by Kris Tualla
At the end of one windowless passage on the ground floor lurked an unusual door. Set deep into the wall, there were carvings all around it. Nicolas leaned closer to make them out. They appeared to be Christ with His cross; perhaps the ‘stations’ Sydney had told him about once. He was taken aback for a moment, considering that his predecessors were papists. Then he smacked his hand to his forehead: Martin Luther sparked the reformation in 1517, two centuries after this wing was built.
Nicolas tried the handle. It was stiff and the latch clanked, iron echoing down the hall. He dragged it open and discovered a small chapel. The faintest smell of ancient rot underlay the cold, damp odor of stone. Wooden benches, black with age and use, sat in perpetual formation; faithful, waiting.
Gravestones paved the floor. Centuries of shoes had worn away the finer details of the carved stones, but some information was still legible. Nicolas walked slowly to the front, engrossed in the names and dates he could decipher. The closer he was to the front, the older and more worn the stones.
When he reached the railing that separated mere humanity from the priests, the stones were once again readable. He stepped over the railing—after all the chapel was obviously not in use anymore—and went to the very front.
“Rydar Martin Petter-Edvard Hansen, born 1324, died 1401,” Nicolas read out loud. “I expect I am named for him.”
He turned to the stone set alongside. “Belovd Wyfe, Grier MacInnes Hansen, born 1328, Scotland, died 1401.”
These were the first, the oldest, graves in the chapel.
“He built it, you see.” Lord Edvard’s deep voice, breathy with age, floated over the musty past to Nicolas. “He came home from Greenland after the Black Death. No one was left, so he reclaimed the land; brought it back from death.”
Nicolas turned to face his elder relation. “Of course they had children.”
“Seven. Five that survived infancy. Four sons and a daughter.” Lord Edvard pointed to stones along the outer wall. “They are all there, with their wives.”
“So we have Scots blood?” Nicolas grinned, one eyebrow cocked.
Edvard coughed a laugh, wheezing a bit. “It’s very likely that one of our own Viking warriors spawned her great-grandmother, don’t you know!”
Nicolas laughed with him; jarring sounds in this somber and silent tomb. He turned back to the graves. Even though he was a staunch Lutheran, he crossed himself in imitation of his Catholic wife.
“God has blessed you both abundantly,” he murmured. His throat tightened and he brushed unexpected tears from his cheeks. Being here, at these graves, moved him more than he would have thought possible. His connection with Norway thrummed through his soul, deep and insistent.
“Rest in peace, father,” he whispered, touching the stone lightly. “You’ve done very well.”
After a moment, he stepped back over the railings and took Edvard’s arm. His throat clearing echoed in hollow reverberation.
“So who built the new wing?” he asked, closing the chapel door behind them.
Nicolas and Tomas remained in Arendal for four days. When they left, Nicolas had Lord Edvard’s pledged fealty, plus his advocacy with the surrounding aristocracy. They took time with the journey back to Christiania, stopping at the largest establishment of each village they passed through to press Nicolas’s case. Countless akevitt toasts, impromptu speeches and back-thumping promises later, they plodded into Christiania, exhausted, surfeited and filthy.
“But worth every moment,” Nicolas groaned, slipping into a hot bath. “As Tomas will undoubtedly be asked to confirm.”
Sydney handed him the soap. “And Lord Edvard?”
“With his very valuable help it is apparent that I have won the southern lands.” He scrubbed his face and dipped under the water. When he surfaced, Sydney kissed him.
“Well played, husband.”
Chapter Twenty
October 23, 1820
“Stefan? Hold on there, young man!” Sydney grasped Stefan’s coat as he tried to leave the bedroom. “You have not had your lessons since we arrived in Christiania!”
“But I need to go, Mamma. I need to help Leif!” Stefan’s bright blue eyes were sincerely concerned. “And then we have our sword lessons with Pappa. And he promised to teach us to ride like hunters!”
Sydney looked to Nicolas. His eyes were narrow and his lips pursed. “What are you thinking?” she challenged.
