A Prince of Norway: Nicolas & Sydney: Book 2 (The Hansen Series - Nicolas & Sydney)

by Kris Tualla

  Sydney had no trouble pursuing the mare with the screaming beacon on her back. Once clear of trees, she gave the stallion his head. His gate stretched and his ears flipped back as he ran for the thrill of it. No obstacle slowed him; he took them in stride, gliding high over logs or ditches. Sydney felt at one with the horse and relished the incumbent sense of freedom.

  She was disappointed when he caught up to the heaving mare. Sydney reached over and grabbed the exhausted steed’s bridle, then slowed both mounts to a stop. Only then, did Linnet open her eyes.

  “Good Lord! It’s you!” Her gaze swept Sydney. “What are you doing riding like a man?”

  “Saving your hide, Your Grace!” Sydney snapped.

  “But—it’s not proper for you to ride that way!”

  “You are most welcome, Linnet.” Sydney raised an eyebrow. “It was my pleasure to come to your aid.”

  Linnet snorted and straightened her hat.

  Sydney turned the horses and walked them back toward the hunting party. They were met halfway by the assemblage. Eirik sat awkwardly on the abandoned gelding’s side-saddle.

  “Linnet? Are you all right?” He jumped to the ground and loped to her side. “I was so worried!”

  The stallion snorted and tossed his head. Sydney dropped the mare’s reins and turned her mount away from Eirik. She rode around to the other side of the group. Dagmar came up beside her, eyes sparkling.

  “That was very impressive, darling. Who knew you could ride like that?”

  Espen frowned. “I have never seen a woman of good breeding ride astride.”

  “Neither have I, but I think she’s fabulous!” Dagmar fluttered her eyes at Espen. “And she certainly saved the day, did she not?”

  Nicolas nudged his mount toward them, smiling broadly. “You’re a hero, wife!”

  Anders followed close behind. “Did you know of her horsemanship?”

  “I did. She was raised to handle horses. And she is gifted in it.”

  Sydney returned Nicolas’s proud grin. “Thank you.”

  Erling considered the angle of the sun. “I believe there is daylight enough to continue, if anyone is amenable?” he addressed the group.

  “We shall head back.” Eirik patted Linnet’s leg. “I believe we have had enough excitement.” He approached Sydney on the stallion. The horse bobbed his head and snorted.

  “Eirik, you ride the gelding back. Sydney will stay where she is,” Anders decreed.

  “But, the saddle! It is a woman’s!”

  “So you should be able to manage easily. Do you know the way back?”

  Eirik straightened his shoulders in an attempt to save face. “Yes, sir. I shall see my wife safely home.”

  “Fine!” Anders signaled the master of the hounds and he whistled for the dogs. He sent them off and the party followed.

  Sydney knew she was being watched. She leaned to Nicolas and whispered in English, “Am I an abomination?”

  “You very well might be,” he answered in kind. “So sit up straight and make them respect you.”

  Smiling broadly, she did just that.

  Chapter Nineteen

  October 10, 1820

  Nicolas pulled his cloak closer and turned away from the pelting rain. He and Tomas had been riding from dawn to dusk for four days, two of those days in freezing rain. They hoped to reach Arendal before nightfall.

  “If we shall even be able to tell when night falls!” Nicolas muttered.

  “I beg your pardon, Sir?” Tomas asked and twisted to see him. Nicolas realized he had spoken in English. He shook his head.

  “Nothing, Tomas,” he said in Norse. “Only the frozen mumblings of a starving peasant!”

  “Peasant?” Tomas scoffed. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

  Nicolas laughed at that. “Elevating your own state, are you?”

  Tomas grinned from under his hood. “It’s the delirium of deprivation, Sir. Pay me no mind.”

  The brief exchange lifted Nicolas’s spirits some. He shifted in his saddle and wondered yet again if he should have chosen to travel by carriage. No, he thought. The journey is long enough as it is. Horseback was faster, especially in the rain; there were no wheels to sink into the mire that passed for a road. That was a good thing, because the distance from Christiania was farther than he realized.

