Discreet Gentleman Book One: A Discreet Gentleman of Discovery

by Tualla, Kris

  Once in his room, Brander laid down in the bed fully clothed. He placed his wallet under his pillow and pulled the coverlet to his shoulder. He applied himself to falling asleep, knowing his night would be shortened.

  Because even if they didn't come for him, he was definitely going after them.

  Søm

  October 21, 1720

  Brander stretched and judged the predawn hour by the light in the sky outside his window. The luxuries of a hot meal followed by sleeping in a warm bed had greatly revived his exhausted frame. He was a little surprised that Brother Mikkel hadn't tried to retrieve the incriminating letter. Grateful, no doubt; but surprised. He rolled from the bed and, after relieving himself in the chamber pot, pulled a rope from the saddlebag slung over his shoulder. He formed it into a noose and stepped out of his room.

  He found Brother Mikkel behind the third door he opened. The sky grayed outside the small window and guided Brander to the monk's bedside. He leaned down and slipped the loop of the noose over Mikkel's head.

  With a vicious yank, he dragged the sleeping man from the bed.

  Mikkel's limps flailed as he tried to discern what was happening. He flopped on the floor but when his eyes landed on Brander, he began to mouth words most unseemly for a man of the cloth. Brander allowed him to stumble to his feet. Then he pulled his arm back and drove his fist deep into the monk's soft and unsuspecting belly.

  When Mikkel folded in half, Brander grabbed his hands and tied his wrists together behind his back. Then he ran the rope of the noose between Mikkel's legs and tied it at his wrists as well. Now if the priest tried to stand up straight, he'd choke either his throat or his manhood.

  The chamber door blew open and Brother Arn hurried in with a candle in one hand and a bat in the other. "What are you doing? Are you mad?"

  Brander handed him a letter, unfolded and addressed to him.

  The priest blinked in confusion. Brander shook the letter, urging Arn to take it. Mikkel must have spoken because his companion turned and said, "What?"

  Brander spun and kicked the bound priest to the floor.

  Then he stepped too close to Arn to be hit effectively by the bat and thrust the letter in his face. He glared at the man, willing him to read it.

  Arn dropped the bat on Brander's boot and gripped the letter. Brander had written:

  I am arresting Brother Mikkel under the authority of Regent Bråthen of Christiania, and King Frederick IV of Denmark and Norway for multiple murders committed in Christiania and Tønsberg. And for the recent murder of my brother, Eskil Hansen of Arendal.

  Brother Arn's jaw fell open. His incredulous consideration ricocheted between Brander, standing tall and calm in front of him, and Mikkel tied on the floor and red-faced in his fury.

  Read it to him, Brander gestured.

  "You want me to read this to him?" Arn asked.

  Yes.

  He did.

  "Is this true, Petter?" Arn asked Brander. His face was dragged down by the accusations and -- Brander suspected -- his belief in their verity. "The young man who died in Arendal was your brother?"

  Poisoned, Brander mouthed.

  "Mikkel?" he walked to his companion. Brander couldn't see his mouth to know what was said, but he saw Mikkel. His lips spat denials.

  Brander wrote: I am taking him to Christiania immediately.

  "Today?"

  Yes.

  His brow crinkled. "Shall I come with you?"

  That is your decision, Brother Arn. I leave within the half-hour.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Hansen Hall, Arendal

  October 21, 1720

  Regin entered the dining hall on Jarl's steady arm. Three men and one woman waited at the long, formally set table. The first person who corralled her nervous attention had to be Brander's father.

  And Jarl's, she thought guiltily.

  The large crooked man at the end of the table had a circlet of thick white hair. The dark blue of his eyes was rimmed in white. His huge arthritic hands were knobby and his fingers slanted sideways. Even so, his cheeks were high and prominent, and he had a broad brow and strong jaw.

  Regin gave him respectful smile and dipped her chin. He must have been very handsome in his youth. His sons certainly were.

  Jarl's voice startled her; she hadn't noticed the room's silence until he spoke. "Good. Everyone's here."

  He led Regin to the seat next to his under the weight of four palpable stares. She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin. This was not the time to cower.

