by Tualla, Kris
She had a vague recollection of being carried up stairs -- did Brander carry her? -- and being settled on a couch. Her filthy clothes were stripped from her and a copper tub appeared. She was helped into the hot water. Limp, exhausted and weak from hunger, she sagged in the tub while her body was scrubbed and her hair thoroughly washed.
Then she was draped over the couch again. Her hair was brushed dry in front of the fire. A brown stew was spooned into her mouth. She didn't remember climbing into the bed.
She pushed the bedclothes back and sat up. A maid rose from a chair by the fire.
"Good evening, my lady."
"Good... evening?" Regin cleared her throat. How long had she slept?
"Are you hungry? Would like me to bring your tray?"
"Yes, please." She leaned back against a wave of dizziness. She felt weak as a baby bird.
Two maids returned, one with a tray of food and one with a pitcher. The women helped her sit and plumped the pillows behind her. The tray was set before her.
She was so hungry the aroma of food was almost painful. Regin's hand shook as she spooned bites of a thick fish stew. Nothing ever tasted so good to her in all of her life as that simple dish. She was too famished to eat politely.
"My maid?" she asked between bites.
"She is well. She is seeing to the lord's valet."
Niels! Did he still languish? "And the valet? How is he?"
"Better, according to your Miss Marthe."
Regin nodded. She ate the rest of her meal in silence and pondered the unpleasant revelation concerning Brander. To think -- no, to know -- that he lied to her from the beginning made her heart hurt. What did he hope to accomplish by his deception? Or what did he hope to prevent? She determined to use her anger to crush the pain of his lost trust. And to crush her ill-fated love for the intense, silent lord.
Jarl, her husband-to-be, was tall and golden and handsome like his elder brother. He was educated like his brother. He must be capable and solid if the condition of the manor and the efficiency of his staff were an indication. Like his brother.
Except, he was the brother. Not the man himself. Not the man whose compelling presence fluttered her pulse and warmed her low in her belly.
Stop it.
Regin pushed the tray away. One of the maids lifted it from the bed and the other offered her a mug of summer ale. Then they helped her use a chamber pot before she crawled back under the bedclothes to seek the healing escape of sleep.
Hansen Hall, Arendal
October 20, 1720
Regin sat on the couch. The maids gave her a wrap to wear over the borrowed nightgown though her own clothes were beginning to appear in the wardrobe, newly cleaned and pressed. She was informed that Jarl wished to speak with her, but she wasn't feeling well enough to dress formally and go down to the Hall. Her muscles still ached and angry disappointment pushed her back into bed. But she agreed to see him in what she had come to understand was her new bedchamber.
The maid opened the door in response to a soft knock. Jarl Hansen walked into the room looking absolutely stunning.
Tall, though not quite as tall Brander, and golden-haired but with no trace of the red that rippled through his elder brother's locks. He wore green again, turning his eyes a cool jade. He smiled softly. The idea that he might be a nice man did occur to her.
"My lady?" he said in a rich deep voice that rumbled her chest. If Brander could speak, would he sound like that?
"My lord," she answered.
He pulled a chair close to her and sat. "You appear considerably improved. Are you recovering?"
"Yes, thank you. Your staff has been exceptionally kind." She smoothed a hand over her wrap. "I fear I looked rather frightful when we arrived."
Jarl waved her comment aside. "Perhaps someday you might enlighten me as to the trials you endured."
Regin frowned a little. "Has your brother said nothing about our journey?"
"My brother is gone." Jarl's expression was strained. "He said nothing before he left."
"He left?" That made no sense to her. "What about Niels?"
He nodded. "I am pleased to report that our cousin is returning to health. You maid was quite skilled in her nursing and we are very grateful."
"But - Brander would never leave without Niels!" she stated, certain of her words.
Jarl seemed irritated. "And yet, he did. And he stole one of my best horses."
"When?" She knew she was unintentionally goading him, but she needed to understand.
"Yester evening after you took to bed."
"And Niels is still here?"
