by Kris Tualla
Sydney trembled all over and her heart pounded so hard she was certain it could be heard in the hallway. God in Heaven—what an occurrence! Nothing she had ever experienced in her entire life felt like the moment Linnet’s newborn child dropped into her waiting hands. She felt like she was floating, euphoric.
She fidgeted, shaking her hands in front of her. The elegant room suddenly felt too small to contain her. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted to shout from the rooftops.
She wanted to do it again.
Sydney grinned like a lunatic at Ingrid. Ingrid smiled and nodded her understanding.
When Sydney finally went to search out her husband’s chamber, the clock in the birth room said four-thirty. She was exhausted. She dropped her gown on his floor and climbed into his bed in her shift. She snuggled against Nicolas, seeking his solid warmth. He adjusted his position and made room for her.
“Was the birth successful?” he whispered.
“Mm-hmm.” Sydney sighed and closed her eyes. “And now I shall become a midwife.”
Before Nicolas responded, she was asleep.
Chapter Ten
July 20, 1806
Christiania
The valet opened the door to the Great Hall and announced, “His Royal Highness, King Christian the Seventh, King of Denmark and Norway.”
He stepped aside and swept his arm to the open portal. Nicolas bowed, as did his cousins Eirik and Espen, and his uncles Canute, Anders and Erling. Nicolas stared from under his brows at the unusual figure that entered the room.
Christian was a tall man with flowing brown hair, but he walked with furtive stoop, as though afraid of sudden attack. Once past the doorway, he stopped and straightened, looking down his long nose at the men.
“You may rise.”
They did. Nicolas assumed that the younger man following Christian was his son—and the de facto king—Frederick VI. As Christian approached, Nicolas noticed that his ornate clothing was torn and repaired in places. And he had an odor about him, stale and unwashed.
“Who are you?” the king demanded.
The sweep of his glance made Nicolas feel unclothed. He stood tall, taller than the king, and introduced himself.
“I am Nicolas Reidar Hansen, Greve of Rollag. Great-grandson of your grandfather, Christian the sixth. My mother, Kirsten Marin Sven, is your first cousin.”
“Are you an American?” Christian scoffed.
“I am, Your Highness.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Are you barbaric in your ways?”
Nicolas glanced at his uncles. How should he answer that? One uncle nodded, another shook his head. No help from those two!
“I come from a young and wild land, Your Majesty. I have experience and skills which might be considered barbaric in such long-established realms such as Norway and Denmark.”
“Oh? Really?” Christian’s glance undressed him again. “I should very much like to hear more about these barbaric experiences.”
Nicolas bowed, but did not respond. Frederick took his father’s elbow.
“Would you like to sit, Father?”
“Well, of course I should like to sit!” he barked. “But you must make all those hideous creatures get out of my seat first!”
All eyes in the room turned to the empty chair.
“Of course, Father.” Frederick waved his arms at the empty chair. “Off with you now! The King commands it!”
Christian strode to the chair and paused until his valet arranged the tails of his coat. Then he sank into the seat.
August 14, 1820
Christiania
“Do you remember your lessons?”
Espen Christian Canutesen, Duke of Lillehammer, addressed Nicolas while waving a sword in his direction. Blue sky slid along its steel blade in the late morning sunlight of the warm castle courtyard. Without warning, he flipped the sword, grip over blade, toward Nicolas.
Nicolas flinched, but his body remembered. He caught the sword by the pommel and his eyes flicked up to his cousin.
Espen smiled his approval. “Not a bad job.”
Nicolas rotated the sword in his hand until he felt it settle. “There’s not much call for swords in Missouri. Rifles and knives are the weapons of choice.”
“Pity.”
Nicolas sliced the air with a few broad arcs. It felt good.
“Care to test your skill?” Espen didn’t wait for an answer; he lunged.