  Nicolas rode a magnificent chestnut gelding who seemed impervious to the weather. He sported a white blaze down his muzzle and three white hocks. The horse considered the foggy landscape around the road with cheerful interest. His ears constantly flicked drops of water and his sodden tail stung Nicolas’s legs when he swung it around. Tomas’s gray mount was soaked black with the rain and stomped along beside, snorting his displeasure with every mud-caked step.

  “What time do you suppose it might be?” Nicolas asked.

  Tomas squinted at the low, featureless sky. Gray and indistinct, it offered no hint as to the position of the sun, nor the direction they were headed.

  “Four o’clock, Sir.”

  Nicolas shifted a disbelieving gaze to his valet. “And how did you reach that conclusion?”

  Tomas pointed in front of them. A faint light glowed in the gloom, joined suddenly by another. “They are lighting the lamps.”

  “Could it finally be Arendal?” Nicolas sat straighter. “And how quickly do you suppose we might find out?”

  The men kicked their reluctant mounts to sloppy trots and soon reached the village. Nicolas led the way to a large inn with a sign advertising, “Lodging ~ Clean.” A surprised stable boy jumped up from his sheltered seat near the front door and took both horses to a barn behind the inn. Tomas held the door for Nicolas and they stepped into the blessedly dry warmth.

  Nicolas inhaled the beery smell of the room, spiced with akevitt and acrid wood smoke. The décor was sturdy, rugged. They peeled off their wet cloaks and hung them on hooks near the fire where they immediately began to steam, returning tendrils of borrowed fog. A robust middle-aged man rocked toward them, a smile splitting his round, red face and displaying an astonishing lack of teeth.

  “Welcome!” He slapped Tomas on the shoulder. “You are hungry?”

  “Hungry, thirsty and in need of lodging,” Nicolas replied. “Have we reached Arendal?”

  “That you have! And on a wicked night, I’m a-feared.”

  “Have you rooms available?”

  “Only one tonight. But it’s the best room we have!” His gaze checked Nicolas for objections to the higher cost.

  Nicolas kept his face intentionally passive. Of course it is.

  At Nicolas’s silence, he added, “But maybe tomorrow we’ll have another?”

  “Thank you, sir, but I anticipate that we should only need the one night. Rest assured, however, we will let you know if we discover our needs have changed.” Nicolas smiled politely.

  Thus placated—at least as much as was possible for now—the proprietor showed them to a table. A parade of food and drink followed. Sausages, cheeses, fish stew, bread, and fruit tarts were presented with apparently bottomless steins of beer and flagons of akevitt. Nicolas and Tomas ate and drank their fill and then some, so relieved were they to be warm and dry. When their saddlebags were carried in by the stable boy and taken to their room, the men stumbled behind him, up the narrow wooden staircase, and to the ‘best room.’

  Nicolas swayed in the center of the floor and stared at the small bed. He lifted one brow at Tomas.

  “I am not sleeping in that,” he pointed with his whole arm, “with you.”

  Tomas waved his hands, almost knocking himself off balance. “I shall sleep on the floor. In fact, I believe I shall begin now.” He sunk to his knees on the hearthrug.

  “Some valet you are!” Nicolas snorted. He dropped his frock coat, waistcoat and breeches on the floor and, clad only in his shirt, climbed diagonally between the sheets. Even so, his feet stuck out from the covers until he curled on his side.

  Both men began to snore at the same time.
>
  October 11, 1820

  A blade of sunshine cleaved Nicolas’s skull leaving him, unexpectedly, still alive. He turned away from the murderous shaft and tried to pry his tongue from the roof of his mouth. His eyes opened with less effort and he saw that, while he was presently alone in the room, Tomas had been busy. His formal clothes were laid out across the small table, and steam rose from the pitcher on the washstand.

  The door latch clicked and Tomas entered with a tray bearing two mugs of coffee and fresh rolls. When the rich scent of the brewed beverages reached Nicolas, he inhaled deeply, appreciative of Tomas’s efforts. This proved to be a mistake.

  Nicolas rolled off the bed onto all fours and puked into the piss pot which Tomas—thank the Lord—had already emptied. When his stomach felt he had been sufficiently punished for last evening’s abuse, the retching stopped. He sat back against the bed frame. Tomas handed him a warm, wet towel to wash his face.