Nicolas rubbed his dark gold whiskers; soft rasping filled the silence. He ran both hands through his hair. “A heretical thought, to be sure.”
“Oh? And what might that be?” Sydney rested one hand on her hip; the other still leashed Stefan.
“The boy is learning Norse. He is working hard. And he is gaining skills,” Nicolas posited. “If we ensure that he reads, in both languages, every day, I believe we can catch up on his arithmetic later.”
“On the voyage home?” Sydney’s sarcastic tone was unmistakable.
“Or we can hire a tutor here, if need be.”
“Say ‘yes,’ Mamma! Please?” Stefan hopped up and down.
“You need to read every night before bed,” Sydney declared, pointing at her growing stepson. “I will buy Norse books today. And your father and Maribeth have books in English.”
“I promise!”
“And you need to write reports about the books, so we know you have truly read them,” she added.
“I will!” Stefan nodded earnestly; his perpetually wavy auburn hair escaped the thong.
“All right then.” Sydney let go of his coat. “Go on!”
“Thank you, Mamma!” Stefan ran out the door, spun, and ran back to hug her. “I love you!”
Then he was gone.
Sydney grinned at Nicolas with unrestrained joy. “That, husband, was well worth the compromise!”
Tomas entered the room. “Excuse me, sir. But an important letter has arrived for you.” He handed Nicolas an envelope. “The messenger is waiting for a response.”
Nicolas broke the seal and opened it, nodding as he read. “Thank you, Tomas. Please tell the messenger that I will arrange for payment by the end of the week.”
“Very good, sir.” Tomas left the room.
“Do we need to walk in the garden?” Sydney asked.
“No. It was from my land agent. All my land is leased.”
“The new plots?”
“Yes. I now have twice as many tenants. Hence, the land has doubled in value, as has my standing.” He slapped the papers against his hand in sharp confirmation.
November 5, 1821
Nicolas downed his akevitt and followed it with a gulp of small beer. The tavern was quiet in the midday. Low clouds, threatened snow and seemed to warn patrons away. That suited Nicolas fine; he had taken a round-about route to ensure he wasn’t followed here.
A carriage stopped outside and a gentleman disembarked. The family resemblance made Nicolas smile. He waited until the carriage was gone and the man disappeared into the office door across the street.
Nicolas paid his bill, and left the tavern, entering the establishment designated, “Matias Ivarsen, Lawyer.”
***
Stefan and Leif practiced their swordplay while they waited for Nicolas. When he returned to Akershus, he watched them for several minutes. The difference between the boys was striking.
Stefan, at seven, was over four feet in height. Leif was five feet at twelve years. Stefan’s body was rounded, sturdy. Leif was thin; his bony shoulders showed through his shirt, and his hand-me-down clothes hung on his frame. When Stefan looked at the world, his eyes rested. Leif’s eyes darted. One boy was safe; the other never had been.
“Pappa! Did you see us?” Stefan pushed his hair back.
“I did. Leif, you are showing great promise.”
“What about me?” Stefan frowned.
“You are doing very well for a seven-year-old. But Leif is doing very well for a twelve-year-old.”
Leif stood as tall as he could stret
ch. “Thank you, Sir.”
“In fact, I believe you are ready for this.” Nicolas pulled a short steel sword, like Stefan’s, from behind his back.
Leif dropped his wooden blade, eyes round as the autumn moon. “For me?”
“For you.”
Leif handled the sword like it would break. “I can use it every time?”
“Of course. It belongs to you.”
Leif sat down, hard, on the ground. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He cleared his throat. He sniffed and wiped again, leaving dirty streaks down his cheeks. Nicolas pulled his attention away to give the boy privacy.
“Stefan, would you like to parry with me first?” He pulled his sword from its scabbard.
Stefan lifted his blade and turned sideways to Nicolas. They jabbed, countered and feinted. Careful not to be too aggressive, Nicolas challenged Stefan to see how far he could go. When Stefan began to pant, he stepped back and lowered his blade.