For the next quarter hour the two men parried, clashed, lunged and feinted. Nicolas fought from pure instinct at first. Sweat ran down his back and brow with the effort, and his lungs burned with the dust the pair stirred. But the longer they fought, the more sure his movements became. His balance shifted; his arm responded.
Finally, Espen stepped back and lowered his blade.
“Well played, Hansen.”
“Thank you.” Nicolas handed him the sword. “I needed the practice.”
“Einar taught us well. Too well, as I recall, may he rest in peace.”
Nicolas felt his face warm further at the reminder of his shame, but the cousins embraced and pounded each other’s backs nonetheless.
“You look well for an old man of three and thirty!” Espen grinned.
“As do you!” Nicolas rejoined. “When, then, did your beard come in? When we were all of twenty, I recall your face was as smooth as a maiden’s!”
“Right after I experienced precisely for what purpose those maidens were created!” Espen winked. “A purpose I enjoy whenever I’m able!”
“So you never married?”
“Not yet. There’s time. I’m still searching, one by one.” Espen sheathed the weapons; he didn’t meet Nicolas’s eye. “And you? I heard you lost your wife, but turned up here with another.”
“My wife Lara died in childbirth seven years ago. Our son is with me. I married again and have a seven-month-old daughter.”
“Are you happy, Nicolas?” Espen asked, looking askance at his cousin.
“That I am.”
“But not happy enough, I venture, to stay in Missouri? The prospect of kingship is seductive, is it not?”
“Are you a candidate as well?” Nicolas wondered if everyone knew why he was in Christiania.
Espen shook his head. “I wasn’t asked and I would have declined. Apparently, a suitable wife is a requirement, and I have no interest in an arranged marriage for my career’s sake.”
“What about Eirik?”
“His wife, the Lady Linnet, is English. Need I say more?”
Nicolas chuckled. “No.”
“But I understand that the birth of my nephew was eased by your wife’s assistance. Be sure to thank her on behalf of the Canutesen branch of the Fredericksens!”
“I’ll make certain you meet her soon, and so you may thank her yourself,” Nicolas promised.
***
“Å min Gud!” Nicolas fell back on the bed, panting, limbs thrown wide. “Å min Gud i himmel!”
Sydney curled toward him and sighed, her nether parts swollen and her limbs still tingling. “How decadent are we, husband? It’s the middle of the afternoon!”
“The decadence lies not in the hour, but in the location. Finally! A full bed!” Nicolas stretched his legs. “I hoped we might ‘christen’ it last night, but the birth kept you away too long.”
“Will we outrage your cousins if we share this room?” Sydney propped on one elbow.
“I’ll not have you sleeping elsewhere!” Nicolas ran his knuckle down her throat and around her breast; she shivered as always at his touch. “Unless, that’s what you prefer? After all these weeks, have you grown accustomed to solitude in bed?”
“No, indeed!” Sydney caught his hand and bit his finger playfully before sticking it in her mouth and drawing it out slowly. He watched her with widening eyes. “After all these weeks, I have grown deprived! Sleep is highly overrated.”
Nicolas pulled her close and kissed her, his
desire for her still obvious. “That’s the perfect answer, wife. Tonight we’ll work to eradicate your deprivation. As your loving husband, I am fully committed to your well being!”
Sydney giggled and kissed him deeply, teasing his tongue with hers. “Let’s get everyone resettled, then, shall we?” she whispered against his lips.
He grunted and rolled on top of her. “I’ll resettle now, wife, if you’ll open up a bit.”
Half an hour later, a considerably less deprived Sydney—with the help of her Akershus maid, Haldis—moved her things into the room previously assigned to Nicolas alone. Stefan’s things were moved into the adjoining room, which had been intended for Sydney and Kirstie to share. That left Maribeth alone in the room across the hall. The shy maid looked as if she might swoon at such luxury.
When Sydney returned to her new bedchamber, she found Nicolas hunched over a large sheet of paper. He was writing names and drawing lines.
