A Prince of Norway: Nicolas & Sydney: Book 2 (The Hansen Series - Nicolas & Sydney)
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“Ha! I fear my ‘youth’ is a stranger to me now!” Nicolas grinned and handed the borrowed sword back to Espen. “I need to order a blade of my own. Perchance I shall do so this afternoon.”
“I can take you to an excellent craftsman. His steel sings.”
“I accept. Thank you.” Nicolas slapped his cousin’s shoulder. “And now I shall go discern what mischief my son might be up to!”
Nicolas found Stefan in the stable mucking out stalls. He was conversing in easy Norse with another boy. Nicolas stood in the shadows and listened; it was remarkable how quickly his son was acquiring the new language.
“Stefan! Do you miss your chores at home so completely, that you do them here?” Nicolas asked in English, chuckling.
Stefan’s bright blue eyes lifted. His wavy auburn hair was tied back with a thong like Nicolas’s. It made him look much older than his nearly seven years.
“Pappa! Jeg hjelper Leif slik han kan leke med meg.” I am helping Leif so he can play with me.
“Slik du foretrekker jeg taler til du i Norse?” So you prefer I speak to you in Norse?
Stefan shrugged and continued in that language, pointing to the next stall, “That’s Leif. He’s twelve.”
“I’m almost thirteen!” a voice dithering on the cusp of puberty declared. The boy, with cropped ash-blond hair and brown eyes, appeared at the stall door. “Just seven and a half more months!” His eyes rounded when he saw Nicolas. “Your Highness.”
Nicolas shook his head and sat on a bale of straw to get closer to the boy. He was not much taller than Stefan, painfully thin, and clothed in apparel obviously discarded by a much larger person. Wiry muscles, fruit of his stable labors, were all that kept the boy from looking like a mere assortment of knobby joints.
“I’m not the king, Leif. You may call me ‘Nicolas’ until I am.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
Nicolas looked around the stable. There were two wide corridors with eight stalls on either side of each corridor. “Do you have to clean out all thirty-two stalls by yourself?”
“Not anymore!” Stefan’s voice bounced out from where he had gone back to work.
Nicolas smiled. “And when my son is not around?”
“Yes, Sir. But I only do half each day. And sometimes there are empty stalls.” Leif frowned and his voice increased in urgency. “But I do other work, too! I don’t waste my time in idle foolishness.”
Nicolas bit his lip and wondered who had chastised him with those particular words.
“Of course not! Not a strapping lad such as yourself!” Leif pushed his chest out a little at Nicolas’s assessment. “Do your parents work at the castle as well?”
The chest deflated. “I don’t have parents. I’m a bastard orphan.” That parroted phrase was not so amusing.
“How is that?” Nicolas asked softly.
“My father’s name was Sebastian Fredericksen. He was the king’s brother. He promised to marry my mother, but I guess he forgot to. He died when I was three, my mother said.”
Nicolas looked kindly at the boy. “And your mother?”
“She worked in the castle until she got sick.”
“How long have you been alone?”
“I’m not alone! The grooms watch out for me. They let me sleep in the tack room and bring me food. I’ve been earning my keep for three years, now!” Leif’s serious expression was far too old for a boy his age.
Stefan emerged from the stall. “Done! Can we play now?”
“I have to finish this one first.” Leif turned back to his work.
Nicolas stood and offered the boy his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Leif.”
Leif looked from Nicolas’s hand up to his eyes and back again. He wiped his hands on his filthy breeches before shaking Nicolas’s hand.
“Yes, Sir.”
September 5, 1820
As they dressed for dinner, Sydney debated whether or not to mention the date. She paced in the bedroom, checked her hair in the mirror, then rechecked her hair in a different mirror. She changed her slippers. Then she changed them back.
While Tomas shaved him, Nicolas’s eyes followed her in his mirror. “Sydney?”
She spun around to look at him.
