by Tualla, Kris
"Yes. All of them looked to be in exquisite pain."
"No, none of them called out for help that we know of."
"A map? Yes..." Bråthen fumbled in his desk then pulled out a rolled street map of Christiania. "Here..." He pointed to the places where the men had been found dead. Brander reached over and marked the spots on the map. Bråthen glared at him, but said nothing.
Niels asked a question. Regent Bråthen frowned, considering his answer. "Well, to be honest, if the men had been vagabonds or immigrant tradesmen, I doubt their demise would have been brought to my attention."
He looked at Brander and guilt -- or conscience -- twitched his features. "But they have all been men of means, you see? Some more than others, of course. But well-titled gentlemen to a man."
Brander leaned back and looked at Niels. This is interesting, he signaled. It seems to be intentional.
Niels grimly nodded his agreement.
Bråthen sat up straight and gripped the arms of his chair. "What was that? What you did?"
"We worked out a gesture language when we were boys," Niels explained. "It takes less time and no one can eavesdrop on our conversations."
Regent Bråthen's fascinated glance bounced between the men. "I imagine that's quite helpful in your trade."
Brander grimaced a semblance of a smile. Certainly it would be helpful. Except that his hands flew and smacked in quick unusual swipes around his body. That drew immediate attention if they were in any populated environment.
Why are we here? he wrote. Are you engaging Lord Olsen's services?
Bråthen's gaze slid to Niels. "I had hoped to."
The two men discussed the details of the contract while Brander studied the map. There was a clue there that would solve the mystery; he only had to find it.
He pointed at the map and wrote: May we borrow this?
Bråthen startled at the interruption. "Yes, I-I suppose so."
"And keep us informed of any more mishaps, won't you?" Niels said.
*****
My esteemed Lord Olsen, her letter began.
With a goblet of excellent red wine in hand, Brander settled into his stuffed leather chair. He propped his legs on the wooden desk chair in his small room and devoted his attention to the missive from Lady Skogen. She did a thorough job of detailing her husband's absences. She listed out several purloined items that he might keep an eye out for. She even described Lord Skogen's clothing the last time she saw him.
And then there were the words: It's nothing that I believe you will be able to find, really. It's an old, heavy silver Viking puzzle ring, like so many that existed. There is a stamped mark inside, a triangle knot, very small. It's only that the ring has more value to me as an heirloom than it would have to anyone else. I understand, Lord Olsen, that there is little hope. I am resigned to never seeing that particular piece again.
She said more words about that ring than she did about anything else in the letter. Strange how the oddest items latch onto your heart, he mused.
And stranger still was how it made him want to recover that precise item more that any other listed in her letter. He sipped his wine and stared into the fireplace, dormant on this summer's day. He wondered what Lady Kildahl looked like, how old she was.
She's a married woman, his conscience prodded. And even if she wasn't, you are never going to be a married man. So get back to the business at hand.
He was mentally crafting his response when Niels smacked his feet from the desk chair and sat down opposite of him. He faced Brander and spoke clearly.
"What do you think about the opium deaths?"
Obviously murder. Poison mixed with the opium.
"What poison?"
Brander grabbed his paper and graphite from the wooden desk. He wrote: monkshood. Then he lifted a book from one of the several precarious stacks under his desk, and turned pages until he found the reference he knew was there. He swung the book around, held it up to Niels and tapped his finger on the entry.
"The poison targets the heart and gut. The victim will experience numbness and tingling in the mouth and throat within minutes. If the dose is large, it produces a severe burning sensation from throat to abdomen," Niels read aloud. He looked at Brander. "The dead men were all twisted up, like they died in pain."
Brander nodded and waggled his finger at the book.
"The victim feels as though his limbs are being flayed. Following is a loss of strength and the dulling of sight and hearing. Death arrives between a few minutes and several hours after the ingestion." Niels shuddered. "That description is brutal."