Sydney leaned over him. “What are you doing?”
“Charting.” He didn’t look up.
“Charting what? Is that a diagram of your family?”
He nodded. “Some members of this family were quite insane. Both Frederick’s father and his uncle, King George of England, to name two.” He paused and scowled at the document. “I wonder if that circumstance has been passed on to any of my cousins?”
Nicolas looked at her finally, his face still twisted in thought. “I’m trying to make sure that I know where each one is, relative to Frederick the Sixth. And to whom they are married.”
“And then?” she prompted.
“And then I shall know who might be king.”
Living Descendents of King Christian VI
& Sophia Magdalen
Frederick V & Louise:
5 Deceased Progeny
Frederick V & Juliana Maria:
2 Deceased incl. Sebastian ~ Leif's father!
Anders & Johanna:
Sigrid & Vegard
Canute & Agnes:
Eirik & Linnet
Espen no heir
Ellen
Elisa
Frederick V & Else Hansen (Mistress)
3 Deceased incl. Petra:
Dagmar
Didrick ~ Deceased
Erling
Karl & Ingeborg: 54
Karla
Borg
Else
Marit Christiansen & Henrik Sven:
Kirsten & Reidar Hansen:
NRH
July 10, 1806
Rollag, Norway
Nicolas tried to doze in the carriage as he was driven to his mother’s land. His head pounded, and his stomach clenched in rebellion at the unrelenting rock of the conveyance. Last night’s ample akevitt still coursed through his veins.
He drank to avoid Christian.
The man who held the title of King of Norway was a man with strange predilections. He asked Nicolas endless questions about life in Missouri, wanting details about anything involving blood. Hunting, Indians, fatal accidents while taming the land, he asked about it all. And Nicolas could not help but see that the man fondled himself throughout. His arousal was unmistakable. As was his satisfaction.
In the middle of the conversation!
Nicolas shuddered. When Christian let his free hand fall on Nicolas’s knee, it took all of his will-power not to knock it violently away. His voice was intense, sinister, seductive.
“You may be young, but you’re already a real man, Nicolas. I admire that about you.”
Nicolas swallowed, his throat gone dry. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“I’m a real man, as well.” Christian’s eyes lit disturbingly. “Everyone is afraid of me. And they should be. I might strike at any moment.”
Nicolas refused to allow himself to show his fear. “Strike?”
“A mace, a sword, my hand, the choice of weapon is unimportant. The key is to hit often enough and hard enough to keep the populace in check. I attack whomever I wish, unprovoked, so that everyone will show me the respect I deserve!”
“I see.” That was an odd way to rule a country.
Christian leaned forward, his voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m so much of a man, in fact, that I require lovers of both sexes to keep me satisfied.”
Sweat began to trickle down the groove of Nicolas’s back.
“I, of course satisfied them so completely, that many have died in the act.” He began to giggle. “Can you imagine that? In the actual moment of sublime bliss they just… died!”
Nicolas glanced around the room until his eyes met Frederick’s. His cousin stood and moved to them.
“Father? Are you finished with your meal?” Frederick stepped between Christian and Nicolas. Nicolas stood and gratefully gave his chair to Frederick. “You haven’t eaten much.”
“It’s poisoned, you fool. Anyone can see that!” Christian pushed the plate away. “Give me your plate!”
Nicolas hurried to the other end of the table. He pulled up a chair and downed akevitt toasts with Eirik, Espen, and several lovely young ladies-in-waiting. He stayed there for the rest of the evening, not truly relaxed until Christian left the Great Hall without him.
Now he slumped in the carriage and regretted his decision to travel today. He pounded on the roof of the conveyance and the driver stopped. Nicolas clambered out just before he puked. Wiping his mouth on a handkerchief, he realized that there was nothing he had sampled in America that kicked a body as hard as akevitt. He would need to learn his limit or he might not survive the year. Nicolas sighed and considered turning back to Christiania. But he was already more than halfway to Rollag.