  "I present to you the Lady Regin Kildahl, Baroness of Hamar, and my bride to be," he said in a smooth, strong voice that didn't waver. Before anyone could speak, he continued. "My father, Lord Balder Hansen. My brother, Roald Hansen and his wife Norna -- Roald is my chamberlain at Hansen Hall. My brother, Olvir. Olvir has just returned from Germany where he studied the Reformed religion and he hopes to take a position in a church."

  The family resemblance was strong among the brothers, with each varying enough to distinguish them. Roald was blond like Jarl, but his eyes were blue like his father instead of the clear green. Olvir's hair was reddish -- even more so than Brander's -- and his eyes were blue as well. But the structure of their faces was strong and similar.

  Norna was the first to speak. "Welcome, Lady Regin. It will be such a pleasure to have some feminine companionship in this house of brutes as I cannot describe." Her teasing smile negated the insult.

  "And such beautiful feminine companionship as well," Roald added.

  Norna's eyes hooded and cut to her husband; obviously she wasn't pleased with his observation. That surprised Regin. Norna was an attractive woman with blond hair and gray eyes, slim of build but with a well-defined bosom. Wasn't Roald satisfied?

  "What he means to say is..." Olvir interjected. An impish smile twisted his mouth and lit his eyes. "There has been quite a bit of speculation over what you would look like. Poor Jarl has been the subject of multiple and heartless jests concerning your possible porcine -- or bovine -- properties."

  "Oh!" Regin's hand jumped to cover her mouth and her eyes grew so wide they hurt.

  "Stop that, Olvir!" Lord Balder's stiff hand reached over and poked his son's arm. "You're not so big that I can't take you out to the stable and whip you!"

  Olvir leaned toward his father. "Pappa, you never even whipped me as a boy."

  Lord Balder's eyes twinkled. "Well, I'm not too old to start!"

  Regin giggled behind her palm.

  Jarl sighed loudly and held Regin's chair. While she settled into the polished seat of the carved armchair he moaned, "I had hoped we might have one respectable meal with Lady Regin before this tribe betrayed its true colors."

  "No sense in giving the woman a false façade!" Lord Balder bellowed from his end of the table. "She's still got time to run!"

  The teasing was such a relief to Regin, much more welcoming than stilted politeness. She grinned at Lord Balder. "If I were to run, sir, would you escort me?"

  That comment brought a round of table slaps and barking laughs.

  "Oh please, don't encourage him," Jarl said with an edge of irritation.

  Regin nodded and felt her cheeks warming. She would have to figure out the balance of jesting; how she might fit into the family's game, but not shame her new husband.

  Servants brought in dishes of baked fish rubbed with aromatic herbs, followed by a sliced roast of venison and pullets stuffed with mushrooms. Wine filled the crystal goblets. Fresh bread was passed. A variety of buttered vegetables was offered including turnips mashed with garlic.

  Regin tried to eat daintily, but even with one small serving of each dish she ate more at this meal than she had consumed at any single meal in the last year. When honeyed pastries and fruit tarts were carried in, she groaned.

  "Have mercy, I beg you!" she laughed.

  Jarl frowned. "Have you not regained your appetite?"

  Regin waved her hands in surrender. "It's not that. It's the
bounty of your table that strains the boundaries of my skin! Are meals at Hansen Hall always so - generous?"

  "No, Lady Regin. The men in this family have a need to brag now and again," Norna claimed. "They are trying to impress you."

  Regin looked at Jarl to see if Norna was teasing her. The pained look on his face told her the woman spoke the truth. "Why would you try to impress me? It seems that I am the pauper who's come begging."

  "The beautiful pauper," Olvir added. "Not what my brother was expecting."

  Jarl's cheeks reddened. "I want to prove worthy of the honors you bring to the marriage," he said. "That's all."

  "He doesn't want you to back out of the arrangement before he gets his title!" Lord Balder rumbled from the opposite end of the table.

  Regin straightened in her chair. Now was the time to clear the air, it would seem. "I'm certain that Mister Gulbrandsen made my situation quite clear. My husband -- who has died -- gambled away my ancestral estate, running up debts I cannot repay. If I don't marry, I am destitute."