But it fits, doesn't it? And monkshood only requires the tiniest amount to accomplish its purpose.
Niels nodded.
Brander set the book on the wobbling stack and faced his cousin again: So, monkshood is mixed with the opium. The opium is sold to the gentle crowd. Why?
"They are the only ones who have the ability to pay for it," Niels suggested.
Brander tapped his chin, considering that idea: That means the murderer means to kill the elite.
"But not all of them use opium," Niels answered.
There is a connection. We simply need to find it. Brander pointed to the rolled paper: We'll study the map, walk the streets, look for clues.
"Starting tomorrow, I assume."
Brander drained his wine goblet. He leaned closer to Niels and handed him Lady Skogen's letter, then waited for Niels' brown eyes to meet his.
We also need to find him. It's time.
Niels read the letter and handed it back to Brander. "What will you do about the wife? And after what we saw in Hamar, will you continue to buy up Skogen's liens?"
Brander pulled a deep breath to quell the foreboding congealing in his chest: I have to. It may be the only way to save either of us.
Chapter Five
Kildahlshus
Hamar
July 10, 1720
Regin read and re-read Lord Olsen's letter asking for specifics about Thorlak's behavior. His humiliating and shameful behavior.
"I cannot..." she whispered. Her cheeks were on fire. Her heart felt like it was swaddled in wool and struggled to beat. "I never... It's too horrid to be described..."
She kept trying to force a different meaning into his words, but Lord Olsen would not allow it. His questions were blunt to the point of rudeness.
"I could claim he was being too rude, and disengage him," she murmured. But the memory of the strangers in the market -- the two men who rode through her land uninvited and unannounced for the purpose of interrogating her remaining tenants -- threw ice on her shame. The chill realization that Lord Olsen was her last hope sent a shiver up her spine. It stiffened in response.
She knew her only hope lay in complete honesty.
Regin called Marthe to bring her a cup of spiced mead and a berry tart left from the noon meal. If she was going to look at Thorlak's foibles dead on, she needed the warm fortification of the mead, and the sweet comfort of the pastry. She sat at her writing desk, pulled out paper and quill, squared her shoulders, and began.
Lord Olsen,
The answers you require are, to put it plainly, quite intimate in nature. I considered not complying, until I realized that without these answers, you would be wasting time and I would be wasting coin. Neither of us can afford such luxury. So, with the understanding that we are acting in strictest confidentiality, here is the information you requested.
Marthe set a goblet of mead and the tart by her left elbow. Regin leaned back in her chair and lifted the wood chalice; a bullying reminder that all the silver ones were gone. She felt as though the first sip would begin her descent into hellish recollections and written admissions, and she hesitated.
"Is something amiss, Lady?" Marthe asked.
Regin met her maid's gaze. Marthe, only three years older, had been with her since she first required a lady's maid at age twelve. They had no secrets from each other.
"I must tell Lord Olsen about Thor
lak's last visit." Then she corrected herself, "Everything about Thorlak's last visit."
Marthe paled until her skin matched her flaxen hair. "Must you?"
"How can he help me if he doesn't know the truth?" Regin pleaded.
A work-reddened hand covered Marthe's mouth, her gray eyes filled with horrified understanding. She bobbed a quick nod.
Regin lifted her goblet in toast and put it to her lips. The sweet honey mead flowed over her palate like new velvet. She took a second sip and held it on her tongue, warm and spicy. She swallowed it in increments.
"Will you help me remember?" she asked Marthe.
Marthe sank to a stool beside her chair. "Yes, Lady. If you think it's best."
Together the women reconstructed the inconceivable afternoon that Lord Thorlak Skogen, Baron of Hamar, entered his own manor shabbily dressed, reeking of old sweat and alcohol, and beat his wife senseless.
"Then he ran from room to room, still shouting that he had been robbed," Marthe added. "That's when Hauk carried you into the kitchen, out of Lord Skogen's path."
