by Tualla, Kris
"You look rested," she said, immediately realizing that her sarcastic tone was lost on the deaf man.
Yes. Thank you.
His grin was a bit too knowing. Perhaps he was more intuitive than she expected. He came across the room, draped his cloak over the table and sat beside her. He pointed at her book. She handed it to him. He flipped through it, read a page, and handed it back.
Is it good?
"Yes."
He tilted his head and raised one brow.
"No, not particularly," she admitted then angled the conversation away from her. "How late were you and Niels out yester eve?"
Why?
She looked at the clock. "You have slept through two meals. For a man of your size, that is quite a sacrifice."
His mouth opened in a wide smile that would have been a laugh if he made any sound. Then he held up three fingers.
"The third hour? How much did you imbibe in all that time?" she asked, horrified. "No wonder you couldn't rise at a decent hour!"
Lord Olsen shook his head. He drew a deep breath and blew it out his teeth. He wagged his finger between her and himself, pointed at the inn's front door, and patted his belly.
"You want to get something to eat?" she guessed.
Yes. Come with me.
Regin looked at the book in her hand and considered the wisdom of accompanying the mysterious and compelling giant sitting precariously close to her. A long afternoon with a marginally interesting novel, or a walk through Tønsberg with the handsome Lord Olsen?
"I'll get my cloak," she said.
Another day's pale blue sky and another hazy white sun greeted them. The day was decidedly colder than its predecessors and Lord Olsen tilted his head back and sniffed the breeze. Regin did not need to ask, she smelled the ice in the air. Snow was coming. They couldn't afford to delay their travel much longer.
Lord Olsen paused at a street vendor where he purchased several meat pies and a skin of wine. He took her elbow and steered her toward the docks at the water's edge. Settled there, he offered her a meat pie. Regin declined the pastry, but accepted a sip of the wine.
"Will you tell me what you did last night?" she finally asked.
Lord Olsen wiped his fingers on his trousers and drew out his wallet.
We were investigating, he wrote.
"Why were you dressed so... oddly?"
That is one of my disguises.
"The fop?" she chuckled.
I needed to convince men that I have money and -- he stopped writing for a moment -- a certain sort of taste in companionship.
"Oh!" Regin felt her cheeks flame. "And... and did you?"
We shall see.
"You must have other disguises," she said.
He nodded and wrote: If you were asked to describe me last night, what would you say?
She chewed her lower lip and thought about what he was asking. "I suppose I would say you had green eyes and reddish hair, and you were somewhat effeminate."
And today?
She looked at him as objectively as she could manage and saw his point. "Blue eyes. Golden blond hair. Distinctly masculine in carriage."
He nodded and smiled. He wrote: Sometimes I wear gray and oil my hair to darken it. Then I disappear.
"Your eyes and hair loose color," she posited.
Yes.
She sat up straight of a sudden. "Do you ever dress as a monk?"
A wash of surprise cleared his face of any other expression.
That was enough of an answer for her. "I saw you from my window. Yester morn just before dawn."
He gave a cautious nod.
"I wondered why a monk was lodging at the inn, but I never saw him again," she explained. Then an unthinkable realization shot through her. "Did you go the monastery? Is it a monk that's guilty of the murders?"
Lord Olsen glanced around, clearly concerned by her words.
Her voice was soft and no one was near enough to hear her. Even so, she mouthed the next words silently. "Is that what you believe?"
He offered her another sip of wine and met her gaze. His eyes burned into hers. One eyebrow twitched only a tiny bit.
"Oh..." She took a long drink from the skin, and slowly wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. "Oh, my."
If I am right, I will explain it to you at a later date.
She was undeniably stunned. Why would a servant of God do such a thing? Murder was a mortal sin! The monk would be condemned to hell for all eternity.
Lord Olsen stood and offered his hand. Regin didn't try to converse with him on the way back to the inn. Instead she pondered the ramifications of what she had learned. While she found the concept of a murderous monk unlikely, she knew that Lord Olsen was intelligent and observant. Thoughtful. Deeply thoughtful. And he supported himself with this trade, albeit in two boarding house rooms under the eaves. But his reputation recommended him highly.
Good Lord above, he must be right.
When they reached the inn, Niels was waiting in the common room. He handed Lord Olsen a folded note, which he opened and read. He exchanged a satisfied nod with Niels.
"Is the news good?" Regin asked. Lord Olsen handed her the note to read for herself.
My dear Baron Ulfsen ~
I am able to fulfill your request. Please visit us again at your earliest convenience.
Madam H
Chapter Nineteen
The young man sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Niels and Brander -- dressed again as the pederast -- in a well-appointed room on the second floor of the brothel. He couldn't have been more than fourteen. He was pale and thin, with red lips and large, dark eyes. Light brown hair curled below his shoulders. Brander hid his revulsion at what the boy was selling and tried to appear interested.
When he saw the tall cousins enter the room his jaw dropped. "If there's two of you, you'll pay twice!" he demanded.
"What's your name?" Niels asked.
"What do you want it to be?" the boy countered.
Niels ignored that. "Can you read?"
Suspicious eyes narrowed and slid from Niels to Brander and back. "No. I don't need to."
