by Tualla, Kris
What sort of reward? he motioned.
"A title, perhaps. King Frederick would be well pleased."
Brander allowed a smug smile: Because all the men who have died are noble?
Bråthen looked uncomfortable. "Well...yes."
We are acquainted with Lord Skogen, Baron of Hamar. Brander pointed at the naked man twisted across the foot of the bed: Who was that?
A shift of eyes was followed by a working of lips. "The eldest son of the Duke of Bergen."
The Duke's only heir? Thor's thunder!
"He's the Duke's only heir..." Niels echoed Brander's thoughts.
"Yes. He was."
Brander thrust his hand toward Regent Bråthen who gripped it reflexively.
We will solve this. You have our word.
"Thank you, gentlemen. And God speed."
*****
"No, sir, she isn't here any longer," the innkeeper answered.
"When did she leave?" Niels asked.
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Thank you."
He and Brander turned away when the man grabbed Niels' arm. "Is something amiss?"
"No," Niels unwrapped the man's fingers from his forearm. "We were carrying her a message is all. Nothing of import. Might we have some food and drink?"
Brander and Niels followed the distracted man to a table. He snapped his fingers for the serving girl.
Serving woman was more apt a description. She was tall and slender, and she slithered directly toward Brander. Her desire radiated from the curve of every limb. A lazy gaze started at his boots and coiled up his body until it settled directly in his eyes. This always happened to him and he thought he would become accustomed to it at some point. He hadn't and his groin tightened.
"May I be of..." she paused and smiled. One brow lifted. "Service?"
Niels must have spoken because her eyes shifted in his direction. "Of course." They blinked slowly and slid back to Brander. "Anything you need."
She spun and sauntered away from the table. Brander watched her hip-swinging gait and wondered if today he might satisfy that particular appetite as well. The Lord knew his body was standing up to demand attention.
Niels waved a hand in front of his face. Brander turned to his cousin.
Take her if you want. I'll wait, Niels motioned. Then he flashed a mischievous grin. Or I might find one of my own.
Brander looked in the direction of the serving woman. If he declined, then he forced Niels into a longer period of celibacy. But he wasn't interested in bed-swerving simply for the purpose of relieving his baser needs; especially after what he had witnessed recently. But there was no reason for Niels to suffer.
You can take her. I'm not in mind to do so, he gestured.
Are you well? Niels asked.
Brander nodded and motioned: Lady Skogen has left the inn, so I must write to her about her husband's death. That unhappy prospect takes the desire away. You know?
He allowed a crooked grin, but wondered whether the news might in actuality be welcome words to the new widow.
Niels looked toward the woman who was sashaying back to their table. She framed her bountiful breasts with a platter in one hand and two foaming mugs in another. From the fire in his eyes, Brander thought his cousin might accept what the woman was offering. Then Niels shook his head, looking defeated.
"After what you told me about Skogen's acquaintance being poxed, I'm disinclined as well."
Brander slapped Niels' shoulder and grinned broadly: Ever thought of becoming a monk?
Niels sneered and stuffed a chunk of meat in his mouth with his knife.
Chapter Eight
Kildahlshus
Hamar
July 20, 1720
My dear Lady Skogen,
It is my unpleasant duty to inform you -- on behalf of Lord Bråthen, Regent of Christiania -- that your husband, Lord Thorlak Skogen, Baron of Hamar, was found deceased on the morning of 18 July.
Regin stared at the words. They didn't make sense. She read them again.
Deceased.
Thorlak was dead?
All the air left her lungs as understanding pounded her chest. She couldn't command it to return. The room around her flattened and turned to bleeding shades of gray. Tiny black gnats crowded her vision.
Regin fluttered her eyelids open. She lay sprawled on the floor of her chamber, her newly revealed situation perched on her breast like a wolf.
Her husband was dead. She was a widow.
Though she had decided to divorce him, the good Lord knew she never wished Thorlak dead. She never wished him ill at all! She only wished to save her family's estate from his foolish gaming.
How did he die?
Regin pushed herself off the floor. Lord Olaf's letter lay face down several feet away. She retrieved it, righted her tumbled chair, and returned to her desk. Holding a deep breath, she read Olaf's words.
His death was precipitated by use of opium that was most certainly poisoned. Rest assured, my lady, that I am personally investigating his murder -- because murder is what it must be called -- and will see justice done. This is my promise to you.
Regin's world began to flatten again. But this time she fought the graying.
Thorlak was murdered.
By taking poisoned opium.
Because that idiotic oaf of a harlequin's hint side had been immersing himself in a drugged state of euphoria, instead of facing up to the responsibilities of his title! Or the ghastly consequences of his gaming! Or the vows of his marriage, for that matter!
Regin was livid. How dare he! She looked around her for something to throw, but the only breakable object in the room was one of the last two porcelain cups she owned.
Nonetheless it hit the stone fireplace with a very satisfactory clang and shattered into a hundred flying bits of sharp white fury.
It also brought Marthe on swiftly pattering feet and calling out, "Lady! What's amiss?"
"Thorlak's dead!" Regin shouted. "That fool is dead of his own reckless behavior!"