“Very well done, son.” Stefan looked extremely pleased with himself. “Leif? Are you ready to give a try?”
Leif nodded, pushing himself from the ground. He jumped to the en garde position. “Yes, Sir. I’m ready.”
Nicolas began as he had with Stefan, then intensified his movements. When Leif disengaged, Nicolas grinned. “Good move.”
When Leif lunged, he nearly cut Nicolas’s thigh. Nicolas jumped back. “Excellent!”
When the blade lowered and seemed to grow heavy in the boy’s hands, Nicolas let Leif touch his chest. “Touché!”
Leif stepped back, breathing hard. Then he bowed. “Thank you, Sir,” he huffed.
Nicolas sheathed his sword and looked at the sky. “I am afraid it has grown too late to ride today. Perhaps tomorrow?”
Leif nodded and held his sword toward Nicolas.
“What are you about? The sword is yours to keep.”
“Will you hold it for me, Sir? If I hold it, it will be taken from me.” Leif’s embarrassed concern showed in the crease of his young brow and the heightened flush of his cheeks.
Nicolas felt his own face grow hot at his unthinking blunder. “Yes, Leif, I will hold it.” He accepted the blade, placed so carefully in his hand. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
November 13, 1820
Invisible in the darkened room, the clock on the mantle chimed three times. Sydney turned over in bed yet again, and sighed, kicking the tangle of covers. She punched her pillow, unable to relax, her mind dragging her in directions she did not wish to go.
The bedroom door opened and closed; Nicolas crossed the room and slumped into a chair. Pungent cigar smoke stung her nostrils. She sat up, and his head jerked in her direction.
“When did you return?” he grunted.
“Eleven. The pains were false.”
“What time is it?” Nicolas twisted to see the clock.
“After three.”
He slumped back in the chair, eyes closing, and held out his hand. “Come to me.”
Sydney hesitated, then slid from the bed, her jaw set. A winter draft seeped through the windows and hovered over the carpet, chilling her bare ankles as she tiptoed to him. Nicolas grasped her hand and pulled her across his lap; she felt his hardness beneath her. When he kissed her, she tasted the akevitt and cigars that occupied his evening. And his skin reeked of Sigrid’s perfume.
Nicolas rested his forehead against Sydney’s cheek. “That woman torments me, min presang. You have no idea.”
“I don’t know how to respond to that, Nicolas,” Sydney whispered.
Nicolas pushed her off his lap, but still held her hand. He unfastened his breeches and pushed them out of the way. “Love me. I’ve had too much to drink to stand, but I need you mightily,” he rasped.
He lifted Sydney’s nightgown and took hold of her hips. He turned her around and worked his knees between hers. Sydney tipped forward and grabbed Nicolas’s knees for support as she straddled his thighs. She gasped as he pushed into her from behind. He lifted her, then pulled her close, seemingly without effort. His fingers cut into her as he pressed deeper. He moved in and out of her, exhaling violently with each thrust, until he peaked. With a moan, his hands fell away and he melted into the chair.
“Thank you,” he breathed.
Sydney climbed from his lap, both furious and aroused. She rearranged her nightgown and walked stiffly to the bed, slipping between the cold, smooth sheets. When she heard him begin to snore, she cried herself to sleep without a sound.
November 27, 1820
Sydney sighed as Haldis laced her into yet another ball gown. There was a time in her life when she considered dressing up and attending social functions as pleasant diversions from everyday life. Now that it had become her everyday life, she was not so pleased. She looked forward to Agnes’s plain face appearing at her door and summoning her to another birth.
She watched Nicolas dress. He had ordered new clothes since they arrived, and he looked magnificent. Sydney never took for granted that this tall, handsome and intelligent man was hers until death did them part. She thanked God for him every day, and prayed for him every night. She looked to his best interest at all times. She strived to hold on through this storm, until their life was settled.
“Ha du noensinne ville til å være en droning?” Sydney asked Haldis. Have you ever wanted to be a queen?
