by Tualla, Kris
He returned his attention to the market stalls lining the cobbled square while the Nordic summer weather vacillated. The exchange of goods and coins was unremarkable. The movement of the people, ordinary.
And then he saw her.
She was a mess of contradiction from her peasant's kerchief, to the egg basket slung over one arm, to her low leather boots. Brander stared. This odd woman intrigued him. He loved to solve puzzles, and since Niels wasn't yet returned, he settled into the task.
First he noticed her hair, which reminded him of rich beef gravy; thick, glossy and brown. Flowing from under the kerchief, it rolled over her shoulders and ran down her back until it puddled at her waist. Her clear skin was smooth and pale but for a pink stripe of sun under each eye that bridged across her straight nose. Her lips were faded berries. Brander couldn't determine the color of her eyes; they were shadowed by an overhead cloud and thick dark lashes.
She appeared clean and unusually well-groomed for a fowler. Rather than reeking of chickens, he imagined she would smell delightful and wondered idly what her scent might be.
Her apparel was another puzzle. She wore a serviceable wool bodice of embroidered burgundy and a linen chemise that covered the upper swells of her bosom. But her sleeves were of shining gold silk and they flared fashionably at her elbow, though the hands that exited them were reddened as he would have expected. Her matching golden skirt danced from her hips with every step. Brief moments of sun made the expensive fabric shimmer.
She's not so young; I would guess mid-twenties or so, Brander mused. Perhaps she's the maid of a generous baroness. Or a seamstress who made use of unclaimed cloth.
The undecided day splashed sunshine over the town. Before a swiftly rising hand shaded her eyes, Brander saw the most astonishing flash of marine blue glittering over her pinkened cheekbones.
Ocean water on a clear day. The western sky before dawn. The northern lights. None quite fit the description that eluded him. He had never before seen such compelling eyes. Such intriguing eyes. Such beautiful eyes.
Niels touched his shoulder and held up a sketched map. Brander yanked his unruly attention to the paper. He nodded as Niels' finger traced their desired path. But his gaze kept lifting, searching for Lady Fowler and her golden gown. Back to the glossy gravy hair, the round berry lips and the dark sapphire eyes.
Niels wagged his fingers in front of Brander's face and he felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment. He smiled a little -- couldn't stop himself -- and looked down at his cousin.
"Who are you looking at?" Niels asked. His own grin twisted one corner of his mouth.
Brander gestured as he mouthed the words: The fowler in the gold dress.
"Where?" Niels turned toward the street.
Brander scanned the small crowd. From behind Niels, he pointed at the woman's back over his cousin's shoulder. Niels nodded, paused, and then faced Brander again.
"Interesting." He held up the map. "Shall we go?"
Brander tapped both forefingers determinedly on both thumbs. But he felt compelled to look at Lady Fowler one more time. He watched her offer her basket of eggs to a merchant and collect her payment. He watched as she tucked the coins into a pouch and then hid the pouch in a slit in her skirt.
He nodded his approval. Good. Keep it hidden. But he could not yet turn away.
Another slice of sunshine skittered over the town and he held his breath. One last glimpse; that would suffice. The fading blade of light knighted every man, woman and child milling across the cobbles, and Brander feared it would be sheathed again in clouds before it reached her.
A surge of sun nearly blinded him. He squinted and shaded his eyes.
She was staring right at him.
*****
Regin's neck prickled.
She rubbed her palm over it and glanced around the small market crowd. Was Thorlak here? Is that why she felt so... watched? If he was, she hoped the presence of so many townspeople would rule his behavior. That he would neither demean nor strike her should she happen upon him. If she might keep him calm and civil, perhaps he would even apologize for their last encounter. For smashing the window, the mirror, and her cheek.
She sighed. That was unlikely.
When she recalled the glazed viciousness in his eyes, she knew she would never be safe in his proximity again. She knew that she needed to consider that. She needed to figure out how she and Marthe would survive. But not today.
Today she had fourteen eggs to sell. The sun was trying to make her way past heartless clouds. And she was walking through Hamar without a care.
Except that someone was staring at her. She knew it.
The sun triumphed and Regin shaded her eyes. When she did so, a man's form solidified as light pushed back the shadows. He was across the cobbled square, leaning against the wall of the regent mayor's office. She had never seen him before. And indeed, he was staring at her.
Regin turned sideways and stepped behind a cart. She examined the stranger surreptitiously while pretending to examine lace.
He was tall, even for a member of their northern race. His broad chest strained his blue sleeveless tunic and his white linen shirt bunched over muscled arms. He wore snug trousers tucked into tall boots and his legs were long and well-conformed.
But it was his eyes that claimed her. Under a wavy thatch of red-gold hair that he tried -- unsuccessfully -- to corral with some sort of tie, his stare was so intense that it set her on fire. Her heart thumped and her thighs warmed alarmingly. Good Lord, was she reverting to her adolescence? When a significant look prompted dreams of love and happy lives spent together?
She knew now that those things simply didn't exist.
