"And the thief? He wears the crown?" Jarl Vilhoaettir asked again.
"The crown was in his hand, not on his brow," she said. "What does that tell you?"
"It tells me that the thief is not the father," Jarl Vilhoaettir said.
The Lendmann Mother nodded with a faint smile of satisfaction. Matilda was silent, seemingly oblivious to everything around her.
"May I keep these?" Jarl Vilhoaettir asked.
"No, Deres Naade. I will have copies made for you. A messenger will bring them in two day’s time. These are going to the cardinal."
"You brought this to me before His Grace?"
"There is not much that His Grace can do in these matters. In the eyes of the Kyrkja, justice has been served on the traitor, but I knew that you could put this information to much more... functional... use."
Jarl Vilhoaettir nodded, contemplating what he had been told. The returning birds of spring twittered on the eaves of the roof and in the small trees of the atrium.
"Thank you, Grevinne Mogrensdottir. You have done me a great service. I must find a way to return this kindness, but now, I must go. There is much to consider and many actions to take."
"As you see fit, Deres Naade. I will be attending the Statsraad Feast for Klarrvatn. Perhaps we can talk other pleasantries then? I would enjoy meeting your wife and son."
"An excellent idea. Until then, Dame Ulla," Jarl Vilhoaettir said, using a more familiar title, and stood.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention. It was a pleasure to meet you and your lovely daughter." Inwardly the chill of the child's words and eyes still haunted him as he put on a smile and left.
After a moment, the sound of the front door closing was heard. The pair sat quietly together for a while.
"Mother?" Matilda asked without moving, still clinging to her mother's legs.
"Jah?"
"I told him what the Oracle showed me," the girl's voice was soft as dandelion down.
The Lendmann Mother stroked her daughter’s hair. "You did, my little cherub, and I am so pleased with you."
15. Hidden Love
The warm night air never smelled so sweet, Solveig thought. It was like velvet, giving the lamps and torches a magical glow. She ran across the manicured lawn between the stables and the Kronapalasset. A smile bloomed as the memory of his kiss lingered on her skin. An incandescent thrill washed through her as she remembered his mouth, his tongue. The scent of fresh hay and alfalfa burst to life. The memory of his smell, so sweaty and masculine, left her gliding through a dream.
Ahead, by the door to the Buttery Cellar, she saw a wave of her co-conspirator’s hand, signaling that it was still safe, encouraging her to hurry. She hiked up her dress and picked up the pace and hoped she would escape before the Kronaguard rounded the corner.
“Come on! They are almost back!” the figure hissed. Now Solveig’s heart hammered from more than the memory of his kiss. Would she get caught? That did not worry her as much as what Mother might learn.
The door swung wide as Solveig reached the hard-packed gravel in front of the entrance and vanished into the dark cellar without breaking stride. The door closed swiftly, and the two girls gently lowered the bar back down locking the door. Solveig’s partner in crime picked up a hooded lamp and lead the way. She chased after, passing between the Kronapalasset’s huge casks and butts of beer, mead and brennevin.
On the floor above them, the latest course of dinner had ended. It was doubtful servants would be in cellars to observe any clandestine rendezvous. Fortunately, that also meant it was not so late that anyone might have wondered where Solveig was. The only evidence of her tryst would be the smile she would wear for days after.
“Whenever your Tign wishes it,” the girl’s voice whispered in a nasty tone that soured Solveig’s reverie. She glared at her as she stood in the stairwell waiting to go up to the main hall.
“Do you want to be caught? If so, stay there. I will just play dumb.”
“Enough! You are the one who egged me on, Mirjam,” Solveig snapped back as she ran to catch up.
“Oh, this is going to be so fun,” Mirjam giggled. “Get your head back down here for the moment. Greithr? You look like you just eloped!” There was a serious pause and a gasp. “You did not! Did you?”
“No!” exclaimed Solveig a little too loud. “Daufimurtr!”
From above, a door opened. Someone likely peered down the stairwell to the Buttery.
“Jah? What is it?” a voice yelled down.