Brander stepped forward and gestured: I'm deaf and I don't speak. Because you can't read, my cousin will talk for me.
As Niels translated the motions into words, the boy's brow lowered. "Is he stupefied?"
"No. He's quite intelligent."
The boy's eyes traveled over Brander's fancy green clothing. "So it's just him, then?"
"Yes." Niels pointed at the boy, put a finger to his lips, and tiptoed back to the chamber's unlatched door. He gripped the handle and yanked it open.
Madam H nearly fell into the room. Brander straightened, puffed out his chest and gave the woman his most intimidating glare. Her startled look jumped between him and Niels, and she seemed unable to concentrate on what Niels was saying to her.
His cousin whirled to the boy. "Have you eaten?"
Though obviously terrified of answering truthfully, hunger apparently won out. He shook his head. After another moment Madam H disappeared from sight and Niels closed the door.
Now that I've bought you supper, will you give me a name? Brander asked.
The boy blinked slowly. "Emil."
"Emil, did you know Dag Persen?" Niels asked, giving the first of two names he discovered at the inn.
The boy scrambled backward on the bed. His cheeks turned violently red and his eyes puddled. "Oh God! Please don't kill me!"
Brander moved to the bed and gripped the boy's knee. He leaned into Emil's face until the boy shifted dark eyes to meet his.
No, he mouthed, shaking his head. No.
"Can you tell us what you know about Dag?" Niels asked. He tipped his head toward the door. "And quietly?"
Emil chewed his lower lip, considering. "Is that why you're here?"
Brander sat carefully on the foot of the bed: Yes. And you will be paid. Twice.
Emil rested one hand on Brander's thigh and slid it upward.
"You don't want--"
He gripped the boy's hand and pushed it gently away: No.
"Oh." For a pace, Brander thought the boy looked disappointed. "You only want to know about Dag."
Yes.
"Did you know him well?" Niels asked.
He gave a sad nod. "He loved me. He took care of me."
What happened?
Emil tucked his knees under him and leaned forward on his arms. "There was a man, Lord - something like belling? - who asked for Dag every time."
"Ellingsen?" Niels prodded, offering the second victim's name.
"Yes. That's him."
Was there anything unusual about the time they spent together?
"Not at first. Then two or three weeks ago, Lord Bell took Dag away from here to an inn and made him eat some sort of brown stuff." Emil wrinkled his nose. "Dag said at first it was nasty."
And after?
"He said it made him all dreamy and magic feeling."
Brander and Niels exchanged a glance.
"Was that the only time he gave Dag the brown stuff?" Niels asked.
"No. It was every time after that. Lord Bell said the coupling was better when they ate it first."
Do you know where 'Lord Bell' procured the brown stuff?
Both Emil and Niels turned to the door and Brander could smell their food. Niels crossed the room and admitted a servant girl laden with a heavy tray. Another girl followed with two pitchers of beer. The first girl set the tray on a table near the hearth, bobbed a curtsy, and rushed from the room. The second girl ran her gaze over every inch of Niels' frame before she leaned over and set the pitchers by the tray. She straightened, arched her back to push her breasts forward, and swayed to the doorway. With a sultry wink, she pulled it closed.
"I feel as if I need to bathe," Niels muttered.
Air whooshed from Brander in a silent laugh. He motioned Emil toward the food: Eat.
The boy didn't need any further prompting. He was off the bed in a blink. Obviously their investigation would be delayed until Emil's hunger was beaten back. Brander watched in awe as Emil grabbed a chicken leg and fit the entire thing in his mouth.
"Slow down or you'll choke!" Niels admonished. "Then you'll be no good to anyone!"
After a quarter hour of food havoc, the youngster slowed his pace. Brander snapped his fingers to get his attention.
Is the meal satisfactory?
Emil answered past stuffed cheeks, "Yes, sir. My thanks."
Brander nodded and asked again: Can you tell us where 'Lord Bell' procured the brown stuff?
The boy swallowed and nodded. "I followed them once. I wanted to see where he was taking Dag, you know?"
Yes.
"Did they always go to the same inn?" Niels interjected.
"Dag said they did."
Brander nodded; it appeared Emil was telling the truth thus far: Did 'Lord Bell' meet with anyone on the way?
"That's the real strange thing," Emil said. His brow puckered. "Dag said he always met with a monk before they went to the inn."
For absolution?
The boy's mouth twisted. "No. They never even went inside the church."
"Could the monk have been selling him the brown stuff?" Niels posited.
Emil closed his eyes and his lips pressed together. For a minute, he didn't move. "Yes. I suppose so. They traded something, but I couldn't see what it was. And I only followed them the one time." He opened his eyes.
The last time?
He nodded sadly and set the uneaten half of his berry tart back on the tray.
"Thank you, Emil," Niels said.
"Is that all you wanted?"
Yes, but we'll stay a little while longer so Madam H thinks you did your job.
Emil slid off his chair and knelt before Brander. "You've been so kind, sir. Can I pleasure you in any way? Any way at all? Just name it."
Brander stroked the boy's soft curls: No. I'm not interested in men. It's only women for me.