“What’s bothering you?” Nicolas stopped Tomas and turned to face her, lather still adorning one side of his face in a white half-beard. Sydney’s lower lip tensed and her eyes widened.
“Sydney?” Nicolas stood and approached her. “What is amiss?”
Sydney shook her head. “I’m afraid to say anything.”
Nicolas gripped her arm. “What is it?” He glanced around the room. “Are we in danger?”
“No, Nicolas. We’re not. It’s nothing of that sort.”
Nicolas relaxed his grasp. “Then what is it?”
Sydney drew a deep breath. “Do you know the date?”
Every muscle in Nicolas’s body visibly eased, and a faint smile lifted his soap-frosted cheek. “Is that all?”
Sydney nodded as she watched her husband closely. What if Nicolas intended to behave the way he always had before: waking early on Stefan’s seventh birthday—the anniversary of his wife’s death—with the intent to drink himself senseless? Without Rickard here to watch over him, Nicolas could literally kill himself with such foolishness.
“Yes, I’m aware. Today is September fifth. Tomorrow is Stefan’s seventh birthday.” Nicolas returned to the dressing table. He sat and faced the mirror and gave Tomas permission to resume his shave.
“In fact,” Nicolas caught Sydney’s eyes in the mirror, “I have a gift for him.”
“You do?” Sydney sank into a chair as a surge of relief pulled the strength from her legs.
Tomas wiped flecks of lather from Nicolas’s face, and applied a scented lotion to his newly smoothed skin. He gathered his tools and left the room, wet towels tossed over his shoulder and careful not to slop soapy water on the carpet. When they were alone, Nicolas crossed to Sydney’s chair and kneeled beside her.
“I know that my behavior in the past has not been—gentlemanly—to state it in the least of terms. But my grief has been put to rest. I have you, now. I have Kirstie. And I have Stefan.” Nicolas smoothed Sydney’s hair. She grasped his hand and held it against her cheek; his fingers were cool and trembled slightly.
“Forgive me, Sydney. I should have said something.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Nicolas,” she murmured.
“Yes. There is.”
“Then I forgive you, husband.” Sydney kissed him tenderly. She rested her forehead against his. “I love you.”
“And I you.”
Sydney sat back and considered her husband curiously. “So what did you get for him?”
Nicolas retrieved a small leather pouch from his dressing table. He pulled the drawstrings open and handed it to Sydney. She upended it, and a heavy gold ring rolled into her palm.
“It was my great-grandfather’s. King Christian the Sixth.”
The ring was a signet ring, the kind used to stamp sealing wax. It was made of deep yellow gold, and large enough to fit over two of Stefan’s fingers. King Christian’s crest was carved into the oval face.
“I know he cannot yet wear it, so I planned to put it on a chain for him. What do you think?” Nicolas’s navy eyes probed Sydney’s.
“I think it’s perfect.”
“Do you, then?”
“I do! And I got him a gift as well.”
Sydney pulled a small shield from the wardrobe, with the Hansen crest painted in bright blue and yellow, and handed it to her husband. She also retrieved a scabbard and short sword made, and dulled, for Stefan.
“Sydney!” Nicolas exclaimed, a smile lighting his face. He pulled the blade from its sheath and held it in front of him. “This is a wonderful gift. What made you think of it?”
“I saw you in the courtyard, practicing with Espen. I thought it might be something that you could teach Stefan to do.”
“It’s past the time for me to start his training, in the way a father should.” Nicolas’ voice was thick. He raised wet cheeks to his wife. “But not too far past, I think.”
September 6, 1820
Stefan was beside himself with the gifts. He leapt around the bedroom, imitating his father’s moves and fighting imaginary dragons with great exclamations of threat and victory.
“Can we start today, Pappa?” he shouted.
“We can. You may watch my practice with Espen, and then I shall teach you.”
“And Leif, too!” Stefan huffed.
Nicolas frowned and glanced at Sydney. “Won’t that interfere with his work?”