There must be a tavern there. He could get some small beer and maybe some soup. At any rate, he should at the least look at the land. His mother would ask about it when he returned. And the property would be his someday.
Nicolas pulled himself back into the carriage and banged on the roof. The carriage lurched forward.
But I don’t know what the hell I shall do with it.
Chapter Eleven
August 22, 1820
Rollag, Norway
Nicolas stood on the outcropping of granite and wiped rivulets from his brow with one sleeve. His linen shirt clung to him, nudged by breezes and gripped by sweat. For over two hours he zigzagged up the mountain on foot, the pathway existing only in his memory, until he reached this spot. He was three thousand feet above the valley.
His valley.
Nicolas shaded his eyes and followed the twisted, glittering rope of water that slithered through Rollag. Whitewashed structures, their moss-edged slate roofs reflecting glare from the midday sun, gathered like old women beside the Lagen River. A quilt of neat rectangles surrounded the tiny town; some dotted with livestock, others lush with crops nearing harvest. Rollag’s three-story stave church, standing slightly above the fray, began sheltering worshippers barely a hundred years after William conquered.
He stretched taller, reaching toward the heavens, and felt his vertebrae pop in a satisfying manner. He inhaled the sharp bouquet of pinesap warmed by the intense summer sun. As he surveyed all that lay below him, his chest expanded with power.
He owned this.
Then Nicolas looked back over his shoulder at the towering peaks that wrapped around him, looming so high that trees gave up any attempt at climbing them. Even the gyr-hawks and white tailed sea eagles, whose sharp, mournful cries split the air around him, did not venture that high.
With an imperceptible shrug, these mountains could throw down a chunk of ice that would eliminate any trace of his existence. The understanding that no human could ever truly own them washed over him, numbing his fingers and toes. Nicolas suddenly felt very insignificant.
“But a partnership!” he said out loud, his deep vocals bouncing off the surrounding slopes. “A partnership! Allow me a bit of control, and I shall make you the most desirable mountains in all of Norway!”
He bent down and slapped both his palms, hard, on the rough rock benea
th his feet.
***
Anders looked up from his stein and squinted. The sun spilled around Nicolas as he entered the doorway of the ancient Rollag tavern, baptizing Anders with his elongated shadow. Anders signaled the serving girl for another stein of ale. Nicolas dropped into the seat across from him and grinned.
“God, what glory!”
“You’ve been gone for more than half a day! Where were you?”
Nicolas winked at the serving girl as she set down the ale, causing her to blush prettily. “I climbed the mountain and looked down on my dynasty.”
“Your ‘dynasty,’ is it?” Anders smirked. “And what good is your dynasty to you?”
“How do you mean?” Nicolas drained his stein and waved for another. “Exertion like that makes a man thirsty. Thank you, my sweet.” The serving girl giggled.
“I mean, you have these lands here, in Rollag, but you live in America.”
“Yes?” Nicolas hoped his light tone did not betray his suspicions.
Anders smiled solicitously. “Perhaps there’s a better plan.”
Nicolas waited until the serving girl left the table, her hand trailing over the tabletop and her lashes fanning furiously with promise. Her cleavage seemed to have deepened.
“I was wondering how long you would wait before telling me why you insisted I come to Christiania,” he said.
Anders laughed. “I forget how abrupt you Americans are!”
Nicolas drank deeply of the summer beer and found it light and refreshing. He helped himself to a bit of barbecued meat abandoned on Anders’ plate. Then he met the older man’s eyes.
“Come. Let’s walk where there are no ears,” Anders suggested. He dropped a few coins on the tabletop. The serving girl’s disappointment was palpable.
The men left the tavern and strolled under a stand of trees along the Lagen River. Anders looked like a leopard, dotted with sunspots and every inch as dangerous. The gently rhythmic slop of water against land eased Nicolas’s taught nerves.