  Jarl squirmed a little in his chair. "It wasn't my intent to embarrass you, Lady Regin."

  She laid her hand over his. "I am far beyond embarrassment, Lord Jarl. I am desperate. And grateful."

  He relaxed a little. "When your arrival was so delayed, I did wonder if you had changed your mind."

  "Our path was far more perilous than we expected," Regin began. Then she addressed the subject not yet broached. "But you had faith in Lord Olsen, did you not? After all, you did specifically request that he escort me."

  "Lord Olsen? Don't you mean our renegade brother Brander?" Roald spat.

  "If I had known, I never would have asked it of him!" Jarl declaimed.

  Regin leaned forward. "And why not?"

  "Eight years!" Lord Balder shouted. "Eight years ago my eldest son stormed from my house and I haven't heard from him since!"

  Though Regin clearly saw the pain in Lord Balder's eyes, she knew he was as much to blame for the breach as Brander was. Her frantic thoughts scrambled for something to say to bridge the chasm.

  "Did you see how he lives?" Olvir prodded, pulling her attention.

  "I did." And the answer was fraught with condemning details.

  "Tell us," Roald demanded.

  She trod carefully. "Well, you already know that he is a gentleman of discovery--"

  "He practices a trade!" Lord Balder pounded the tabletop with a cobbled fist. "He shames the Hansen name!"

  "He uses a false name! He practices as Lord Olaf Olsen!" Regin pointed out.

  "She has scored a point there, Pappa," Olvir interjected.

  The elder man bounced his hand on the table again, and leaned back with a huff. "Even so. Eight years without a word. Not a single letter. What is he hiding?"

  "Nothing, my lord," Regin said softly.

  "What has he to show, then?" Roald asked. "Eight years of laboring on his own? What has it gained him?"

  That was the damning question. "I-I don't know," Regin stammered. "I only met him a few weeks ago. When he arrived at Kildahlshus to escort me here."

  Not counting the months of rather intimate correspondence before that, of course.

  "Nothing," growled Jarl. "He has nothing to hide because nothing has been gained. My brother is a failure."

  "He is not!" Regin yelped, pulling an unwanted glare from Roald and a curious one from Olvir. She must temper her defense of Brander before her heart was discerned.

  "Does he have no idea how I've worried for him?" Lord Balder complained. "The boy is deaf! And he's out in the world alone--"

  "He's not alone. He has Niels!" Regin interrupted.

  Lord Balder's face turned as burgundy as the wine he drank with dinner. His whole body quivered with the force of his words. "He's deaf! How can he survive? What if Niels had died of his wounds? Where would that leave him? I ask you - where?"

  No one spoke.

  And they all stared at her.

  Regin looked around the table. Jarl was sullen, as if he were living under the shadow of an elder brother who was gone, but never absent. Roald -- the third son and chamberlain to the second son -- spoke as if to raise his own status above the disfavored firstborn. Lord Balder walked between guilt and worry, and both made him angry.

  Only Olvir seemed to hear her; and his expression said that he heard more than she meant him to.

  Regin stood. She rested her fists on the table to keep them from shaking. She swallowed hard, her mouth as dry as the dust in the yard. She didn't know where to direct her comments, so she stared at the untouched tart on her plate. Her voice was low, and her tone as respectful as she knew how to make it.

  "Jarl, thank you for accepting my offer of a title, lands and marriage in exchange for paying my debts. And thank you for not shaming me in your acceptance. I am honored to become a member of the Hansen family. And I am equally relieved that your offer comes in such a handsome and respectable package."

  The tension around the board eased a little as a soft chuckle passed through the diners.

  "Now I must ask you to please forgive me for what I am about to say..." Tears prickled her lids, but she ignored them. Even if they fell, she wouldn't acknowledge them.

  "Lady Regin," Olvir began.

  She put up a hand to stop him. "I haven't known Brander for long, it's true. But you hired him because he has the best reputation in Christiania -- in all of Norway, no doubt -- for being a discreet gentleman of discovery. He saves men's lives when they are being victimized. He recovers monies. Noblemen rely on his expertise."