“Who is down there?” Then another murmur came from above as a few more servants entered the room. Neither girl could hear what the voices at the top of the stairs were saying for the door was now held open only a crack.
“Run,” Solveig mouthed in a whisper with all the intensity of a scream. “The west stairwell!”
The two girls fled toward the west staircase and the Main Hall servant’s corridor. It was risky, but they had no choice. The door at the bottom of the stairwell was closed, and they stopped. Mirjam opened the door with a slow pull. The hinges offered nothing more than a well-worn sigh of iron. From the eastern stairwell, heavy steps could be heard descending. Solveig gave a shove on Mirjam’s golden clad shoulder making her beads and jeweled ornaments jingle.
“Oj!” Mirjam growled at Solveig who motioned for her to go in the west stairwell. They were out of time as the thumping feet reached the bottom of the other stairwell.
“How much are you wearing?” Solveig asked in surprise realizing how bulky the dress looked on the other girl.
“How much do you think?” Mirjam said and narrowed her eyes at the Visekonge’s eldest daughter for the stupidity of the question.
“Is someone down here?” the voice called again. Mirjam shuttered the lamp just in case a stray ray of light gave them away. The pair held identical ears to the door, listening for what the servant might do. He briskly walked to check the outside door which the girls had so recently used. Solveig sighed in relief remembering they had put the bar back in place.
Moments later the footsteps were climbing back up the stairs and were gone.
Mirjam giggled, startling Solveig.
“Oj!” she scolded. “That was close. Why did I let you talk me into this?”
“Did Declan kiss you?” Mirjam teased.
Solveig’s smile returned and she blushed hard as her sister’s words brought her instantly back to that kiss. Declan’s arms wrapped around her waist and shoulders. She had never felt safer in her life. Mirjam grinned from ear to ear while setting down the lamp.
“That is what I thought. Now help. I want out of your clothes before I get mine all sweaty. Two gowns are hot!” Mirjam demanded.
“Jah, but now I have to wear double till we get back to our chambers,” Solveig griped as she helped remove her jewelry that Mirjam wore as part of the charade.
“Oh, boo hoo. I have been doing this for almost two hours,” Mirjam sniped, taking off her tiara and all its hairpins. “And do not think that you are going to show your face for a few seconds and escape.”
Solveig scowled and pulled too quickly on her necklace that Mirjam wore.
“Ah! My hair! It’s tangled!” Solveig stopped and helped unhook the jewelry that had caught in Mirjam’s strawberry blond tresses. Her younger sister shot a poisonous glare at Solveig.
“Mother has a suitor for you to spend some time with,” Mirjam said with a little barb of spite.
“She does not!” Solveig gasped and helped her sister lift the top gown over her head, revealing an exact duplicate of it underneath.
“That is how you got my dress down here? Wearing it on top?” Solveig marveled.
“This is what Mother gets for insisting we dress alike,” Mirjam said in sing song glee. “I was not going to ball it up in a sack, was I? Then everyone would have guessed what we were up to! Besides, the stains will match.”
“You better not have,” Solveig growled, looking quickly for any obvious blotches or drips of gre
ase before pulling the gown on.
“It will not fit perfectly, but no one should ask you anything. Besides, you can always claim you were chilly.”
“And no one will notice your dress is far less bulky?” Solveig insinuated.
Mirjam shrugged with a smile.
“A woman’s prerogative or a silly girl’s fancy. Take your pick,” Mirjam offered.
Solveig shook her head at her sister.
Mirjam pulled out a second tiara and coif from under the skirt of her own dress.
“Here is mine. Help me get it on,” she said, handing it to her sister. Holding up the lamp again, Mirjam made a close inspection of Solveig, making sure all her ornamentation and jewelry matched.
With expert moves, Mirjam tidied up her older sister’s appearance.
“Oh! Oh! Wrong sash. Here, switch,” Mirjam exclaimed as she realized they had put on each other’s by accident.
“No, you go meet the offensive toad that Mother wishes to betrothe me to,” Solveig said paying back some of her sister’s teasing.