Stefan shook his head, further frustrating Maribeth’s attempts to corral his unruly auburn locks with a leather thong. “If I help him we can get done before lunch!”
Sydney nursed Kirstie by the hearth. “Would Leif be allowed to learn swordplay?”
Nicolas considered his son’s exuberance. “I would rather not ask, in the event the answer is no. Besides, I believe it would be good for Stefan to have an adversary of his own size and ability to practice with.”
Stefan stilled and pushed wavy hair from his eyes. “Is that a yes, Pappa?”
“That’s a yes, son.”
Stefan jumped down from the chair that had stood in for a mountaintop. “Can I go tell Leif?”
“Yes, go on then!” Nicolas laughed.
When he was out of earshot, Nicolas turned to Sydney. “I’ll pack them both a lunch. The ‘bastard orphan’ does not give off the impression that he eats regularly.”
“Is it only what the grooms bring him?”
“That’s how he described it.”
“Hm.” Sydney’s chubby, healthy daughter grinned and waved hands creased at the wrist. “Make sure you take enough for him to have a snack after the lesson, as well.”
“I thought the same.”
***
Sydney intended to watch Stefan’s first sword lesson, but before lunch she began to feel a familiar pain deep in her core. She ate heartily anyway, hoping food might discourage the expected headache. It did not.
Sydney summoned Haldis, and then climbed into bed. When Haldis came to the room, Sydney tried to explain what was wrong, but ended up simply showing her the blood. Haldis’ look of confused worry turned to one of understanding competency. She gave Sydney a hot stone to place against her abdomen and cold cloths for her brow. She held the basin while Sydney vomited her noon meal. She closed the curtains to darken the room. And she brought Sydney endless cups of willowbark and chamomile teas.
Sydney lay on her bed, curled around the comforting warmth of the hot stone, eyes closed. All she could think about was breathing in. Exhaling took care of itself.
“Min presang?”
“Hm?” Sydney did not hear him come into the room.
Nicolas stroked her cheek. He smelled of outdoors, straw and sweat. “Is it very bad?”
Sydney nodded. Her skin was hypersensitive to the brush of her sheets, causing gooseflesh when she stirred. Light hurt her eyes. Sound made her head throb. And the pain in her womb was unrelenting. One hot tear slid from under her lid.
“Where is the worst pain?” he whispered.
“Low on my back.” Sydney sniffed, but could not muster the will to wipe her tears.
“Turn over.”
Sydney rolled slowly onto her stomach. Nicolas pushed back the covers and lifted her shift. His strong hands were so warm. He massaged her back and she moaned her gratitude. Slowly, her muscles relaxed and her body melted into the mattress. In less than thirty minutes, she was asleep.
***
“Yes, Haldis? Why have you come in the middle of the afternoon?”
Haldis curtsied. “Beg your pardons, sirs. I wanted to let you know that Lady Hansen is not with child.”
“No? Her courses have returned?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Haldis. We do appreciate your diligence.”
“Your servant, sirs.” Haldis curtsied again and left.
He sighed deeply and downed his akevitt. “His wife is a problem. I thought you said he was a widower?”
“That was his circumstance when I wrote to him, two years ago. I was not aware he remarried until I received his second letter.”
“She is not connected at all.”
“And she is not Norwegian. Or Danish. She is not even Swedish!” The observation was punctuated by a derisive snort.
“No, she is American,” he sneered. “And a Scots-Irish mutt.”
“And yet, he seems quite taken with her. Perhaps she beds well?” He shrugged. “She does have a decent arse.”
“Everyone knows the Scots and the Irish make good whores.”
He tossed back his head and laughed. “Our Viking forefathers knew that. They bedded them repeatedly for centuries!”
They fell silent, deep in thought.
“And so, how shall we handle this, should he come around?”
Fingernails cadenced on the tabletop. “He needs to send her home for some urgent reason…”
“Of course! To settle his holdings there!”