  Thus renewed, Nicolas held out his hand. Tomas placed a warm roll in his palm. “I’ll have that coffee now, as well,” he croaked. Tomas pushed a hot cup into his grip.

  Nicolas, from his seat on the cold wood floor, considered the valet as he chewed. Despite his industry, Tomas’ face was colorless down to his lips. A clammy sheen reflected the morning light.

  “How are you this morning?” Nicolas asked him.

  He nodded toward the piss pot. “It is a shame no one was around to empty it for me. Before.”

  Nicolas snorted his amusement and one side of Tomas’ mouth curved in rueful acknowledgement.

  “I’m preparing you a bath downstairs,” he continued, retrieving both the piss pot and the wet towel. “I shall shave you afterwards.”

  “Have you found out anything concerning our destination?” Nicolas asked before popping the last bite of bread in his mouth and draining his coffee cup.

  Tomas nodded. “Yes, sir. The Hansen estate is further west along the main road, about a mile or so. They say it’s obvious, built on the edge of a cliff.”

  “Thank you, Tomas.”

  Two hours later, bathed, brushed, and polished within an inch of his sanity, Nicolas caught his first sight of the ancient Hansen homestead. Reining the chestnut to a stop, his narrowed gaze took in every detail.

  Hansen Hall was built on the top of a bluff. Cobbled together in fits over the last several centuries, it was dominated by a round tower built of rough stones. Its turreted top stood three stories over the road, and five over the empty moat that dipped around it. There were no windows in the tower, only the vertical slits which allowed archers to defend the inhabitants.

  Viking archers.

  Nicolas felt their unseen presence in the breeze that stroked his cheek and he rested his fingertips there; a thrill tingled up his spine and his belly clenched with recognition. He nodded his silent respect to those whose restless blood he shared.

  Extending off one side of the tower was a two-story structure, built centuries later of quarried stone. This addition had glass windows, leaded in a multitude of small diamond-shaped panes. Peeking over the flat roof of the medieval façade were several tall chimneys, all spouting gray smoke like a row of flags. Slanted slate roofs declared the presence of a modern wing behind the tower, creating a courtyard in between, perhaps.

  Nicolas breathed in the North Sea. Over the cries of single-minded gulls, he could hear waves impaling themselves below the cliff. He wondered how far down the water was.

  “Shall we go on, my lord?” Tomas prompted.

  Nicolas started, forgetting the valet was there. “Yes. Yes, let’s do,” he answered.

  Their horses’ hooves crunched up the drive made of crushed white stone and shells. The main entrance was centered in the medieval section, in an arched alcove at the end of the moat bridge. A heavy wooden door stood under a carved “H” which had, on either side, sculpted friezes. With Thor on one side, and Christ on the other, they proved that Christianity had reached Norway centuries earlier.

  Nicolas swung his leg over the gelding and dismounted. Tomas took the reins and Nicolas climbed to the massive portal, the scooped stone steps worn down in the middle by thousands of feet. He grabbed the round iron knocker and thrust it against the planks. He heard the sound echoing beyond.

  The door was pulled open by a surprised butler. His eyes swept over Nicolas’s finely tailored attire. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Is your master at home?”

  “He is.”

  “Would you be so kind as to inform him of my presence?”

  An infinitesimal change flickered over the butler’s countenance when he heard Nicolas’s accent. “And how shall I announce you?”

  “Lord Nicolas Reidar Hansen, Greve of Rollag.”

  The man’s eyes did not flinch at Hansen; it was a common name after all. But the title pulled him up sharp. “Of course, my lord. Won’t you please come in? I shall send a man to see to the horses.”

  ***

  Nicolas waited in a drawing room full of ancient works of art and craft. He was admiring a lethal looking iron sword when he heard approaching footfalls.

  “Lord Hansen?”

  Nicolas turned to face a tall white-haired gentleman. His slender frame stooped a little around the broad shoulders, but the way he moved proved a physical past. Blue eyes, clear and intense, met his without blinking.

  “I am Edvard Aleksander Hansen, Ninth Greve of Arendal. How may I assist you?”

  Nicolas bowed. “I am the firstborn son of Reidar Magnus Hansen, grandson of Martin Gunnar Hansen, and great-grandson of Eskil Brander Hansen.”