“Oj no! That is your fate, not mine. And when you are shuffled off to live with the scabbiest boy or the scruffiest old pervert, I shall have Declan all to myself, and he shall not be any the wiser.”
Solveig’s eyes flared in shock. The terror of that prospect left her slack-jawed. Mirjam burst out laughing as she saw her sister’s horrified expression.
“Your face!” Mirjam said through stifled uncontrollable laughter. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Call an Anjar, I am about to die!” Solveig punched Mirjam in the shoulder, her sister’s sash in a tight fist.
“Take your sash, you knok’e,” Solveig growled through clenched teeth. Mirjam knew that tone from her twin meant the games were now over and quickly traded sashes so all the symbols of status matched.
“Am I in order?” Solveig asked, calming herself.
“You look perfect. Just like me,” Mirjam said as she tucked in a stray hair. “Do I have anything out of place?”
“You look fine.”
The girls regarded each other for a moment, with a bond only twin sisters could share.
“Let us get this night over,” Solveig sighed, now resigned, “…and perhaps it will not be as bad as my heart fears.”
“Amen!” Mirjam agreed.
It would be hours before Solveig could return to the memory of Declan’s embrace. Till then, her duties in court were required, as were Mirjam’s. If Mother was on the prowl for the two of them and figured out what they had done this evening, she would use the thumb screws for real this time.
16. A Perfidious Conversation
Solveig and Mirjam peeked out the stairwell door. The utility corridor was full of servants, backs to them, waiting for permission to set up the next course of the feast. Their arms full of silver trays that nearly overflowed with special confections for the feast of Klarrvatn. Dainties of seafoam toffee, candied fruits, spiced kex and jelly moulds were dazzling to behold.
With a silent gesture, Solveig suggested they climb up one more floor for there was no way they could pass unseen. Mirjam grimaced at the idea but agreed, and the two went up to the balcony that overlooked the festivities.
Leaving the stairwell, they stayed close to the wall, hiding among the statues. The light from the hearth and candelabras below cast deep shadows and allowed the twins to remain nearly invisible. Ahead, at the far end of the hall, a door lead out onto the Grand Lobby mezzanine of the Kronapalasset. From there they could walk down the staircase and rejoin the other guests with no one the wiser.
Mirjam slapped Solveig’s fingers as she reached for the door handle, admonishing her with a glare for being over anxious. Slowly, Mirjam cracked open the door and put a cautious eye to the sliver of light that came through.
A woman in a resplendent dove gray gown stood in their way with her back to the door. A sash of bright scarlet and yellow representing the Asbjornaettir cut across her thick curvy frame. The tiara that rested on her matronly veiled pale-gold hair denoted she was a woman of some power.
Mirjam experienced the familiar twinge of snobbery that always seemed to come when she was in the presence of the Asbjornaettir. She disliked the similarity in their colors, despite their claims it was to honor the Crown. Mirjam felt this imitation deluded the clan into the belief that they were of equal station. This courtier in dove gray was deep in conversation with a man in naval dress whom Mirjam could not see except for occasional glimpses.
“It is good to find someone of solid understanding in the court. Do not think that I am complaining,” the man offered, his voice rough with drink and years of shouting. “I know you are familiar with my station’s hardship.”
“Absolutely! I understand your precarious situation, my dear Hovding. You are not complaining,” the woman beguiled. “This is a sincere and honest concern for the safety of our Union. It is unconscionable how misused your navy is. Patrols that stop nothing or worse… never return. All the while, the Statsraad focus on land-based trivialities. They should be paying more attention to what occurs on the water. The lakes are the lifeblood of the Union.”
Mirjam deduced this must be her father’s Admiral Sverirsson in this shocking breach of protocol.
The man picked up the thread of the woman’s meaning. “In the end it is all about money. Where is it going to come from? I even told him… I mean my Tign, to his face, and he became furious! He asked for our advice and counsel, and then had the gall to rebuke us?” The admiral shook his fist with anger, spilling his drink.
“Such juicy gossip has made the rounds in court for months. Everyone is talking about it in one way or another,” the Asbjornaettir courtier agreed.