Regin despaired of the answer, but knew she needed to ask the question anyway. "Did he ever remember that he was that one who removed all the items?"
"No, Lady."
No?
Violent and dangerous. Lost recollections. Accusing his own wife of acting against him. Bankrupting the estate. Creditors at her door.
Good Lord in Heaven!
"I am desperate, Marthe..." Regin gulped deep breaths to staunch the panic twisting her gut. "What am I to do?"
"I don't know, but perhaps--"
"There is no perhaps! Can't you see?" Regin jumped to her feet, tumbling her chair loudly behind her. She gripped the tart and squeezed it until the berries ran through her fingers like bright, thick blood. "This is what Thorlak has done to Kildahlshus! Crushed it with his foolishness! With his idiotic games!"
She threw the mangled pastry into the hearth. "If that tart was my husband's heart, I wouldn't mourn it for long!"
Marthe gasped. "Lady Regin!"
But Regin's own heart bashed about too fiercely and her hands shook too cruelly for her to feel remorse. For the first time in her life she understood murder.
"Lord Olsen--" Marthe offered.
Regin rounded on her maid with a cold stare. "Lord Olsen is not a miracle worker. He cannot save me," she spat.
"Then, what?"
"Then what, indeed." Regin crossed to her window and considered her reflection. She was still attractive, even at twenty-seven. Her hair was thick and wavy. No children had swollen her belly or misshapen her breasts; for many years that fact had grieved her soul, but at this moment she was thankful.
However, as long as she was married all the feminine beauty in the world stood her no good.
"Divorce?" she whispered, wondering if mention of the word would bring the walls of the manor crashing down around her, or cause the ghosts of her parents to shriek their objections.
She held still, waiting.
"Forgive my ignorance, Lady," Marthe stood and held out her hands in supplication. "But if Lord Skogen has borrowed against the estate, would divorce transfer his obligations elsewhere?"
Of course not. The idea of divorcing her husband was as foolish as his own actions had been.
"No," she answered, wondering how her voice managed to rise from the bottom of hell.
Christiania
July 10, 1720
Brander nudged Niels and pointed with his eyes.
"That's Skogen?" Niels asked.
Brander nodded.
A chill wind blew off the North Sea inlet and the sun hunkered low over the northwest horizon, glowing red behind a bank of hazy clouds. Brander tugged his charcoal gray cloak tighter and slipped the knit cap over his hair. Staying behind Skogen by several yards, Brander and Niels tracked him on soft leather soles.
Brander practiced the skill for hours as a youth, until Niels assured him his footsteps could not be heard. He mastered the feel of a silent step -- on cobbles, in a forest, or a wooden hallway -- knowing if he made any sound by the reverberation against his foot. Amazingly for a man of his size, he moved like a cat on the prowl.
Skogen moved like a man with a purpose. He looked neither left nor right, just zigged around anyone in his path. As the sky dimmed -- at this time of year it never grew fully dark -- Skogen turned and disappeared through an archway. Niels stopped and leaned against a plaster and timber building. Brander strolled forward. He paused at the archway and squatted down to adjust his boots, glancing sideways into the shadows.
Two figures hunched together. Hands moved back and forth in some sort of exchange. Some of the movements were jerky, as in an argument. Brander slid another look, stood and walked a few yards further, then turned toward Niels.
Can you hear them? he gestured.
Niels shook his head.
They are trading something. They look angry.
Skogen burst from the archway and nearly collided with Niels. Niels spun around, keeping his back to the man. Another man exited the archway and walked briskly in Brander's direction.
With an understanding crafted by eight years of experience, Brander and Niels winked as they crossed each other: Brander followed Skogen and Niels followed the stranger.
Brander crossed the cobbled street and followed Skogen about twenty-five yards back. The man tilted forward, one hand jammed inside the pocket of his waistcoat, and walked in the manor of someone who wishes to run but doesn't wish to attract attention. Wherever he was going, he was eager to get there.