Emil's lower lip trembled, but he bit down on it.
This was not the first time in his trade that Brander had encountered someone who touched his heart. He renewed his resolve to employ and shelter some of them once he had his own estate. Even though at present that date looked to be years further away than he hoped. And he wasn't growing a bit younger in the process.
Before he and Niels left the brothel, he encouraged Emil to pack away the remains of the meal and he gave the boy a gold coin to hide and keep for himself. Then they paid Madam H in silver, and assured her that Emil had thoroughly satisfied 'Baron Ulfsen's' every desire.
*****
Regin woke to someone shaking her shoulder. She lifted her head from the cold table in the inn's common room and wondered why she was sleeping there.
"Lady Kildahl?" Niels said.
She blinked at the valet then saw Lord Olsen behind him, wearing the green clothing. "Oh! Your investigation! Did you discover anything useful?" She yawned and rubbed her eyes.
"Come upstairs, Lady. The hour is late," Niels urged.
She leaned around him and locked her eyes on Lord Olsen. "Will you tell me?"
Niels turned to his cousin. Lord Olsen nodded. The valet shrugged and left the room while Lord Olsen sat on a bench across the trestle from her. The only light in the room came from the fireplace at the end of the table.
"Were you successful?" she asked.
Yes. Lord Olsen rubbed his eyes with the finger and thumb of his right hand.
Regin touched his left hand. He looked at her.
Does your head "...hurt?" She didn't know that gesture.
Lord Olsen bent the fingers of his hand into a tense claw and shook it next to his head. Then: A little.
Regin stood and walked into the kitchen. She returned with a bottle of akevitt and a cup.
Thank you.
You're welcome. Tell me.
Lord Olsen poured and drank a deep draught of the alcohol. He sniffed deeply through his nose, held his breath, and blew it through rounded lips. He nodded as he pulled out his wallet.
He wrote: A monk is selling the poisoned opium.
Regin slumped, puzzled. Why?
Lord Olsen pulled another long sip.
I think... that he thinks...
He returned to the paper: Men of noble standing have a responsibility to set an acceptable example for the common man.
"So if a nobleman is behaving in a debauched manner, he is setting a bad example?" she asked.
Yes.
"And this monk believes the common men will mimic the bad behavior?"
Yes.
Regin crossed her arms over her breast. "Therefore, he uses their debauched behavior to stop them."
Yes. He took another gulp of the akevitt then wrote: It is justice in his mind.
"Will you turn him over to the Regent?"
He came here from Christiania, but he has left Tønsberg and is on his way to Stavanger.
Regin read his words with a strangling sense of defeat. She leaned on the table and looked across its wooden top into his eyes. In the light of the fire they were colorless with big black centers. He blinked and took another generous swallow. Then he stared back at her.
For a minute, neither one of them moved.
"You are not a lord," she whispered.
His eyelids drooped a little and his glance slipped sideways: No.
When his consideration returned to her she gestured, Why?
It's a disguise.
Regin reached for his cup of akevitt and managed a small sip of the throat-burning liquid. She pressed the back of her hand against her lips and held her breath to suppress her cough as she shoved the cup back toward the man.
"What is your name?" she squeaked.
He shook his head.
"Is Niels truly your cousin?"
Yes.
"Is his name truly Niels?"
He smiled at that: Yes.
Regin felt disconcertingly close to tears and had no idea why. She
sniffed and swallowed, unable to command her eyes to remain dry. For some reason, his refusal to tell her his name felt like a betrayal. She had made the mistake -- yet again -- of thinking of the man as a friend.
She turned aside and whispered, "He's only practicing his trade."
His knuckle slid under her chin and turned her face to his.
What?
Nothing.
His finger stroked one of her cheeks and came away wet. Regin knocked his hand aside. With a crooked half-grin, he stroked the other damp cheek. Again she pushed his hand away. His eyelids drooped and he traced the line of her jaw.
"You're drunk," she murmured.
A little.
He drained his cup and it hit the table with the force of a limp arm. He settled into a comfortable stance and stared at her again.
Regin's eyes dropped to his lips. They were firm and smooth. She wondered what they would feel like against hers. Thorlak was the only man she ever kissed, but his kisses were sloppy and soft. She didn't think the nameless man across from her would kiss her like that.
When she lifted her gaze, he was staring at her mouth. She licked her lips, suddenly shy, and they parted wordlessly. Say something.
"Will we leave on the morrow?" was all she could think of.
Niels' tall cousin poured another hefty serving of akevitt and finished it in one swallow. He wiped his mouth and squinted at her: My head. I don't know.
Regin felt like she was going to burst into a million pieces. She wanted to kiss the man. She wanted to slap the man.
She wanted to bed the man.
Jumping to her feet, she almost knocked her bench over as she turned to leave. He grabbed her arm, pulling her attention back on him. He wavered a little in his seat, but his gaze held all of its customary intensity. He seemed to be weighing his choices, making a decision. Finally he pulled the paper closer.
He let go of her arm, but she didn't move. She was affixed in place, waiting to see what he would write. So many possibilities flew through her mind that she couldn't seize a single one, but none of them were comforting.