  “Uncle Martin?” A slow smile drew back the wrinkles in his cheeks like drapery. “My father, Roald Petter Hansen, was his older brother.”

  “Did you have opportunity to meet him?” Nicolas asked.

  “Yes. He came here when I was in my twenties. I recall him well.” Lord Edvard waved Nicolas to a chair and moved deliberately to a sideboard. He lifted a bottle of akevitt in silent question.

  “Yes, thank you. Cousin.”

  “Cousin,” Lord Edvard whispered, pausing. Then he chuckled. “Now your accent makes sense.”

  “Is it so noticeable?”

  Lord Edvard’s sideways glance squelched that hope. He handed Nicolas the glass and sank into an upholstered armchair.

  “To unexpected family?” He lifted his drink. Blue veins showed through large, onion-skinned hands knobbed with arthritis.

  “To your health, Lord Edvard!” Both drained their glasses.

  “So, young Nicolas, why are you here?” Lord Edvard set his glass on a small side table, a slight rattle betraying a tremor.

  “To meet my family and see my ancestral home.” Nicolas ran his knuckle over his upper lip. “I had hoped my son might come with me, but the journey was too difficult for a seven-year-old.”

  “From America? Yes, I see that.”

  “No, sir. From Christiania. My wife is there as well, with our infant daughter.”

  Lord Edvard sat back in his chair, his expression changed. He stared at Nicolas for a long, silent time, lips drawing tight, then puckering.

  “So, young Nicolas, why have you brought your family to Norway, then?”

  Nicolas leaned forward in his chair. “That question requires a very complicated answer. Might I impose on your hospitality, cousin, and bide here a day or two? I shall tell you everything you wish to know.”

  Lord Edvard tipped his head.

  Nicolas leaned back again. “Perhaps you can give me some advice for the situation I am currently facing. And,” he waved his hand around the room, “tell me the Hansen story, eh?”

  ***

  At dinner that evening, Nicolas met the Lady Olina Berg Hansen, Edvard’s wife of forty-one years. Tall and white-haired like her husband, she was a bit hard of hearing and had the tendency to speak so softly that Nicolas could barely hear her. He found himself smiling and nodding a lot, then turning his attention back to Lord Edvard’s narrative.

  The Ha
nsen family’s story was arresting, and Nicolas wondered if his father knew of Norway’s failed attempt to settle Greenland, the devastating effect of the Black Death, or how Denmark’s king became ruler of the much larger country.

  Sitting in the dining hall of the medieval wing lent an aura of supernatural realism to Edvard’s tales. Nicolas considered the possibility the shadows from the flickering lamps were actually the shades of long-dead Hansens, listening and passing judgment on Nicolas’s worthiness to carry the name.

  After a long pause, while the dinner dishes were cleared away and dessert was served, Edvard turned a sharp gaze to Nicolas. “And now, Nicolas, it is your turn.”

  “Sir?”

  “Why have you brought your family to Norway?”

  Nicolas took a bite of the rum pudding, chewing slowly. He sipped the black coffee laced with akevitt.

  “I might be elected King of Norway,” he stated simply. No point in evading the truth.

  “You—what?” Edvard nearly spit his coffee. “How?”

  “On my mother’s side, I am the great-grandson of King Christian the Sixth. The royal family is attempting to reclaim the throne from Sweden and I was summoned to Christiania to be considered as a candidate.”

  Edvard stared slack-jawed at his wife.

  “What is it, dear?” she asked.

  “Our cousin Nicolas, here, might become King of Norway!” he said loudly.

  “Oh my!” Her cloudy brown eyes shifted to Nicolas. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Thank you, Lady Olina.” Nicolas dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  “Tell me everything, Cousin!” Edvard demanded. “And do not leave one single thing out, do you hear me?”

  October 12, 1820

  Late the next morning, Nicolas, with Edvard’s blessing, explored the hodge-podge manor. Once inside the building, the transition from the ninth-century tower, to the fourteenth-century hall, to the modern eighteenth-century sleeping rooms and kitchen, was not as disjointed as it was on the exterior. Generations of mistresses had worked to make the interior décor seamless and inviting. They had done well.