"Of course. He is not fully recovered."
Regin slumped on the couch. Brander's sudden and unanticipated absence left a gaping hole in her world.
Jarl took her hand. His was large and long-fingered, like Brander's. His palm was warm and smoothly callused. The handsome man did labor some, then. He wasn't a fop.
"I'm afraid we have recently experienced a tragedy in our family," he began. The strain etched itself across his brow and framed his mouth. "My youngest brother died -- was killed, actually -- a few days ago."
"Oh!" Regin gasped as shock quivered through her. The funeral in Arendal was for a Hansen. Eskil Hansen, just shy of twenty. Brander's youngest brother.
And Jarl's.
She now knew without a doubt where Brander had gone off to. But why didn't he tell his family? She realized Jarl was staring at her, waiting for a reply. She squeezed his hand softly.
"We met the hearse when we passed through the town. Please accept my deepest condolences, Lord Hansen," she murmured with soul-deep sincerity.
"Thank you, Lady Kildahl." He shifted in the chair that was a bit too small for his long frame. It squeaked in protest and he stilled. "Considering the situation we find ourselves in, perhaps you might feel comfortable in using my Christian name, Jarl."
Distracted by the latest revelations, she forced a smile. "Of course, Jarl. And you must address me as Regin."
A burden seemed to lift as his shoulders did. "Thank you... Regin."
He kissed the back of her hand and the touch of his lips was undoubtedly pleasant. He squinted at her then, though the intensity of his gaze was nothing like his brother's. Brander made her feel naked when he fixed his stare into hers.
"Please don't misunderstand what I am about to say," he started awkwardly.
He paused and her heart flipped. What now?
"But I believe -- that is, I think it best -- that we postpone the signing of the contract and the wedding for a few days. In light of my brother's death."
"Oh, of course!" Regin agreed with a rush of relief. Another reaction to ponder. Later. "Your family certainly needs time to grieve, Jarl. That decision is well considered."
Another burden seemed to float off his shoulders and he straightened. "Yes. Thank you. I was afraid you might wonder if I was revoking my offer of marriage. Now that we've met."
Her face seemed to burst aflame. She must have looked far worse than she imagined when she appeared in his hall, tracking mud on the floor and as filthy as the beggar he probably thought her to be. She opened her mouth, but could not conjure a single word in response.
His eyes widened. "Oh! I've said that badly, haven't I?"
She nodded then shook her head, humiliated. "My unfortunate circumstances have rendered me a pauper. I had hoped that my person would not be so displeasing as to negate my offer of land and title..."
Jarl's cheeks flushed. "Not at all, Regin. You are lovely to look upon. Now that you've bathed."
What might she say to that? Only, "Thank you."
Jarl stood and let go of her hand. "I'll leave you now to your recuperation. Perhaps tomorrow you will feel sufficiently restored to dine with the family?"
She nodded and gave him a semblance of her best smile. "Yes. I'm certain of it. Thank you for your kindness, Jarl."
He bowed, spun on a polished boot, and left her behind with a jumble of disjointed emot
ions as her only companions.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Marthe came to Regin's room late in the afternoon. Regin was glad to see her maid, and glad for the companionship that would claim her attention. Three hours of dozing in the big, comfortable bed only to dream of Brander was not as restful and she hoped.
She pushed herself up to a sitting position and leaned on three or four pillows. "Marthe! I am so glad to see you. How are you faring?"
"I'm well, my lady." Marthe dragged the very chair that Jarl almost crushed close to the bed. "And you?"
"I'm nearly recovered. Tomorrow I'll dine with Jarl and the rest of the family." A thought occurred to her. "Have you met them?"
"I have been attending Niels so I've only met Lord Jarl," she said.
"How is Niels?" Regin asked enthusiastically, thinking she should have asked that first.
The most beautiful smile she had ever seen on her maid's face answered before her words. "He is recovering very well, Lady. He is going to be just fine."
"I'm so glad to hear it, Marthe."
