by Kris Tualla
Espen shot him a wry smile, and then stood. He shook Karl’s hand and slapped his shoulder as they passed each other. He took the podium and spoke for barely ten minutes. Many of his points were similar to Karl’s. The applause was polite.
Nicolas could no longer avoid this moment. He stood, walked to the podium, and turned to face the assemblage. He made silent eye contact with as many as he could while they quieted and waited for him to speak.
“My name is Nicolas Reidar Hansen, Greve of Rollag,” he began. “I am the great-grandson of King Christian the Sixth. I am royal by heritage and Norse by birth. My grandmother, King Frederick’s sister Marit Christiansen, emigrated to America as a young bride, and birthed my mother, Kirsten, in Philadelphia. Kirsten married Reidar Magnus Hansen, a man of pure Nordic blood, and I am their firstborn.”
Nicolas paused and shifted his stance. “It never occurred to me that I would be in the position that I find myself today. When Anders Fredericksen’s letter reached me, a full year and a half after he sent it, I began a journey to learn who I am.”
Nicolas smiled. “I know I am an American. You know it, too. You can hear it in my accent, can you not?” Heads bobbed and several men chuckled. “As an American, I have been raised to believe that all men are created equal, and they all deserve the same level of respect. So from that standpoint, it is difficult for me to think of becoming a king.”
A murmur rippled through the assemblage.
“But, I have discovered that I am also Norwegian. Her mountains are my shoulders, her rivers my veins, the northern lights, my soul. I felt it when I came as a youth, but now I understand it. I love this country.”
Applause approved his words.
“If I am elected as king, I will combine my American experience with Norse traditions, and do everything in my power to give all the citizens of this magnificent land equal opportunity for individual success. That will be my legacy.”
More applause, but not enough to drown out some grumbling dissent.
“It is my deepest honor to stand before you today. I thank you for your consideration.” Nicolas returned to his seat as several members of the Storting stood in response to his words.
Lord Wilhelm Christie returned to the podium. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your heartfelt and impressive words.” Nods of acknowledgement followed. “At this time, I would like to entertain a motion that these three candidates become members of the Odelsting until a king is elected, or the idea is abandoned.”
Three hands went up. “I make that motion,” one man said.
Another called out, “Second.”
“Is there any discussion?” No one spoke.
“All in favor?” Wilhelm looked around the auditorium at the raised hands.
“Opposed?” A few hands wavered.
“Then the motion is carried.” He banged his gavel on the podium. “Welcome, candidates, to the Storting.”
Karl turned to his cousins. “This will be the true test, eh?”
“That it will,” Nicolas concurred and slapped Espen’s back. “Are you ready?”
“What is the Odelsting?” Sydney asked as they dressed for dinner.
“The lower house of the Storting. Three fourths of the members belong there.”
“And the other fourth?”
“The upper house, the Lagting.” Nicolas slid his arms into the frock coat that Tomas held at ready.
“What is the difference?” Sydney held the bedpost while Haldis laced her dress.
“Bills are submitted to the Odelsting first, and then to the Lagting. The upper house is the elite.”
Sydney snickered. “So possible future kings are not elite?”
“I believe they want to keep an eye on us. They’ve no intention of letting us have too much power as yet!” Nicolas grinned. “And in the end? Perhaps none at all!”
January 11, 1821
Nicolas left the Great Hall behind Sigrid. He felt like a nineteen-year-old again. She reached back for his hand and pulled him into a window casing behind heavy brocade curtains. An icy draft seeped through the glass and chilled his spine.
“What have you learned?” he whispered.
“Espen and Dagmar.”
Sigrid pulled his ear down to her mouth. His ear was cold and her breath was warm.
“He goes to her room late at night.”
“How often?”
“Almost every night. But he doesn’t sleep there. He goes back to his own room.” Her tongue flicked into his ear.
“Sigrid.” Nicolas turned to face her. Her lips touched his.
“What?” She did not move away.
Nicolas could barely see her by the snow-reflected starlight. Her eyes were black pools in a pale landscape. Her hand moved up his thigh; she knew his body. He grabbed her wrist.
“Stop.”
Sigrid shook her head. “Vegard is gone. I am finally free of him.” She rubbed him deliberately.
“But I am not free!” Nicolas clenched his jaw and cursed his responsive manhood.
Sigrid kissed him hard, biting his lip and pulling back with her teeth. He tasted blood. “Do you know how much I desire you?”
“Sigrid!” Nicolas pulled her hand away from his groin. “Thank you for the information. Now I need to go.” He threw the curtain aside and strode into the hall, seeking the respite of his chamber without looking back.
Sydney was there. Her leather bag slumped by the fireplace and she was hanging her cloak on the wardrobe door.
“I’m so glad to see you! Might you unlace me?” She lifted her hair out of the way. Nicolas came to her and managed to loosen the laces enough for her to take the dress off. She stood in front of the fire, in her shift, and brushed her hair.
Nicolas sat on the bed and watched her. She looked so beautiful in the warm, orange light, her breasts and hips outlined in gold. She turned to look at him over her shoulder and smiled.
“How was dinner?”