"Dead?" Marthe skidded to a stop in the doorway. "Lord Skogen is dead?"
She ground out the words, "It would appear that he is."
The maid's jaw dropped. "How?"
"Murder. He drugged himself with p-poisoned op-opium!" Tears strangled her. She couldn't speak past their infuriating gulping spasms.
"I'll bring you something to drink!" Marthe disappeared from the doorway.
Regin yanked a pillow from her bed and sobbed her sudden grief into it. She was penniless. Her husband was murdered by his own stupidity. And after more than a hundred years, Kildahlshus' ownership was precarious if not completely lost to her.
Marthe pulled one of her arms from the pillow and pressed a goblet into it. "Drink this!" she commanded.
Regin sat up and gulped the chalice of mead without pausing for a breath. She handed it back to Marthe with one trembling hand and wiped her mouth with the back of the other.
"Do you want more?" Marthe asked.
"Yes..." she croaked.
Marthe took the wood goblet and left the room.
Unfolded paper covered in strong inky letters reclaimed Regin's awareness; she hadn't yet read Lord Olaf's entire missive.
I will personally see that Lord Skogen's body is returned to you quickly, so that you may give him a baron's burial on your estate. Even now I suggest you begin preparations.
My lady, while I truly understand that this information is devastating, I must ask for your cooperation in one particular matter which may be of great assistance as I search for the miscreant who has caused you such unnecessary pain. Will you please write to me quickly should any of Skogen's creditors appear at your door? I will not go so far as to name those men as murderers, but they would warrant my attention even so.
Does he know about the beautiful stranger who came snooping around her estate without a word to her, its mistress? The same one she nearly collided with in Mister Gulbrandsen's office? She couldn't imagine
that the handsome, golden-haloed giant with the unsettling stare was a killer, but he very well might be. There was no way for her to make that judgment.
"I'll need to write to Lord Olaf about him," she whispered. "In the event that he might prove guilty."
Marthe rushed into the room with the second cup of mead. Regin gulped the liquid again, relishing the warmth that pooled in her belly and began to flow outward through her veins.
"How did he die, my lady?" Marthe ventured.
Regin handed the empty goblet back to her maid, and then read Lord Olaf's letter aloud. For the first time, she read it to the end.
I would also take a moment to offer my sincerest condolences on your husband's passing. Even with the situations which you have asked me to discover, I am certain that you are now experiencing an amount of grief at this unanticipated news. If there are any additional actions with which I might assist you, do not hesitate to ask.
I remain ~ as always ~ your servant,
Lord Olaf Olsen
Marthe didn't speak and the room echoed with the women's taut silence. Then she raised her gaze to Regin's. "He sounds kind," she offered.
Regin had to admit that he did. His words were comforting. She felt she could trust Lord Olaf Olsen to do all that he was able to lift her from a situation she didn't create, but was trapped within, nonetheless.
Even if it could never be enough to truly save her.
Hamar
July 21, 1720
The sunny weather this day was incongruently cheerful as Brander and Niels drove their wagon north out of the village of Hamar. For the past two days, Brander had been pondering the opium killings rather than consider meeting Lady Skogen face to face.
Three days ago, Niels held up the list of murder locations from Bråthen while he marked the new sites on their borrowed map of Christiania. They had already perused the victim's names and the regent's observation appeared to be true: every man that had died from poisoned opium was noble. Including the first one at Valhalla Tavern. He turned out to be the Baron of Drammen's second son.
When Brander finished, he leaned back and stared at the map. Niels bent over the desk. Neither man moved for several minutes.
Do you see anything?
"No..." Niels shook his head. "Do you?"
Brander scratched his head. He repeatedly tapped his middle finger on his thumb, deep in thought, his gaze still fixed on the map.
The answer is here. Somewhere.
Niels nodded. "Of course it is. And you'll find it. You always do, don't you?"
Brander grinned at the question and answered truthfully: Yes.
Niels nudged him back to the day and the wagon. The bloated remains of Lady Skogen's worthless excuse of a husband were assaulting his nostrils even through the pine box. Though he was aware that his own sense of smell was enhanced, he wondered how his cousin could bear it.
Niels pointed to their left, then right. "This is the border of her land, remember? Or should I say your land?"
Stop, he motioned. Stop the cart.
Niels pulled back on the reins. "Why?"
Brander squinted at the wasting fields in front of him. His heart pummeled his ribs, telling him to turn back. Today wasn't the right time, nor the right place, for Lady Skogen's awkward enlightening. He faced Niels.
You go without me.
His partner frowned. "Do you want to tell me why?"
He struggled to find the right words to explain his wrenching conflict. Where Lady Skogen was concerned, he embodied two very different men.
I can't be both Lord Olsen, her savior, and Brander Hansen, the creditor who will take away her estate.
Niels pinned him with a sharp look. "And yet, you are."
Those words twisted in his gut like a jagged hunter's knife. Though Niels' words were true, they rankled even so. He hated the position he was caught in. If only the beautiful Lady Skogen had never written to him.
Brander jumped down from the wagon.