“It was probably that lousy coroner who let the news out. Always looking for ways to keep his head above everyone else’s,” the man grumbled.
“You can only do so much with what you have,” the woman sympathized, “and if the Crown cannot… or will not,” she added with a jaundiced chuckle, “provide you with what you need, what more can they expect?”
The admiral, weaving in and out from behind the woman, was nodding in emphatic agreement.
“He expects us to do the impossible. More ships and men without collecting enough tax,” the officer said, his anger and alcohol getting the better of him. “You just watch,” he blurted out with sharp stabs of his finger for emphasis. “When the time comes to pay the miller, and the purse is empty, the Crown will be back to demand his loyal jarls save him and foot the bill, all while protecting the common folk from the true cost of safety.”
“What has the exchequer had to say about this situation?” the woman probed. “Surely a man of his sober temperament must have pointed this out.”
“He has. To no avail,” the admiral said with a suppressed belch. “It seems that all I can weasel out of the minister of penury is that the Visekonge-”
“What? What is happening?” Solveig hissed and half-climbed over her sister’s back to see. Mirjam pushed her off and held up a finger to wait. Solveig gave a growl, hands outstretched in frustrated claws while Mirjam turned her attention back to the conversation.
The woman was pouring on the charm. “Such scandalous treatment of those who serve the Crown with distinction and loyalty. Our Tign has a great affinity for the common folk but turns a deaf ear to the problems we peers and trusted ministers have.”
Somewhere in the hall below, the girls heard their mother’s irritated demands for their presence. Her crisp words floated over the low murmur coming from the rest of the feast. Both girls knew that particular tone too well. Solveig’s fingernails bit sharply into Mirjam’s shoulder, trying to prompt her to go through despite the risk. Mirjam responded with a blind swat.
“Your service is not in vain. I for one wish to express my deep gratitude to you.”
“Thank you, Grevinne, it is appreciated,” the admiral said with a sloppy bow.
The woman reached forward and adjusted a medal on the man’s sash that twisted with his bow.
&n
bsp; “At least those barbarians have not dared assault our seats of power,” she praised, smoothing out the sash against his chest, letting her hand linger.
“Save for Athrvorthfestning,” the admiral tacked on with no shortage of scorn. “Save for that. What a debacle!”
“But we won that battle?” The woman’s curiosity was aroused, as was Mirjam’s.
“Jah, but the cost was too high. Confidentially, the losses have still not been absorbed, and the death of Stallare Rickardsson has demoralized the Crown’s officers,” he said. “But our Tign does not wish to hear such things.”
Mirjam’s jaw dropped while the Asbjornaettir woman only shook her head with sympathy. In that moment, the Visekonge’s daughter realized she knew nothing about what was happening in the rest of the Union. There had never been a reason for her to pay attention to such matters. Her life revolved around Mother’s machinations. Find the perfect marriage match. Follow the Kronapalasset calendar of events. Obey the feast days. Such tedium! Of course, there were weekly excursions into the city and rare cruises on Lake Ishkode with family and the yearly trip to the Summarpalasset on the northern Kisiina Sea for the hot summer months. Has this all been a beautiful illusion?
“I remember Stallare Rickardsson,” the woman said. “He was popular with the court when he came for his yearly reports. Always able to speak sense to people. Even those above him,” the woman sighed. “If only we had a little more… tractable… Visekonge under the Crown. Perhaps some of the ideas floating about this court and in His Grace’s council would have purchase.”
“What do you mean, Grevinne?” the admiral sounded concerned. Mirjam’s eyes narrowed at the suggestion someone was better than her father. She was inclined to let this woman have a piece of her mind.
“Well, it is too bad we do not have Leif under the Crown. Though Gregor is a fine Visekonge compared to others, like Old Cruim.” The woman’s voice turned tart at the mention of that infamous name. “His madness almost destroyed the Halmarpakt two centuries ago. Then he had the nerve to go mad and die with no clear heirs for the Sveinnaettir? It was the closest the Union came to a second Aettirkrieg.”
Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves Page 11