"His fever broke just after we arrived. Lord Jarl had his manservant bathe Niels and dress him in a clean nightshirt. I changed the bandages and the wound was healthy. After that, his fever went away."
"Does Lord Ol-- I mean Brander, know?" Regin prodded.
Marthe looked over her shoulder at the closed door. Even though the portal was solidly shut, she pulled the chair closer and lowered her voice.
"Lord Brander asked me to do some investigating for him while Niels was being cared for," she whispered.
"How so?" Regin leaned forward and asked in kind.
"He drove me back into Arendal. He asked me to talk to the clergyman in the stave church. He wrote some questions for me to ask him."
Regin motioned for Marthe to sit on the edge of her bed. She gripped the maid's hand. "What were the questions? Do you remember?"
"Yes, I believe so. He wanted to know if a Franciscan named Brother Mikkel passed through Arendal."
"And did he?"
"Yes. But he left the same morning we arrived."
Regin was fascinated. "What else?"
"He asked if he was traveling alone, but he wasn't. He had another priest with him."
"Where were they going?"
Marthe gave her a significant look. "Stavanger."
Regin leaned back against her pillows. "So that is where Brander is off to. Did you tell Lord Jarl?"
Marthe shook her head. "No, my lady. He told me not to tell anyone."
"But - you just told me," Regin said.
She smiled sheepishly. "You are not 'anyone' my lady. He would want you to know."
"He would want me to know?" Regin scoffed. "Why?"
Marthe appeared genuinely puzzled. "Because he trusts you, Lady."
Regin slumped and stared at her fingers as they plucked at the bedclothes. "I suppose I'm pleased he feels that way. I only wish he was trustworthy as well."
"Lady Regin," Marthe cooed. "You don't--"
Regin cut her off. "I do. And we shall not discuss him any further."
Southern Norway
October 20, 1720
Brander scratched his chest. The rough wool of his monk's robe itched. For the dozenth time since leaving Hansen Hall, he wished he had stayed long enough to bathe. But Brother Mikkel was half a day ahead of him and Brander was determined to catch the man.
And then kill him the same way he killed Brander's little brother.
He was only eleven years old when Brander left, all awkward and clumsy with his suddenly lengthening limbs. Eskil tripped after him through his rooms while Brander packed up everything he owned. The boy tried desperately to talk his eldest brother out of leaving, but Brander was far too angry to be dissuaded. No matter what his brother wrote on his scraps of paper, or how violently he pleaded with gestures, Brander would not stay at Hansen Hall one more night.
And now, Eskil was dead. He had grown older and acquired bad habits and bought poisoned opium from a murderous priest and Brander wasn't there to guide him or quick enough to stop his killer before the priest reached Arendal.
Brander had a heavy penance to serve.
So he didn't bathe or eat his fill before he dressed himself as a monk, borrowed a steed from his family's stable, and set out on the road to Stavanger.
He rode most of last night until he was so tired he nearly fell from his horse. He slept in the shelter of a rock, rolled in a thick blanket. When the sun rose this morning he shook off the white crust of frost and rode again. He sustained his strength with simmering fury, a need for revenge, and dried meat and biscuits eaten in the saddle.
His eyes never stopped moving, scanning for tracks. Two monks riding on mules could not move as quickly as he could on the purloined stallion. In both Grimstad yester eve and Lillesand this morning he was assured that he was on the brothers' trail. He wanted to catch them before they reached Kristiansand; it would be easier for them to hide in that much larger town.
He topped the last hill before the North Sea inlet that separated him from Kristiansand as the setting sun tucked behind a bank of indigo sea clouds. A cold wind carried water in its arms and the damp chill sprayed under his robes. Below him, a pair of men wrapped in brown and astride a pair of bony mules ambled along the road leading toward the hamlet of Søm and the ferry pier.
A cold sneer curled his lip. Certainty flooded his chest.
For you, Eskil.
Brander kicked the stallion forward, slowing his mount when he approached the monks. They turned to look at him. Surprised when they saw his garments they halted their mules. He urged his mount alongside one of the men and nodded his greeting.