I'll walk back to the village. Don't linger. Try not to let her recognize you.
"If you think that's best," Niels drawled. His disagreement was obvious.
Brander turned in the direction from which they had come. Every step away from the estate eased the pounding of his pulse and the stricture in his chest. Some day -- and fairly soon -- he would need to confront Lady Skogen with the truth. But not this day. Not the day her husband's murdered corpse was delivered to her door.
As he approached the town, the towering ruins of Hamar Cathedral beckoned him. Massive stones tumbled around the site like wooden blocks kicked by a petulant toddler. Two walls remained, punctured at intervals with pointed window arches.
Brander stood in the middle of the rubble, hands on his hips. He leaned backward to look up at the two remaining walls and tried to imagine the glory that the cathedral once displayed. He knew from his boyhood lessons that the roof was set afire by warring Swedes more than a century before. He wondered why they would choose to destroy a priory.
Unless they were reformists angry at the pope.
Even so, it would not have been his tactical choice. Storehouses, armories, or bridges were more along his way of thinking. Not a church. That was simply wrong in his personal economy. Besides, it probably wasn't wise to anger God.
He sat on a block that had been warming in the sun. Each one of these stones was too heavy for any man to move, but a length of tree could hold a wall of them in place. Set that length aflame and the entire structure lost its ability to hold together. The weakness in an otherwise impervious façade.
Just like a man. Skogen's gaming tumbled his wife's past and future in less than a year, destroying them and scattering her belongings as thoroughly as the cathedral stones.
A slow movement pulled Brander's attention to one side. At the other end of the ruins a man in black clerical garb picked his way carefully toward him. His gray hair was shaved in a priests' tonsure. Faceted rosary beads rested on his narrow chest and glittered in the sun. They looped along either side of a thick silver crucifix.
His mouth moved, but he was too far away for Brander to read his lips. He raised one hand in greeting, and waited for the man to close the distance. When he was only a few yards away, Brander extended his hand.
"Good day, my son," the priest said.
Brander pulled his wallet from his tunic. While the clergyman watched with obvious interest, Brander wrote: Good day, Father. I am deaf.
"Oh!" The priest's eyes met his. "You hear nothing?"
Brander shook his head, and then pointed to his eyes, his lips, and the other man.
The priest's mouth moved slowly. "Can you tell what I am saying?"
Yes.
He smiled. "Excellent. Shall we sit?"
The two men settled comfortably facing each other.
"I don't recognize you. Are you passing through Hamar?"
Brander wrote: My cousin had business here. When he finishes we will return to Christiania.
The priest nodded. His chin lifted as he looked up at the ragged walls. After a moment, he faced Brander again. "Do you know the history of this priory's destruction?"
I learned about it as a boy.
A shroud of sadness wrapped around the older man and his shoulders drooped. "Do you ever wonder why men are so eager to destroy God's temples?"
I was thinking about that. Why do men demolish churches in war?
"Exactly, my query: why not obliterate weapons or supplies? Things that will disable your enemy."
That would be my strategy. It would seem more effective as well.
"Yes."
Another pensive moment passed.
"But men destroy their bodies as well." The priest gave Brander a significant look. "And our bodies are God's temples."
Brander pressed back a grin, not wishing to disrespect the cleric. He wrote: I have read the entire Bible. I remember that verse.
"Yes. Well. We shall not defile this beautiful day by debating the wisdom of Reform
ers' placing Holy Scripture into the hands of the uneducated." He paused and dipped his chin. "Your company accepted, of course."
Brander bent his head to his paper and graphite: Men do defile their 'temples.' I have seen too much of that of late.
"It's a sin, you understand. A very grave sin."
Brander nodded his acknowledgement.
"You, sir, seem to be a gentleman whose behavior might be exemplary. A man who would not cause his brother to stumble."
Thank you father. But you do not know me.
"Perhaps not. But I am a fairly good judge of character." The priest pushed to his feet and waved the sign of the cross in front of Brander. "God bless you, son."
The priest turned around and picked his way around the stones. Brander watched him until he was out of sight. Niels wouldn't return for at least an hour, so Brander lay back on the granite block. He closed his eyes and let the sun soothe his mind.
But his mind wouldn't be soothed. Visions of Lady Kildahl slid against his eyelids. Her hair and skirt shining in the sun when she sold her eggs in the Hamar square. Eyes flashing like blue flames as she stomped out of the lawyer Gulbrandsen's office. He smelled her lemon soap that day, he realized of a sudden, and wondered if he might have recognized her by her scent had he not been so startled by her appearance there.
Her dead husband's image rose up then, made more grotesque by contrast with the wife's delicate beauty.
What an ass he was. He had everything Brander lacked: an estate. An inheritance for his sons. A beautiful and intelligent wife sincerely concerned for his well-being. Not that I want a wife. Or would ever have sons. But the point was still made.
And a title. Thorlak Skogen was Baron of Hamar. Barons were outranked only by dukes. The next step up was the King himself. And this particular baron -- known on sight because of his elevated station -- unapologetically threw himself into the gutter, cavorting with whoremongers and drug sellers. What an enormous ass he was.