Brander moved in shadows cast by the squat northwestern sun. But he needn't have worried because Skogen never looked back. And he never pulled his hand from his pocket.
He must have what he bought hidden in there...
After they had gone nearly a mile, Skogen turned a corner, straightened and slowed his pace. He stopped in front of a shabby inn. Another man -- very finely dressed in purple velvet and a black satin cape -- closed in on him. Skogen's head bobbed and his pocketed hand appeared. He unfolded a paper packet and the man grinned. He turned and waved a hand, summoning a scandalously dressed woman out of nowhere.
Brander tucked himself in a doorway and watched. The man shooed the woman into the inn, then he and Skogen each picked something from the packet and put it in their mouths. The fancy man flung his arm over Skogen's shoulder and the two ambled inside the inn.
Brander sank to the stoop of the doorway. He figured the time to be between ten and eleven at night. He leaned against the wall, crossed his arms in front of his chest and shifted his weight until he was comfortable.
He was accustomed to waiting. He watched other men stroll along the road, drunkards and gentlemen alike, and practiced making instant evaluations about where they might stop or which door they might enter. Or whether they would accept the invitations from the working women rubbing up against them.
This was not a particularly gentle part of town. Close to Akershus Slott and Festning -- the royal castle and fortress -- it was also close to the docks. Sailors, tradesmen and foreigners made up the bulk of foot traffic. If Skogen had something to hide, this was the area of Christiania to hide it in.
The question that repeated in Brander's mind was: how could this man treat his wife so carelessly? Her missives defined a woman of education, breeding and high moral character. She didn't rant. She didn't accuse. And she shied from displaying her husband in an unfavorable light, though he obviously deserved to be. Skogen didn't warrant a woman like her; of that he was certain.
After a couple of hours Brander unfolded, stiff from inactivity and the damp sea breeze. He stood to stretch. If Skogen wasn't going to come out, Brander was going in. He entered the inn and slid behind a table where he had a clear view of both the front door and the uneven wood stairs to the rooms above.
When the proprietor approached he looked up, shrugged and pointed to his throat with a quick shake of his head. He learned years ago that if pretended he coul
d hear -- but claimed he couldn't speak -- then he wasn't treated like an idiot. He mimed drinking and dropped a copper coin on the table.
A small glass of akevitt and a mug of beer floated across the room in front of the largest pair of breasts Brander had ever seen. The breasts lowered to his eye level and hovered. Brander looked up at their source.
"Is there anything else you need, sir?" The breasts quivered.
Brander shrugged and cocked one brow. He thought she giggled. She definitely blushed from bosom to brow, and smiled a little crazily.
"We lock the door in an hour." She brushed her fingers across the mounds of flesh surging above her gown, turned, and sauntered with swinging hips and skirt back to the bar. Brander felt his own flesh stir, interested in ending a long season of loneliness. He considered the offer.
He hadn't lain with a woman since... well, he truthfully couldn't remember.
Brander was fifteen the first time Niels secured a girl's interest in him. Four years older, Niels made blatant use of young Brander's ability to watch lips and know what a person said. He sent Brand to 'listen' and tell him what girls spoke about, then used their secrets to seduce them.
When Brander's own turn was thrust upon him, he was terrified, embarrassed, naked and throbbing. Already well over six feet in height, he was an awkward mess of limbs and angles and yearning.
The girl was efficient. She lifted her skirts and spread her legs, motioning him closer. He stared at her cunny and tried to burn into his brain the image of her hidden folds and slick-looking opening. She gripped his yard, her warm fingers almost sending him beyond himself before anything further transpired. She wiggled under him and aimed his arrow with accuracy.
He plunged deep inside her and shook like an avalanche.
She clutched his hips to push and pull until he understood what to do. With an energy only found in adolescence, he pounded into her. Sensations he could not have imagined twisted through his groin and sent lightening through his veins and thundered his thighs.