Haldis stared at Sydney’s reflection in the mirror. “Hver liten pike gjør.” Every little girl does.
“Ingen. Hver små pikebehov til å være en prinsesse.” No. Every little girl wants to be a princess.
Haldis shrugged, finding the distinction unimportant.
Sydney examined her own image in the large glass. She looked perfectly assembled, confident, and very somber. Did she want to be a queen? Would having Nicolas for a husband be worth the burden of royalty?
“Are you ready, wife?” Nicolas’s deep voice shattered her ruminations.
“I only need my shawl.” The castle was drafty and winter came strong in Norway. Sydney took Nicolas’s arm. “You look very handsome tonight, husband.”
“And you are so beautiful, I am tempted to not go to dinner at all!” Nicolas nuzzled Sydney’s ear.
“I am afraid I need my sustenance, if I am to keep up with your other activities!” Sydney smiled.
The regular royal crowd attended dinner: Anders and Erling, Karl and Ingeborg, Eirik and Linnet, Espen and Dagmar—who had become his steady companion, Sigrid and Vegard—who did not always come down to dinner. Plus, of course, the press of Norwegian aristocrats and countrymen who came to observe and dissect the three kingly candidates.
The first course was tomato soup with basil. It was one of Sydney’s favorites. She savored the warm, rich flavor and thought about Addie’s garden in Cheltenham. A wave of homesickness engulfed her. She swallowed the lump in her throat with another spoonful. She wondered if Nicolas was ever homesick. Before she could ask him, the next course was served and Sydney was pulled into conversation concerning a Norwegian flag.
“How did America choose her flag? It is very unique,” a middle-aged man asked politely.
“The, bands, red and white,” Sydney pantomimed stripes, “are for the thirteen first… I do not know the word. Pieces of America.”
“Stater,” the gentleman offered. “Forente Stater.”
“That is easy! Takk du.” She gave him her warmest, most politic, smile.
“And the stars?” inquired his dinner companion, a woman with the reddest hair Sydney had ever seen.
“One for each, state, that is a piece of America. There were twenty-two, but Maine was added in March of this year. We hope Missouri will be twenty-four.”
“Missouri? Where is that?” the man asked.
“Almost in the middle of the—” Sydney spread her hands sideways in front of her, showing something large. “Land?”
“The middle of the continent?” the woman suggested. “How far is that from the ocean?”
Sydney screwed up her mouth. “I b
elieve that it is almost a thousand miles.”
The man chuckled. “Certainly not, Lady. You must be mistaken.”
Sydney waved to gain Nicola’s attention. He sat across the table, listening to a warbling matron and nodding intently. He apologized for the interruption in mid-sentence, and turned to Sydney, amusement lighting his cerulean gaze.
“Yes?”
“How many miles is it from St. Louis to Baltimore?” she asked in English.
“Nine hundred and fifty miles. Why do you ask?”
“How wide is the continent?”
Nicolas ran his hand through his hair. “The best guess is close to three thousand miles. Perhaps a bit less.”
Sydney turned back to her inquisitors. “I was mistaken.”
The man nodded, condescending. “I thought so.”
“Missouri is nine hundred and fifty miles from the ocean. And it is one third, not in the middle.”
“What?” The woman’s jaw dropped.
“The continent is…” The man frowned as realization sunk in.
“Almost three thousand miles wide,” Sydney finished the sentence. She felt a surge of pride. “It is very big. And very, very beautiful.”
The couple fell silent.
“What is Norway’s flag?” she asked, careful not to seem smug. “I cannot think of it.”
“We currently haven’t a flag. But there has been discussion of late that we should have one,” the woman explained.
“Yes, yes. The Storting is looking into the idea,” the man added.
“Storting?”
“The Great Assembly? Our parliament.”
Sydney nodded her understanding. Her eye, however, was drawn to the other table. Vegard was in some sort of distress, pulling at the neck of his shirt. He clutched his throat and his face grew red as the soup. He tried to stand and promptly toppled sideways to the floor. Sigrid screamed.
