by Tualla, Kris
Niels was still on the ground, but now he held the other mare's bridle. He yanked her head to the right, away from the crumbling edge, and kicked her front legs backward to make her back up. As soon as the last link connecting the two pair of horses gave, Brander jumped down and pushed as well.
Little by little, the two remaining horses stepped backward. Marthe was pushing the carriage on the uphill side, but Lady Kildahl was on the precarious downhill side. Both women leaned their bodies against the carriage. Their heels dug into the road. The carriage rolled slowly away from the mudslide.
When they were ten yards or so from the gaping slough, they stopped. Brander climbed back up into the carriage seat on wobbling legs. He lifted the reins, though his arms felt like wet stalks of wheat.
Chapter Twenty-One
Regin trudged beside the carriage that Brander and Niels managed to get turned around. They were heading backward half a mile to flatter land. There they would evaluate their losses and figure out how to keep going. Her muscles were shaky and she was muddied to her thighs.
The mudslide terrified her, but not as much as the death of the horses. Their screams of fear as the ground fell away heightened horrifically when they were caught in the chaos of crashing tree trunks, rocks and boggy soil. Regin wanted to squeeze her hands over her ears, but she needed to help save the carriage. She wiped tears on the soggy shoulder of her cape and kept pushing. For a pace, she actually envied Brander his hearing loss.
The carriage stopped and Regin looked around. They were at a wider space in the road, but still surrounded by trees, low clouds, and the constant dripping of water. The four adults gathered beside the coach and stared at each other for a long minute.
Brander began to gesture.
"Two small mares cannot pull such a large wagon when it holds so much," Niels translated.
"What do we do?" Marthe asked.
Brander walked to the back of the carriage and pointed at the trunks. His hands moved and Regin discerned their meaning.
"Empty them?" she asked, appalled. "But that's everything I own!"
He waved his hands to placate her, and then motioned to Niels. The valet nodded.
"Take everything out and bind it up. It's the trunks themselves that are too heavy. Four trunks weigh as much as a man," he explained.
"And is that all we'll need to do?" Regin pressed.
Walk, Brander signaled.
All of us? Regin signaled back.
No. One driver and one person may ride at a time.
"Shall we get started?" Niels asked. He squinted at the sky. "We'll lose the sun soon."
Brander loosed the leather straps and with Niels' help lifted Marthe's trunk down. He looked around before setting it to the side of the road on a slightly less muddy patch of pine needles. Niels moved to lift the next one, his own.
He had a grip on the handles, but as soon as he pulled the trunk off the top of Brander's he winced and dropped it. Regin and Marthe both jumped forward by they weren't quick enough to keep the trunk from landing on the muddy road. At least it didn't open.
"Are you hurt?" Marthe cried.
"No, it's nothing," Niels snipped. He straightened, lifted the trunk and lumbered away.
They unloaded Regin's trunk next and set it beside Marthe's. Regin tramped across the muddy road and opened it. She searched for a decently dry, or at least less filthy, place to lay her clothes while she tied them into bundles. All of the ground around her was black with rotted leaves and wet with melted snow.
Almost an hour passed before the four trunks were emptied and their contents rolled into bundles. By now less than two hours of sunlight remained. Brander stacked the four trunks behind a large boulder. The bundles of clothing went into the coach, piled on the seats, and room for one passenger was left clear.
The men stepped aside. Brander jabbed at their map and conferred with Niels for several terse minutes of gestures, silently-mouthed words and grim expressions. When the cousins at last faced Regin and her maid, Niels explained the situation.
"The only way to continue is to go over the hill, through the forest, and rejoin the road past the mudslide," he began. "But that adds miles to the journey and the going will be slow. We cannot travel overland and reach the next town before dark."
"What will we do, then?" Regin asked.
Sleep here, Brander signaled.
"Make camp here," Niels clarified.
Brander continued: You and Marthe sleep in the coach. Niels and I will sleep under it.
But it's so cold! Regin motioned in reply.
Niels looked over his shoulder at the dripping forest. "We'll try to start a fire now, before it gets dark."
"There isn't any food, is there?" Marthe murmured.
"Not unless one of us hunts." Niels shot Brander a questioning look.
First, fire. Second, hunt, he responded. One night's hunger won't kill us.
The threat of freezing to death was loudly unspoken.
Regin tugged on Marthe's cloak. "Let's look for firewood."
Brander unhitched the two horses and hobbled them. Then he bent over the hacked-off carriage tongue and remaining harnesses, fiddling with the tack. Niels took the axe deeper into the woods. Regin and Marthe set themselves to finding anything dry enough that it might burn.
In the end, Niels chopped up two of their trunks and Regin knew the other two wouldn't survive the night. But Brander speared several good-sized trout in one of the glacial lakes that scarred southern Norway like cracks in old mortar. Marthe cleaned the fish. Regin dug a pan out of the coach. The meal wasn't filling but it was warm.
