop her husband's decline, he did not rain judgment down on her head. Instead, he expressed what she believed was sincere empathy for her situation.
He was so kind when he asked her difficult questions, questions that were beneath propriety. But she trusted him enough to answer truthfully. And he responded with warnings that likely would have saved her life. And he made certain that her husband's body was delivered to her for a proper burial -- even though his death was anything but proper. And he had not charged her a penning for any of it.
Regin thought she was more nervous to meet Lord Olsen than she was to meet her new husband.
"But my new husband is many days away, and Lord Olsen is tomorrow..." she whispered. "And I feel in some manner that I know him already."
She punched her pillow, turned on her side, pulled up her blanket and closed her eyes. But it didn't make her any more inclined toward sleep.
How many days away was her husband? The fifty miles to Christiania usually took two days on horseback. Three days with a loaded wagon was probable. Would they rest in the city? Or move straight onward? With the looming winter weather, dawdling did not seem wise.
From there it was a hundred and fifty overland miles to the coastal town of Arendal. Seven days at the least, if the terrain was easily passable. But she had never been south of Christiania, so she had no idea what their travel would entail. All she knew was that the winds were coming in off the turbulent North Sea, and that made sea travel too difficult this close to winter.
"Ten days at the least..." she murmured. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to relax. "I should probably expect the journey to take twelve days, so I don't become over-anxious."
Twelve
days. And her life would irrevocably be changed.
Chapter Twelve
Kildahlshus
Hamar
October 3, 1720
Regin couldn't eat breakfast -- she was far too nervous -- so Marthe went to the kitchen to pack her a burlap sack of food for the journey. Her eyes felt swollen and scratchy and she didn't remember sleeping last night, though she remembered dreaming; so it was logical to believe she must have slept through some of the dark hours.
Her dreams were not restful. Odd-looking men handled her in strange rooms. She rode in overfilled wagons along the crests of Norway's tallest mountains. She needed to pay for her estate but didn't have enough coins. Everything she reached for was ripped from her grasp... She woke with a pounding headache.
Now it was midday. Her large trunk was hastily packed yester eve and waited in the entry hall by the door. Marthe's smaller trunk snuggled beside it. Her foreman Hauk had been given control over the estate. Regin told him to keep working with the tenants as long as the weather held, and then do whatever was needed to survive.
The men were given permission to hunt any animal on the property and sell meat or pelts to purchase what they needed. The house servants were instructed to close off unused rooms and keep up the remainder of the house as best they could. If she returned at all, it would not be until spring.
But Lord Olsen had not yet materialized.
The sun hid behind a ceiling of gray mist. That matched her mood well. Regin sat on her staircase and rested her aching head on the railing. Was this a mistake? Since Thorlak died, no creditors had arrived at her door. What if they never did? What if she had acted too hastily?
She determined to ask Lord Olsen that very question when he arrived.
If he arrived.
"Lady?"
Marthe's soft voice sent a shiver of shock through her body. She realized she had been dozing, slumped against the balustrade. She rubbed the cheekbone that took the weight of her resting head.
"What is it, Marthe?"
"A carriage approaches."
*****
Brander sat beside Niels on the driver's seat of the smallish carriage; he couldn't find one as large as he preferred in such a short time. When they passed back through Christiania there was a chance they might make an exchange. For now, he needed to retrieve the widow and be on their way.
They reached Kildahlshus two miles beyond the village of Hamar. While Brander did notice more activity in the fields on her estate, the manor house looked much as it had before. Their carriage drew closer and unanticipated quivers fluttered through his belly. That both surprised and shocked him -- was he nervous?
And if so, why?
He had nothing at stake. He and Niels were merely escorting a woman and one or two of her servants around the southern tip of Norway. And earning three hundred dalers in recompense. In addition, he would soon make a profit on the money he spent paying off Skogen's debts.
If he was to be nervous about anything it should be facing his family again after stomping out of their lives eight years ago. He wasn't certain he would even be welcomed. He might be forced to let Niels complete the woman's delivery if his own reception proved hostile.
But he couldn't think about that now.
And he certainly couldn't think about romancing the beautiful widow.
Niels reined the pair of horses to a halt in front of Lady Regin's manor. No -- he must think of her as the Baroness. Or Lady Kildahl. Or Jarl's wife.
Not Regin. Not the woman whose unbowed determination in her desperate situation had touched his heart and gained his respect. Not the glossy-haired blue-eyed noblewoman who stooped to selling eggs in the village market. Not the intelligent beauty who figured out a way to give up her family's estate and regain it through the same action.
Thoughts like those could only lead him down undesirable alleys with no way out.
"Ready?" Niels asked.
In answer, Brander jumped down from the carriage seat. The cousins climbed the steps and Niels knocked on the massive wood door.