  She raised her eyes then, and considered each of the men in turn. "He is intelligent, educated, and capable. He is strong. He is just. And yes, he is deaf. But that's only an inconvenience. His mind is quick and sharp. And I had no trouble communicating with him at all."

  She felt a tear leak into the corner of her mouth. Its saltiness tingled.

  "It astounds me that you -- his own brothers and father who have known him longest and best -- could have so little faith in him! That you cannot see the man he is, even when he stands right in front of you!"

  Jarl covered one of her hands with his. "Lady Regin, I know you have been through quite an ordeal. And be assured, we will all forgive you this emotional outburst."

  Her jaw clenched. She forced herself not to jerk her hand away and slap his smug visage.

  "If he is so righteous, as you claim him to be," Lord Balder posited, "why did he run off again? Why didn't he remain for a while in the bosom of his kinsmen? Hell - he didn't even wait for Niels!"

  Regin wanted to scream, because he's gone after Eskil's murderer, you old fool! But if Brander didn't tell them what he was about, it wasn't her place to do so.

  She settled for, "He'll be back for Niels. Of that I'm certain."

  Jarl rose to his feet and slid a hand around Regin's waist. "I'll escort you to your chamber, my lady."

  And just like that, the discussion was slammed shut and locked.

  *****

  Brander tied Brother Mikkel to the saddle of his mule. Brother Arn rode free, his expression tight and clouded. Brander couldn't converse with him while they rode, but each time they stopped Arn assailed Brander with question after question.

  And Brander wrote answer after answer. His recitation was so full of facts that Brother Arn eventually came to the conclusion that his recent travel partner was certainly guilty of something. But murder? He refused to accept that.

  The sun was setting. Brander stopped the trio just beyond Grimstad to eat a quick meal that Arn bought from a tavern they passed. They had covered over twenty miles in eight hours; not as quickly as when Brander traveled alone, but the mules tired more easily than his stallion.

  Again, Brother Arn was berating him, claiming that Brother Mikkel was surely not guilty of multiple murders. That was a mortal sin! The man would burn in hell for all eternity!

  Brother Mikkel said nothing. He merely smiled and tilted his head toward the other priest as if to say, see
? No one will believe you.

  He smiles? He killed my brother and he smiles about it?

  Brander's rage had simmered for two-and-a-half days since he learned of his youngest brother's death. And that damned smile set it to boiling.

  I know how we can settle this, he wrote.

  Wearing his leather gloves for protection, he began to dig through Brother Mikkel's satchel. He pulled every item out and fingered through them, not finding what he sought. Brother Mikkel smirked.

  Brother Arn gripped his hand. "What madness is this?" he demanded.

  Brander peeled the man's fingers off him. He brushed debris from a patch of ground and laid the leather bag flat. He began to press against every inch of the satchel. When he found a lump, he checked for pebbles under the bag.

  And he watched Brother Mikkel.

  The smile faltered. Became strained. Brother Arn stared, his eyes burrowing out from under low, bushy brows.

  Brander continued. Each time he met a bulge, no matter how small, he looked for pebbles. He had already found one protuberance that had no exterior explanation. Now he found another beside it. Inch by inch he went, only taking his gaze from Mikkel to discern the cause of a lump.

  The monk's smile was gone. His chest rose and fell with more urgency. He glared angrily at Brander.

  Three lumps. All in a row. And they were inside the bag. Brander turned the bag inside out and examined it in the fading light.

  There. A tiny slit. A flap of leather overlapping another. A hidden pocket. Three lozenges. He looked at Brother Mikkel.

  Do you have anything to confess? he wrote.

  "No. You have no proof of anything," he maintained.

  Brander handed his stack of paper and a graphite stick to Brother Arn. You write what he says, he gestured.

  "You want me to write on here what he says?" he asked.

  Yes. Everything. Do you understand?

  "Yes. Everything he says."

  Brander turned back to Mikkel. He held up the note he wrote and pointed at it. Do you have anything to confess?