Nicolas stared at her. “I found out something. Maybe something useful.”
The brush lowered, as did her voice. “Oh?”
“Sigrid told me that Espen visits Dagmar’s room nearly every night. He does not sleep there, though. He returns to his own room.”
Sydney relaxed. “I’m not surprised. I have seen the looks that pass between them. So if he marries her, he improves his situation?”
Nicolas nodded. “I would think so. Before the people can back him, they need to know he will produce an heir.”
“What will you do with this information?”
“I imagine I will ask him straight out about his intentions. That should push him into some sort of action.” Nicolas ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his face. His pulse surged. “There is something else. When she told me, she pulled me into a window casement.”
Her jaw fell open. “What?”
“She whispered it in my ear, then before I knew what she was about, her hand was on me.”
Sydney grabbed her throat and her breaths came in gasps. “Did she—did you—how far?”
“I pulled her hand away and left her there. I swear to you, I didn’t touch her.”
Sydney grabbed her nightgown from its hook in the wardrobe and jerked it over her head.
“Sydney?”
Her steel-gray gaze sliced toward the chamber’s door and then came back to him. “Do not speak to me,” she said loudly in Norse.
She walked around the end of the bed and climbed in. She dragged the covers to her chin. Nicolas stoked the fire, blew out the candles, and got into the bed.
“Min presang?” He reached for her but she pushed his hand away. “Sydney?”
She sat up in the bed. “Are you having an affair with her?”
“No! Of course not!” he bellowed.
“How can I know for sure? How can I trust you after this?” she cried.
Nicolas climbed to his knees and grabbed her shoulders. He pulled her close to whisper English in her ear. “We are as we have always bee
n. My heart is unchanged.”
“You have wounded me, husband,” she answered in kind.
Nicolas spoke in her ear, “Your wound is my wound ten times over, min presang. Please believe me. I beg your forgiveness.”
Sydney pulled away and looked Nicolas in the eye.
“I shall leave you if you allow her to touch you again!” she exclaimed in Norse, though he knew she meant every word.
Then she took his hand. “Her attempt to seduce you will remain fixed firmly in my mind while we are here,” she whispered. “I cannot change that.”
“I understand.”
“The end had best be worth the journey,” she murmured. Then she turned away and curled up to sleep on the far side of the bed.
January 13, 1821
The sun climbed high enough in the southern sky to skim the fortress walls and bless one corner of the courtyard with her smile. Nicolas and Espen rested there, sweating in spite of the below-freezing air. Taking advantage of a break in the weather, the two men relished the opportunity to be outside and practice their swordplay.
“Might I ask you a personal question?” Nicolas’s breath clouded around his face.
“It will come at a cost!” Espen chuckled.
“And that is?”
“Lose the next round.”
Nicolas laughed. “I will probably do so in any case! It seems too easy to lose the skill and too difficult to regain it.”
“Even so.” Espen grinned. “What do you wish to know?”
“Dagmar.”
The grin faded. “Ah.”
“You appear to be a good match,” Nicolas prodded.
Espen shrugged. “She is my cousin.”
“But your father and her mother were only half-siblings. It is not too close.” Espen stared at the lines his sword tip traced in the snow. “She is of acceptable bloodlines for the king of Norway. Might you consider her?”
“Consider her?” Espen stalled.
“For marriage.”
Espen looked pained. He traced more lines in the snow. “No. I do not believe so.”
Nicolas squinted at the pale sun, low in the yellow-gray sky. Soon they would be in shadow. “Is it too personal to ask why not?”
“All I can say is, there would never be an heir.” His voice strained thin. He swallowed and sniffed. “Such a marriage is impossible.”
“Without a wife, you will not be selected.”
Espen’s head snapped up. “And you think you are the one? Not with your wife!”
“What do you mean?” Nicolas blurted, taken aback.
“A Scots-Irish mutt? You should hear what they say. With that millstone around your neck you are sunk, cousin!” Espen stood, inexplicably angry. “Hand it to Karl, then. I am done in for today.” He left the courtyard without looking back.
Chapter Twenty Three
January 15, 1821
Nicolas sat in the outer room of Anders’ apartment and accepted a golden glass of akevitt. A blurry-edged patch of pale morning sunshine glowed on the carpet between clouds.
Anders perched on a chair facing Nicolas. “How are you doing, son?”
“I am in good health. Thank you, sir.”
“And your family? I noticed your son spends quite a bit of time in the stable.”
Nicolas chuckled. “It’s a struggle to get him to do chores at home, but here he volunteers! He has befriended a stable hand and once the boy finishes his work, he can play with Stefan.”
“Ah! Of course.” Anders smiled. “How is his Norse?”
“He has grown to be fluent.”
“Excellent. Would you care for a cigar?” Anders stood and gestured toward the humidor.
“No, thank you.”
Anders sank back into his chair, still smiling. “So. Have you been planning your reign as king?”
Nicolas laughed outright. “My reign, is it?”
“It could be.”
Nicolas’s smile faded. “Do you truly think so?”
“Don’t you?” Anders sipped his akevitt.
Nicolas waved his hand. “I had considered Karl the most likely candidate.”