Regin relieved herself in the forest, staying within the light of the fire and crouching under the privacy of her cloak. Alone, she pondered Brander in a new role tonight, the role of hero. Rugged hero, in actuality. He didn't pause when the mudslide began, but threw off his wrap and leapt between the hysterical horses. He chopped the tongue of the carriage to free the front pair. That was how she knew what to do, why she pulled out her hidden dirk and began to cut the animals loose.
He wielded the axe at her when she did. She knew precisely what he meant but she wasn't about to step away because he clearly needed help. And Regin had noticed that was something he had a hard time asking for.
She also noticed the bulge of muscle through his damp shirt. The strength in his legs as he balanced on the narrow wood. The intense grimace on his face that was as frightening as it was arousing.
Regin sighed. She stood and adjusted her clothing. Nothing good could come of her undeniable interest in Brander Olsen. Or Jensen. Or whatever.
If only she knew more of Jarl. Then the silent giant might get out of her dreams and let her be.
*****
Brander tugged his cloak tighter as he lay under the carriage and scooted his backside a little closer toward the fire. The water in the ground seeped upward, chilling him through. He shivered. His jaw clenched against chattering.
The women made a bed in the coach above him by piling the bundles of clothing in the space between the seats. It wasn't of a length to fit him, but Lady Kildahl should be comfortable.
Damn.
How was he going to get the widow out of his mind? When he saw her cutting the carriage tack with the huge hunting knife gripped in her small fist, his heart seized. She was so close to the iron-weighted hooves that he feared for her safety. And that fear made him angry. But when he shook the axe at her she defied him and shook her head right back.
And she cut through the straps.
He wondered if he could have cut them in time alone. More likely, it was her help that saved the rear pair of horses and kept the carriage from being dragged down the side of the hill. Brander's emotions bounded between relief at her assistance and embarrassment at needing it; anger at her for throwing herself into the task and pride in her fearless willingness to do so. There was no denying that she was some unique sort of noblewoman.
But he already knew that, and far too well.<
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He shifted again, seeking inaccessible comfort on the sodden ground. Niels was poking the fire and had dragged another trunk nearby. The axe leaned against it, ready. Brander tilted his head; it seemed Niels was favoring one arm. He snapped his fingers and Niels looked at him.
Is your arm hurt?
Niels shook his head. No. Go to sleep.
Brander rolled onto his back. He stared at the bottom of the coach two feet over his face and tried not to think of the woman inside.
If only that was possible.
October 15, 1720
Brander and Niels leaned into the carriage, pushing it up the hill. They were almost at the top. He looked around the back edge of the carriage and got a solid glimpse of Lady Kildahl's rounded backside. She yanked on the reins and bent forward as if she could move the horses by sheer will. She spun around and he caught a choice curse word on her lips before her gaze met his.
She blushed furiously. And then she stuck her tongue at him.
He was hard in an instant.
Brander whirled and pressed his back against the coach. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his straining muscles. On keeping his footing in the mud and wet leaves. On the journey ahead of them with a crippled conveyance and no food. Not on the playful widow.
The carriage lurched forward. Brander straightened and stretched. He walked around the vehicle and grinned his relief. Down at the bottom of the hill -- albeit through the trees -- he could see the narrow road and it appeared intact.
Niels prodded his arm. "I'll drive," he said. Without waiting for a response, he climbed onto the bench.
Go right ahead, Brander gestured in silent sarcasm. Then he moved to the head of the pair of horses.
"How far to the town?" Lady Kildahl asked.
Eight miles, more or less.
"Four hours? Or might we make it in three?"
Brander held up three fingers and winked.
Five hours later they reached a river. Sunset turned the bottoms of clouds a burnt orange and he might have thought it pretty if he wasn't completely miserable. The road was so sloppy that the wheels caked with mud and they were constantly scraping them clean. They hadn't eaten anything since the trout last night. And sleep had been fleeting if it existed at all, which he wasn't certain it had.
Niels drove the wagon all day, never offering to change places. The only reason Brander didn't press the point was that it gave him the opportunity to walk alongside Lady Kildahl. She didn't complain once. She just kept walking.
And talking -- with her hands. Somehow, she made him understand what she meant, and she understood him in return. After a while, he forgot she wasn't using her voice. And he forgot he was deaf.
The icy river flowed steadily but didn't appear to be dangerous. It was shallow, the bottom clearly visible through the glacial waters. On the opposite bank lay Sundebru, their destination for the night. The horses tossed their heads and pranced angrily at the cold that swirled around their legs as Niels drove the wagon through the river. There was no way for the rest of them to cross but on foot.
Brander offered himself as a pack animal first to Lady Kildahl, but she declined and insisted Marthe go first. He got the maid situated on his back with her legs around his hips and her arms around his shoulders. He stepped carefully through the painfully cold water until he could deposit her on the other side.
Then he turned back to see Lady Kildahl halfway across on her own, skirt hiked above the water and boots held high in her hand.
What the hell?
Brander splashed toward her and swept her into his arms. What was she thinking pulling such a crazy stunt? What if she lost her footing and fell?
She allowed him to carry her and didn't object, which was fortunate because he might do her physical harm if she did. He dropped her on the opposite bank, furious.