“Yes! Under his expressed written instructions, to be sure. He can send for her later, when the situation here is resolved.”
“That could—should take years. Very good thinking! In the meantime, we can place our own candidate in front of him.”
“She must be young and very comely. And ambitious enough to do as we bid.”
“Once a child is conceived, we will arrange a quiet divorce.”
“And a very royal wedding!” With a dismissive wave of his hand he added, “The order of which is unimportant.”
“We are agreed then?”
“We are.”
“Oh, dear.”
“What now?”
“She’s Scots-Irish! Do you suppose she’s a papist to boot?”
“Oh, Lord have mercy!”
September 10, 1820
Tomas handed Nicolas an envelope. “From Sir Anders.”
“Thank you, Tomas.” Nicolas withdrew the parchment. He nodded as he read it. “The game is on,” he said in English.
Sydney lifted her leather bag to her shoulder and held up one hand to Agnes waiting for her at the door. “What do you mean?”
“Anders has called a meeting of all available male members of the family for the purpose of officially naming candidates for the throne.” Nicolas raised clear blue eyes to his wife. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Are you ready?”
Sydney smiled softly. “I am.”
Chapter Seventeen
September 11, 1820
Sigrid stood at her window and watched the couple strolling in the garden below. Dark-haired and slim, she held his arm and lifted her mouth to speak to him. Tall, broad and blond, he bent his head to hers.
They stopped walking and spoke urgently to each other. Arms moved to punctuate statements, while hands fisted. He seemed to be trying to convince her of some point; she was unsure. Finally, she nodded.
Then they kissed. Sigrid turned away.
If she hoped to entice Nicolas back to her bed, she must work harder at the task. The night Sydney was not at dinner, Sigrid sat with Nick and they reminisced, laughing together over multiple glasses of wine and akevitt. She let her hand fall casually to his thigh, then squeezed it purposefully to make a point. There was no doubt about his arousal; she could see the bulge through his breeches. But he didn’t follow her when she left the Great Hall. And when she went back to look for him, he was gone.
She couldn’t help but look out her window again. Nicolas and Sydney sat on a bench now, their heads close together. Sigrid felt a stab of loss. She never admitted she loved him when he was nineteen.
Now that he was thirty-thr
ee, she was consumed by him.
A rapid knock startled her. “Come in,” she called and turned to the door.
“Are you occupied?”
“No, Father. Please come in.”
Anders crossed the room and stood beside her. He looked out the window. “Have you had opportunity to talk with him?”
Sigrid shook her head. “Not so one would notice. Only twice since he arrived.”
“Pity.”
Sigrid could not stop herself; she watched the couple as they huddled together.
Anders sighed heavily. “He seems the perfect candidate. He is a direct descendent of Christian the sixth, he is Norse, and he has an heir. There is just the one thing, really.”
“What one thing is that?”
Anders faced his daughter. “His wife. She’s an American commoner.”
Sigrid understood his point.
“Perhaps he can be convinced to send her back to America?” Anders speculated.
Sigrid waved one hand. “Certainly there would be cause?”
“Undoubtedly. And once she’s gone”—Anders lifted one brow suggestively—“his eye might wander. He only needs to choose someone from the royal line. He has an heir, so her age does not matter.”
Sigrid was silent. Could he really mean… her? Hope warmed her blood.
“How is Vegard these days?” Anders asked, startling her anew.
She sighed. “The same as he has been this past decade: fat, gouty and sleepy. Some days I can barely wake him. And his sight is failing him.”
“You paint a bleak portrait, daughter!”
“He is bleak.”
Anders appeared to have a new thought. “Nicolas has remarried. If you were widowed, you would remarry as well, would you not?”
Sigrid faced her father.
“Yes,” she answered carefully. “I would be amenable to that.”
Anders smiled. “Good.”
As he left her room, he spoke over his shoulder, “I hope you have more opportunities to renew your friendship with Nicolas. Let me know if I might assist that endeavor in any way.”