Anders leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Do you want it? I mean really want it? For yourself?”
Nicolas hesitated. “And if I do?”
Anders leaned back as though what he was about to say was of little consequence. “There is one, small, issue.”
Nicolas clenched his jaw, then forcibly relaxed it. “What might that be?”
“Your wife. She is a very charming and beautiful woman—do not misunderstand me.” Anders’ warm tone was obviously intended to pull Nicolas along. “But, to be honest, midwifery is not an avocation usually pursued by someone of royal standing.”
Nicolas conceded the point. “I understand that. She expects to use the skill in Missouri.”
Anders frowned, puzzled. “She expects to return? Does she not believe in your candidacy?”
“I, well… Of course she does.” Nicolas chose his words with great care. “But, I had not considered that perspective…”
“If she understands that you might be king of Norway, then she should act like a queen now.” Anders refilled Nicolas’s glass, his voice as smooth as the liquor. “Riding astride, and delivering babies? These hardly put forth a royal image.”
Nicolas stared into his glass. The pale liquid shimmered gold in a brief shaft of sunlight. He raised wary eyes to Anders. “What do you suggest?”
“Explain your situation clearly to her. Tell her, gently of course, how her actions are a detriment to you attaining your deserved position. She is an intelligent woman. I am sure she will understand.”
“And if she does not?”
Anders raised one eyebrow. “You intend to be king. Rule your own house first.”
Nicolas drained his glass and set it on a nearby table. “I shall do so.” He stood and offered his hand to Anders. “Thank you, sir, for your sage advice.”
Anders stood as well. “I have faith in you, Nicolas. Don’t let me—or Norway—down.”
***
Sydney was with Stefan and Kirstie in their room. Nicolas came in and squatted.
“Come to Pappa, liten datter.” He held out his arms. Kirstie grinned and wobbled across the rug. He swept her up and held her over his head while she squirmed, giggled and chewed her finger. He lowered her into his arms; she grabbed his nose.
“What did Anders want?” Sydney handed Stefan a book and pointed to the page. “Start here and read to the end of the chapter.”
“Then can I go to the stable?”
“After you tell me about what you read.” Sydney turned back to Nicolas and waited.
“Where is Maribeth?”
“She is at lunch. Why?”
Nicolas tilted his head toward the door to their room. “Let’s talk in there.”
Sydney followed him through the portal and he set Kirstie on their floor. Haldis nodded her greeting as she remade the bed with clean sheets.
Sydney sat near the fire to make sure Kirstie did not get too close. “All right, tell me,” she said in English.
Nicolas ran his hands through his hair and stood in front of Sydney. “Anders believes I could be king.”
“We knew that, did we not?”
“I suppose we did. But this time he made it very clear.”
“And are you pleased with that revelation?” Sydney probed.
Nicolas nodded.
“So why do you not look happy, husband?”
“Anders has some concerns.”
“If I were to guess, should I guess that those concerns are centered on me?”
Nicolas smiled. “Have I ever told you how much I admire your intellect?”
“No.” Sydney chuckled. “But you may commence now.”
Nicolas’s smile faded. “Unfortunately, you are correct.”
“Hmm. So what precisely are my transgressions?”
Nicolas turned to the window. The midday light made his blue
eyes glow, he could see it in his reflection. “To begin with, he feels that midwifery is not pursued by those of royal standing. It is beneath them.”
Sydney pressed her lips together and crossed her arms. “And?”
“And I must tell you to stop.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
One eyebrow lifted as Sydney’s voice grew more insistent. “Telling me to stop?”
Nicolas glanced at Haldis, and back to Sydney. “Medlemer av den kongelige familien ikke leverer babyer. Det er ikke passende.” Members of the royal family do not deliver babies. It is not appropriate.
Sydney stood. “Hva hvis vi drar hjem?” What if we go home?
“Vi er hjem.” We are home.
“No.” Sydney switched back to English. “I am not home.”
“Sydney.”
“Nicolas?”
His voice became louder. “Du må gjøre skuller jeg sier.” You must do as I say.
Sydney raised her chin, eyes glittering. “Would you truly take this from me?”
“It has become necessary.”
Sydney clenched her jaw and sniffed pointedly. “Please don’t do this, Nicolas,” she whispered.
“It is not my intent to upset you.”
“You have.”
“That is regrettable. But this course is necessary.”
Sydney sank to her knees in front of her husband. “Nicolas? Please?”
“No, Sydney. I’m sorry.”
“That is your final decision?”
“It is.”
Sydney climbed slowly to her feet and glanced toward Haldis before she stared somberly at her husband. “Jeg er din kone. Jeg blir ventet til å adlyde deg.” I am your wife. I am expected to obey you.
She leaned forward. “Men jeg kan ikke være glad om det.” But I can’t be happy about it.
“Min presang.” Nicolas reached for her, but she stepped to the side. Kirstie sat still, staring at her arguing parents with wide eyes. Sydney picked her up and settled the worried toddler on her hip.
Stefan opened the door. “I finished!”
Sydney crossed to him quickly. “Come tell me about the book.” She guided Stefan back into his room and did not look back.