The door was opened by a maid dressed in traveling clothes who ushered them into the entry hall. Lady Kildahl stood at the bottom of the staircase. She wore a lavender bodice and sleeves over a long-sleeved linen blouse and a matching woolen skirt. A brown fur-lined hooded cloak waited, draped over the stair railing. Her back was straight, chin high, and hands clasped under her bosom. She appeared controlled and calm.
Until she saw Brander.
The words, "It's you!" rounded her pink lips. Her brow lowered.
Niels made the introduction, and his hand swung around to Brander. Brander gave the lady a deep bow.
"You are Lord Olsen?" The incredulous look on her face hovered on furious. Even so, her hand floated upward toward his. "Why didn't you - when I saw you--"
Brander took her hand and pressed it to his lips. The blisters on her palm surprised him; the reassuring scent of lemon soap did not. He straightened and his eyes never moved from hers.
"Why do you stare at me so rudely?" she demanded. "Will you not at least speak to me?"
Her startled gaze jumped to Niels and rested there a moment. Her cheeks paled, then flushed with disturbing radiance. Brander didn't turn away; he assumed what Niels was saying.
She looked at Brander again with eyes huge and dark.
Her hand covered her throat. "Oh!"
He didn't know how to react so he stood still, rooted stupidly by her surprised consideration.
"You can't hear me?"
He shook his head.
She frowned again. "But you know what I'm saying..."
He touched the edge of his eye, his lips, and pointed to her.
Her features relaxed a little. "You--" She pointed at him. "Watch--" She touched the edge of her own eye and slid her finger down her cheek to her lower lip. "My mouth."
He nodded, pleasantly surprised. No one had ever mimicked him with such respect.
Her head tilted. "And how will I know what you are saying?"
He blinked, momentarily unable to think coherently. She was talking to him. Not to Niels about him. That never happened. When people found out he was deaf, they spoke to his valet and cut him out of their conversation.
They never asked how he would communicate with them!
Brander lifted his hands, palms up and fingers splayed.
"You talk with your hands?" Her expression lightened. "That makes sense."
He clamped his hands together to signal 'and.' Then he mimed writing on his left palm with his right hand.
"Well of course! You write!" Lady Kildahl blushed again. The way the heightened color complemented her eyes made Brander's pulse jump. Steady, man.
"Do you have someone who can help me with your trunks?" Niels asked.
Her foreman helped carry the luggage outside. The large trunk was strapped to the boot but the smaller trunk wouldn't fit through the carriage door. The men hefted it to the driver's set and tied it there. Brander would have to sit inside with the women.
He handed the maid -- Marthe was her name -- and Lady Kildahl into the conveyance.
Then the widow grabbed his arm. "Wait!"
Brander glanced at Niels who asked, "Is something amiss?"
She stared at Brander. Her lips moved slowly and clearly. "Am I making a mistake?"
He was most assuredly not the man to answer that particular query. He shrugged and lifted his hands.
Why do you ask?
"No creditors have appeared since my husband's death. Is it possible they may never come? That no one will ask for the five thousand dalers?" The hope that sculpted her expression twisted his bowels. She truly did not understand the depth of her situation.
He shook his head and tapped his middle finger on his thumb.
Pulling a sheet of paper from his wallet he wrote: Those who hold the liens are aware of your situation. The liens must be paid when the marriage contract is fulfilled.
"Oh..." The hope dissipated. Then a new
consideration appeared. "Did you arrange that small respite for me?"
How could he answer that? The true response was yes -- because he was the only lien holder. But that answer cast him as hero. And he wasn't anyone's hero. Least of all hers.
He shrugged noncommittally. Then he climbed into the carriage and took the bench facing backward. The carriage lurched into motion.
*****
Regin turned around in her seat and watched her home shrink in the coach's square window. Since yesterday she had done everything she could think of to prepare her home and her servants for the rapidly approaching winter. She was determined to ask her new husband to allow her to return next spring and see to the welfare of those she left behind. They were, after all, her responsibility.
When road curves and forests stole the last remnant from her view she waited for the wash of sadness that was certainly expected. It didn't come. Instead, she felt rage.
She whirled in her seat to face forward. She stared at the carriage floor and her eyes traced over Lord Olsen's large sturdy boots. Her chest heaved against the exploding anger. What was happening to her was not fair.
As Baroness she did everything her station in life required. She studied seriously and never ignored the importance of being well-educated. She learned to manage money and resources. Her servants respected and obeyed her. And as a young woman of barely twenty years she gave herself willingly in marriage to a nobleman chosen by her father.
She realized she was angry at her father. It was his duty to find her an acceptable husband to become Baron. He should have known better. He should have seen Thorlak's flawed nature; she was too young and innocent to understand the ramifications of his bent.