He held up a hand, fished out his wallet, and handed him one of the papers he had prepared. It said: I am Brother Petter. I am deaf.
"Must I write you a response?" the man blustered.
Brander shook his head. He touched his eye, his lips, and pointed at the man.
"He knows what you are saying," the other man observed. "How amazing!"
The first monk didn't look amazed. He looked annoyed. "How may we be of service, Brother Petter?"
He handed them the next note: I have brought a written message from Prior Daniel at Saint Hallvard's Cathedral Priory for Brother Mikkel and Brother Tomas. He pointed at the two men and raised his brow in question.
"I am Brother Mikkel," he said slowly. "This is Brother Arn. Brother Tomas left me in Tønsberg."
Brander twisted his mouth and frowned as if that news was both new and disappointing. He pulled out a piece of paper and wrote: After you read the letter, I will carry it back to Tønsberg and give it to Brother Tomas there.
Brother Mikkel held out an expectant hand.
Brander pointed at the setting sun, darkening sky, and the ferry slowly making its way toward the opposite side of the inlet.
"He's right, Brother Mikkel. Perhaps we should find shelter before we do business, eh?" Brother Arn suggested.
Brander nodded his agreement. He nudged the stallion further down the hill toward the pier. He didn't need to look back to know the monks followed him. From what he had deduced about Mikkel's character, the man would wrestle the letter from him before allowing him to escape.
The trio waited by the pier in Søm as light dimmed and the ferry docked on the other side. Three flashes of light across the water, and the ferryman beside the turned to a lit brazier hanging on the pier. He swung the little door open and closed three times in response. Then he turned to leave.
Brander watched Brother Mikkel's mouth. "Are there no more ferries tonight?" he asked.
"No, Father. It's too dark," the man answered. "Come back when the sun's up."
Brander nodded and pointed at the cluster of buildings beyond the pier. Then he mimed sleep.
"The Wolf's Howl's got the cleanest rooms." He turned his back.
Brander missed his next words, but Brother Arn said, "Thank you kind sir." He motioned to Brander to follow.
The three monks gave their mounts to a stable boy who led the animals behind the inn. When they entered The Wolf's Howl, Brander's head filled with the aroma of roasting meat. His belly rumbled at the prospect of his first real meal in three days.
He set his saddlebag on a bench with his back to the fire -- it was important for him to see everyone's lips move. Brother Mikkel took the seat across from Brander. After a moment's indecision, Brother Arn sat beside Mikkel.
After their food was ordered, Brother Mikkel steepled his fingers and tapped them against each other. "I believe you have a message for me?"
Brander nodded and dug into his bag. He pulled out his wallet. Folded and tucked inside was the letter he had shown Brother Tomas in Tønsberg. He carefully removed the document and handed it to Brother Mikkel.
The Franciscan brother moved his lips when he read; a common habit and one which often made Brander's task easier.
He arranged his features into placid unconcern, waiting for Mikkel to reach the part that stated: I am afraid that your good deeds -- deeds which you expected would remain anonymous -- have been discovered.
When he did, the priest's eyes flicked up to meet his. "Have you read this?" he demanded.
Brander gave one slow noncommittal nod.
"Has anyone else has seen it?"
No.
The priest folded the letter and made to tuck it inside his robes when Brander leaned forward and stopped him.
"I beg your pardon?" the brother sputtered.
Brander tugged the letter from his grip, unfolded it, and pointed to Brother Tomas' name.
"Oh. Of course." Mikkel narrowed his eyes as if to evaluate Brander's motives.
Brander lifted one brow in challenge. He replaced the letter in his wallet, and his wallet inside his robe. Then he gestured that he was going upstairs to sleep and he shrugged his saddlebag over his shoulder.
Brother Arn extended his hand. "Sleep well, Brother Petter."
Brander clasped the man's hand and tipped his head in thanks.
"Yes." Mikkel lifted his chin. "Sleep well."