She looked up at him with the widest, bluest eyes he could imagine and they stole his words. They threatened to drown him in a way a mere river never could.
"Thank you so much. That water was so c-cold!" she said, smiling.
He gaped at her. In the warmth of her smile his anger dribbled away like the water itself. He narrowed his eyes in chastisement even so.
You're welcome.
She sat on the ground and pulled her boots on. He did the same.
When the tiny village came into sight, Brander's mood dipped further. There was only one tavern, and it had no visible inn. He sent Niels to inquire about food and rooms, and wasn't surprised to find they only offered stew and space on the tavern floor.
Another night on cold, hard dirt. He hoped they would at the least lie beside a warm fire; he'd gladly chop wood for them if that made the difference. His glance slid sideways to Lady Kildahl, wondering how she might react to such mean accommodations.
A moment of exhausted disappointment drew her features into a pucker, but they smoothed again quickly. She lifted her chin and gave him a brave smile and a nod. He followed her determinedly stiffened shoulders into the low building.
*****
Regin pulled off her boots and set them by the hearth. Perhaps by morning the mud would dry and she could brush them somewhat clean. There was nothing to be done for her skirt; mud sullied it to her knees. And all of her other skirts were bundled somewhere in the carriage.
There's no point in ruining another, she realized.
While they ate thin stew -- thank God it was hot -- she draped her cloak over a chair by the fire. She needed it to sleep in and dreaded another damp night.
After they finished eating she and Marthe sat by the fire, ignoring the few patrons gulping ale and complaining about everything under the sky, and combed out each other's hair as best they could with their fingers. Clods of dirt fell to the floor; Regin was humiliated to be so dirty. She glanced at Brander to see if he noticed, but he was staring into the fire apparently unaware of her presence.
Marthe plaited her hair as tightly as she could, and then Regin returned the favor. There was no warm water to wash with, so she splashed water on her face that was so cold it made her sinuses ache. She dried her face on her sleeves.
When the tavern's last customers left and they could finally bed down, an awkward shuffle of bodies ensued. The men insisted that the women lie closest to the fire, but that meant the men would lie alongside them. While that wasn't normally considered proper, Regin was at the absolute end of her endurance.
She wrapped herself in her mostly-dry cloak and lowered herself to the straw-covered floor. She glared up at Brander and Niels. "For the love of Freya! No one is going to believe we've swived fully clothed and on this filthy floor!"
She plopped her head on her bent arm and squeezed her eyes shut. Every inch of her tensed, wondering what would happen next.
Straw rasped around her for several minutes, punctuated by grunts and sighs.
When the movement quieted, it was soon replaced by steady breathing and faint snores. Regin forced herself to lay still though the desire to see which man chose to lay beside her nearly kept her from relaxing enough to fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sundebru
October 16, 1720
Regin opened her eyes to a wall of wool. It was just inches from her face and was edged in reddish-gold waves. She gasped. Brander.
Oh my Lord!
She pulled her hand away from the solid male hip it rested on. She held her breath, praying she didn't wake the sleeping giant. Easing backward, she rolled to her other side and re-tucked into her cloak. Her heart pounded too hard for her to be able to settle as yet. She blinked at the fire and inhaled slowly, trying to slow her pulse.
The straw behind her back began to rustle.
Please God, let him be asleep.
Brander sniffed in the back of his throat and coughed a little. His knees tucked behind hers. His chest rested along her back. His arm flopped over her so his hand curled in front of her belly. She felt his balmy breath on her ear as he released a huge sigh.
And then his limbs stilled. His body rocked with slow, steady breathing. The warmth of it caught in her hair and tickled with its heat. Goosebumps rippled her skin in response. Regin began to relax, certain he wasn't aware of their intimate proximity. She closed her eyes. She felt very... protected.
She hadn't felt protected in a long time. If she put her mind to it, she most likely hadn't felt safe since she was a young girl. Before she knew about husbands and wives and what sort of things occurred in a marriage and how marital trust could be shattered.
But she knew that Brander would never gamble away anyone's estate and leave his wife penniless. He would never risk his wife's health by carrying home a whore's diseases. And he would never get himself killed in the pursuit of illicit and immoral pleasures.
Brander was a man she could trust.
As sleep dragged her away she wondered: would Jarl Hansen be trustworthy as well?
The bustle of activity woke her. She opened one eye to a renewed fire. No one was beside her, so she rolled onto her back with a silent groan. Not even the promise of sunshine in the dingy windows made her happy about rising.
Muscles called recently into rough service stiffened and ached. And the crippled carriage and loss of horses meant that she would be walking for miles again today. She sat up and reached for her boots. The mud was dry and the leather was warm.
Two good things.
Regin smelled food. Even if it was leftover stew from yester eve, she appreciated having something warm to fill her belly. And she thought she smelled bread. She clambered to her feet, brushed straw from her cloak and went outside to relieve herself.
Ice glittered everywhere. In the golden morning light the earth was transformed from gray drizzle to dazzling gilt. Her breath formed steamy puffs in front of her face. She would have thought it beautiful if she wasn't facing hours of walking through the chill to an uncertain location to once again lay her head.