And yet, no man had ever stared at her that way. As if she was the only object on the earth worth looking at. As if she was the only object on earth worth having.
Another man approached him and his gaze left her. Her knees nearly folded with the loss and she tucked deeper behind the cart. She watched, helpless to turn away, and wondered who he was. Even though the other man was gesturing and flapping a piece of paper in front of him, the stranger kept looking toward the street crowd.
Regin stepped into view as sunlight tapped her.
His eyes met hers.
And in some way she couldn't yet name, her world was changed.
*****
Brander and Niels rode at an easy canter across the Kildahl lands. Draped in homespun wool cloaks with rough knitted caps pulled over their hair, and astride borrowed horses, the pair strove to be nondescript should their passage be noted.
They had already examined the large stone manor from a distance, not willing to reveal their presence. Brander noticed a broken window in the second level, which he pointed out to Niels. In turn, his cousin noted several broken slates on the roof.
Behind the manor was the stable, also of granite. Brander expected activity there but saw none. In fact, there was no activity anywhere in sight. He had to assume that Skogen's debts and debauchery were the cause. In truth, there might not be any unsold livestock or paid servants remaining at Kildahlshus.
He hated to think of Lady Skogen living in such a circumstance. He felt a bit proprietary about her after their exchange of letters.
And a bit guilty about his continuing purchases of her husband's liabilities.
He nudged his mount to a quicker pace. Surely it wasn't as bad as that.
The grounds looked fertile enough, but much of it lay fallow. Evidence of previous cultivation was still visible and Brander wondered why the tenants weren't working the land. By this time in the summer, the fields should be lush and green with produce. How else would they survive the harsh Norwegian winter?
He and Niels continued to circle the estate until they found the tenants' homes. Niels dismounted to talk with a man who approached them curiously. Brander plodded his steed past the small fieldstone crofts.
More than half were empty.
What in God's name has this man done? Brander sc
uttled his fingers through his hair. Skogen's foolish cavorting had apparently bankrupted his family and ruined the lives of his tenants.
Brander reigned to a halt. The weight of that particular fool's actions made it hard to draw a deep breath. He had already invested a small fortune redeeming Skogen's debts. Soon, he would be able to claim the estate as his own.
But was this estate yet salvageable? If not, then his plan to finally gain an estate of his own might be destroyed and his finances ruined.
When his younger brother Jarl was made their father's heir, Brander was livid. Beyond livid. Stunned with disbelief and charged with fury, it was the only time in his adult life that he tried what might be left of his voice. He used his lungs like bellows to force air through his throat. He gripped his neck to feel vibrations. He mouthed words just as he and Niels had practiced in front of the mirror for unending hours.
He raged at his father for all the years of slights that resulted from his lost ability to hear. As fire tore through his gullet, he screamed that he was far more intelligent, far more capable and far more interested in Hansen Hall than any of his brothers.
He was the oldest son! He was the rightful heir! And, God damn it all to hell, he deserved to take his rightful place!
No one moved.
His father's eyes were colorless, terrified, and his jaw hung slack. His brother Jarl's face paled and his hands trembled. Niels looked stricken, as if he wanted to somehow magick away the entire hideous tirade. Brander's cheeks were wet and his chest spasmed uncontrollably. Pain seared him from chest to tongue.
He could only imagine what he sounded like. And he swore he would never, ever, try to speak again.
He left his father's house the next morning, setting out to prove that he could obtain and manage an estate of his own, deaf or not. For eight years, he lived in one small room on the top floor of the Lunde Boarding House, with Niels in the room beside his, and saved every penning. For eight years he followed men whose imaginings outpaced their resources, and claimed one tenth of what he recovered for their creditors. For eight years, he waited and watched for opportunity to arise.
And now, his fortunes were tied to a man who was far worse off than he could have imagined. He needed to claim the estate soon, or there would be no estate left to claim.
*****
When Regin walked the two miles home to Kildahlshus, she was tired but satisfied with her day. She used part of her egg money for salt and ink, the rest she would hide away. And all the way home, she thought about the golden-haloed stranger.
Regin was well aware that she was indulging in a romantic fantasy, but the idea that a stunningly handsome man might be attracted to her was quite comforting in her current situation. Nothing in her marriage was as she expected, and if a little dreaming made the walk home more pleasant on this unpredictable summer day, then she would indulge.
"Lady Skogen?"
The sight of one of her remaining tenants shifting from side to side in front of the manor door gripped her dreams and doused them with reality.
She climbed the stone steps, each one growing higher than the one before it. "Yes, Ulfgard?"
"Two strange men came by my croft today, m'lady. They were asking a lot of questions."
Chapter Four
Kildahlshus
Hamar
July 5, 1720
Lady Skogen,
I am in receipt of your last letter and appreciate how forthcoming you have been with the uncomfortable information. I regret, however, that I must probe a bit deeper. Please forgive the following questions, and understand that I would not ask them if the facts were not crucial.
What sort of items has Lord Skogen removed from your estate? When did he take these things? If you provide me with the details of those you held most dear, perhaps I might recover some of them. Please describe these trinkets as thoroughly as you can.
When was the last time you saw your husband? How long had he been absent from your home? What was he wearing and what was the condition of his clothing? Has he a horse or carriage of any sort?
Has he any relatives in Christiania with whom he might be abiding?
Let me assure you, I am already tracking your husband's activities. When I have definite information as to his situation, I shall write to you immediately.
As ever, your servant,
Lord Olaf Olsen
Regin crumpled the letter. She had been a fool. Again.
After her conversation with Ulfgard about the men asking questions, she figured out that the beautiful stranger in Hamar was staring at her because he knew who she was. Because he was one of Thorlak's creditors. Because he and his cohort were in Hamar to determine what resources might yet be stripped from the estate.
He wasn't captivated by her. He wasn't even interested in her as anything other than one of Thorlak's assets. Or perhaps, one of his liabilities. Thank the good Lord she didn't smile at the horrible man.
She had been a fool to ignore Thorlak's behavior for so long. To believe that whatever he did in Christiania would not come knocking at the door of Kildahlshus. That somehow she would be untouched until he came to his senses and redeemed himself.
And she had been a fool to think that Lord Olsen might be able to provide any sort of help without dragging her through her shame.
With a shudder of resignation, Regin smoothed out the letter. Her chest constricted and the back of her throat thickened. She thought about all the silverware, hammered platters and crystal goblets that had disappeared from her home. It was the jewelry she missed the most. All of it had been handed down through generations and much of it held more value to her than it might to anyone else.
Regin slid off her bed and turned toward her desk. She opened the tiny new pot of ink and set herself to answering Lord Olsen's queries. She hesitated, thought for a moment, and then decided not to tell him about the two creditors' visit. Not just yet. Perhaps he wouldn't ever need to know.
She began listing the items of value which she believed might be unique enough to identify and recover. The one exception was a heavy twisted silver puzzle ring, common among their Viking ancestors. That was the point, however. Passed through the family, it was once owned by her Viking ancestors. She despaired of ever seeing it again. Even so, she noted a stamp inside: a three-cornered knot.
But she couldn't -- she simply couldn't -- reveal that the man had turned violent. That her husband had struck her across face, booted her in the belly, and abandoned her on the cold stone floor of the manor, unconscious. She couldn't even tell him about the broken window.
Her situation was simply too horrid and humiliating to fully confess.
Lunde Boarding House
Christiania
"Sir Lars Bråthen, Regent of Christiania, wants to meet with Lord Olsen this afternoon," Niels said, reading the letter.
Brander held up flat palms: Why?
"There have been four more deaths like the one at Valhalla Tavern."
Brander's shoulders slumped at the recollection of the twisted corpse. The man's death was painful, but most likely quick. He hadn't been able to get off the bed and cry for help. But then, he might have been out of his head from the effects of the opium.
The poisoned drug indicated either an incompetent apothecary or an intentional murderer. He reached for the summons. No additional information was offered, only the strongly worded request for the 'lord's' appearance.
He wrote: Bråthen has been in Christiania for less than six months. I don't believe we should tip our hand completely until we know he can be thoroughly trusted. You be Olsen today.
Niels nodded. "I agree."
Sir Lars Bråthen was an officious looking man of very small stature for a Norwegian. Brander noticed that his shoes had tall heels, and he wore a wig that curved upward over his skull at least three inches. Brander chewed his tongue to keep from grinning and offending the Regent before they even began their conversation.
Niels introduced them as Lord Olaf Olse
n and his deaf cousin, Vali Olsen. Brander extended his hand. Bråthen puzzled at him a little, then gripped the proffered appendage.
I read lips, Brander mouthed. He touched his lips.
Bråthen spoke to Niels. "So he knows what I'm saying?"
Brander felt his familiar rage begin to bubble. He thought he would become accustomed to such rudeness as he grew older but in truth, he was becoming far less tolerant. He was afraid he might throw a punch at some ignorant jackanapes one day when he finally had his fill of being treated like an imbecile.
He rapped on the desk, startling Bråthen into looking at him: Yes. I do, he mouthed.
The man flushed from collar to wig. "Oh! Right. Please. Have a seat."
Niels threw him a cautionary glance, but wiped a smirk with one hand as he did so. Brander pulled out his wallet containing the paper and graphite and spread his writing paraphernalia on Bråthen's desk without asking permission. He nodded to Niels and the interview began.
"First, may I congratulate you on solving the Gulbrandsen conundrum, Lord Olsen?" Bråthen began. "Imagine, one brother poisoning another and blaming the wife!"
Niels nodded and spread his hands in a less than humble acknowledgement of the accomplishment. "And now?"
The Regent shifted in his seat and patted his wig. "Now there have been five deaths in Christiania of a suspicious and similar nature. The one that you gentlemen discovered at the Valhalla Tavern, and four more."
Brander appreciated that the Regent watched him write and slowed his speech a little so he could keep up. At least the man was speaking directly to him now. He trusted Niels to ask the right questions while he noted Bråthen's answers:
