by Tualla, Kris
A bolt like lightning tingled the blood in Brander's veins. A man who causes his brother to stumble?
Brander sat up like he was catapulted.
He must be stopped.
Brander stood and folded his wallet. He walked through the ruins, barely able to keep his movements in check. He broke into a trot on the road to Kildahlshus. When he saw Niels approaching, he began to run.
Chapter Nine
Lunde Boarding House
Christiania
July 26, 1720
Dear Lord Olsen,
I want to extend my sincere gratitude to you for assuring that my husband's body was returned with such speed to our home. The servant you sent, though unusually quiet, was very respectful. He helped my foreman both unload the coffin and carry it to the estate's cemetery. Thank you from the depths of my soul for the assistance you have so graciously supplied me at this difficult time.
To answer your question concerning creditors, in the past year only one pair of very rude men have appeared on this estate. This visit was about four weeks ago, if my memory can be trusted in the midst of my current turmoil. They traveled together, spoke only to my tenants, and left without having the common decency to present themselves to me, so I do not know who they were. But I did see them again when I visited a solicitor by the name of Gulbrandsen in Christiania. Perhaps he can tell you who those vermin were.
I will be certain to write to you quickly should any additional bandits or plunderers appear on my land.
And now, I have something to request of you, Lord Olaf. I have no way of knowing how much money my husband has accrued in liens against Kildahlshus. I hope that in your investigations you have been able to unearth this crucial information and can enlighten me.
Now that he is gone, and can no longer risk my property further in unwise wagers, it is my hope that I might begin paying these liens and, in the process, save my ancestral lands.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Lady Regin Kildahl
Baroness of Hamar
Niels handed Brander the letter back. "She has ceased to use her husband's name."
That didn't take long, Brander gestured.
Regin; the owner of those impossible blue eyes is named Regin. He knew that before, of course. But for some reason thinking of her by her Christian name seemed to matter now.
"Have you paid all of Skogen's creditors?"
Brander blinked: All but one. Gulbrandsen will meet with him today.
"And how much money have you spent, do you know?"
Yes.
Niels spread his hands in a question.
Brander wrote the amount on a slip of paper: Almost five thousand dalers. More after the last man is paid.
"Thor's thunder, Brand!" Niels ran his hand through his hair. "I hope he is the last man!"
Brander gave his cousin a crooked smile: As do I.
"Have you any money left?"
Brander clamped his hand on Niels' shoulder and gave it a brotherly shake: Of course I do. Don't worry, Cousin. We'll never be destitute.
"I hope not. Or I might have to do something desperate like marry a wealthy woman!" Niels punched him lightly in the belly. "Now get dressed. You need to go."
While Brander transformed himself into a Franciscan monk, he pondered Regin's evaluation of him as 'very rude vermin, a bandit and a plunderer.' None of that was a surprise since she believed him to be one of Skogen's skulking creditors. He and Niels had avoided her that day, interested only in the condition of her estate because of his investment in it.
It didn't make her assessment any more comfortable a cloak, however.
By contrast, Lord Olaf Olsen was a bit of a hero to her. He heard it in her choice of words; saw it in the stroke of her pen. Smelled it in the faintly lemon scent of her paper. He brought her comfort.
He had her respect.
Brander was glad he had not ridden to her door last week. Even though he was -- as Niels so abruptly stated -- both her hero and her foe, he didn't think he could have withstood seeing disappointment rain down her cheeks, or anger thunder through the sky of her eyes.
He groaned inwardly.
Father in Heaven, help me. I'm turning into a bad poet.
A decisively useless skill in his next task, one which currently demanded his refocused efforts.
His preparations had been endlessly reviewed with Niels. Once he entered the Franciscan Priory his ability to communicate with his cousin would be limited to notes he would leave behind a loose stone in the outer wall. A stone that miraculously became loose only last week. After Brander's revelation amidst the ruins of Hamar Cathedral.
Within the hour of returning from the noxious task of delivering Skogen's remains, Brander and Niels hunched over the map of Christiania. There were three powerful religious entities in Christiania: a Benedictine nunnery dedicated to St. Mary, St. Olave's Dominican priory, and Saint Hallvard Cathedral Priory. Brander marked the location of each on the map. One of them formed the hub in the irregular wheel of poisonings.
To be certain, he drew the spokes. Without making a comment, he looked to Niels.
"Saint Hallvard, the Franciscan priory?" Niels said. "So our murderer is one of them?"
If the motive is to punish the dissolute elite for leading the masses astray, then this is the lair of our target, he wrote.
Niels tapped a spot on the map a hundred yards from the monastery. "The most recent poisoning was here three days ago."
So it appears we are tracking the right wolf.
"That it does. You'll go in as the monk?"
Yes.
Now he combed a little oil through his hair to tame its waves and dampen its color. He tied the thick locks tightly at the nape of his neck. Then he slipped the homespun woolen robe over a sleeveless linen tunic -- a bit of comfort was warranted; after all he wasn't truly a monk -- and pulled up the hood. He examined his reflection in his mirror. If he kept his eyes lowered and rounded his shoulders, then nothing about him but his height would be noticeable.
"Here." Niels handed him a small leather pouch packed with slips of paper. A graphite stick wrapped in twine dangled from it. Brander looped the braided leather strip around his neck and the paper pouch rested low against his chest.
He nodded: Perfect.
Niels handed him the wood-beaded rosary and silver crucifix. He hung it from the rope tied at his waist.
He met Niels' gaze: I'm ready.
Kildahlshus
Hamar
July 26, 1720
Marthe pulled open Regin's drapes allowing sunshine to smack her head. She groaned and buried deeper under blankets.
"Lady, you need to get up. It's been days," the maid prodded.
Days? Regin groaned again. She couldn't remember yester evening. She didn't know what day it was. All she knew was that her mouth tasted like sour mead and her head pounded with her pulse.
"I'm ill..." she grumbled.
"Ill? My mother's manacles!" Marthe spat. "Lady, nothing is wrong with you but grief and too much drink to try and drown it in."
The blankets whooshed off her back and a chill breeze snaked up her legs. "Marthe..."
"Get up, Lady."
Regin squinted one eye at her longtime servant. "Why?" she croaked.
Marthe leaned over until her face met Regin's. "Because, Lady Kildahl, we need you. So get out of bed and be the Baroness."
"There is nothing left to be Baroness over," Regin growled. Grief tried to pull her under its waves. Her stomach roiled, begging for respite from her repeated overindulgence.
"Is that so?" Marthe produced a lit candle. "Shall I fire the manor then?"
She crossed to the drapes and held the candle at their hem. Regin glared in horror as the fabric began to smolder. "Stop that!" she barked.
"No." One hand rested on Marthe's hip as she continued her blatant insubordination.
Regin scrambled from her bed and wavered across the room on bare feet. She knocked the ca
ndle to the floor and began to beat the smoking curtain with her hand. Cold water splashed over her arm and down one hip. Her chemise clung to her and dripped icy water on her feet.
"Ah!" she yelped.
"Sorry, Lady. I only meant to wet the drapes," Marthe apologized.
Regin rounded on her, so furious that the edges of her vision bled to red.
"What in God's name were you thinking? You might have brought the entire manor down around our heads with such foolish behavior! Then where would we be, I ask you. Why, I ought to have you flogged!"
Regin stomped to her dressing table and yanked a folded towel from a pile there. She dried herself with quick, jabbing swipes. "I swear, Marthe, I have never seen you behave in such a manner! What has come over you?"
When the maid didn't answer, Regin whirled to face her.
Marthe stood in the middle of the bedchamber with a stupid grin splitting her face from ear to ear.
"Have you been listening to me?" Regin demanded.
"Yes." Marthe's eyes twinkled.
"Then why - what - oh my Lord." Her knees folded and she dropped to the floor. She covered her flushing face with the towel. "I have been the fool!"
"Yes," the maid ventured.
Regin's fists fell to her lap. "I am sorry, Marthe. I'm afraid the weight of my position overwhelms me."
"And rightly so, Lady... But?"
Regin nodded. "But the time for wallowing in my situation is passed." She climbed to her feet. "Bring me warm water so I may wash. After that, I'll dress. And then I'll puzzle out a solution to our desperate state."
"Very good, my lady!" Marthe bounced from the room with a wide smile.
Saint Hallvard Cathedral Priory
Christiania
I have taken a vow of silence, Brander wrote. He handed the note to the Franciscan prior.
"I see." His evaluative gaze fingered Brander's robe, rosary and pouch-necklace.
And I prefer my brothers to address me in writing as well.
Prior Daniel's head popped up. "Why?"
Brander lowered his chin. My penance requires it. I am not to engage in direct conversation for this entire year.
"That seems a bit harsh on your peers," Prior Daniel commented. "Does it not, Brother Petter?"
Brander shrugged. It was not my decision.
"Well, no. Of course not." Prior Daniel walked around his massive desk. "How long will you be resting with us?"
Only a few weeks.
The prior's chest swelled and shrunk. He didn't smile. "Fine then. Let me show you to your cell."
The stone-walled room held only a rope bed, a thin mattress with one blanket, a small table and a stool. On the table was a brass candle holder with a short candle. An opening for light was cut horizontally near the ceiling. Wavy leaded glass kept rain and snow out, while letting in a small bit of shadowed light. Prior Daniel tapped Brander's shoulder.
"I said the bell rings twice for prayer and once for meals."
Brander held up his paper pouch and shrugged apologetically. If he couldn't get the prior to understand his 'vow' it was going to be difficult to convince the monks of his ruse.
"Bother," the man blurted. He waved the sign of the cross in front of Brander and left the cell.
Brander pulled a small drum-shaped clock from his robe, wound it, and set it on the table. He knew what time the bells were likely to ring and would use the timepiece as assurance. For now, it was time to explore. He took his candle.
This particular monastery was founded in 1286 and the frequently-expanded building had innumerable nooks and openings. Lots of hidey-holes for men wishing not to be observed. Or pairs of men. Brander was under no illusions that men of the church were less likely to sin than men of the world. They just tended to sin in different ways.
He strolled along the dormitory's long hall of doors that matched his. A few stood open and revealed cells exactly like the one he had been assigned to. Some beds had additional blankets, and some tables supported piles of books.
He was certain Prior Daniel slept elsewhere, and in more elaborate quarters.
Brander was very good at building plots in his mind. As he wandered, a map of the halls, rooms and doorways formed, adjusted, and solidified in his brain. He back-tracked a couple of times to confirm his location, then moved ahead.
The ancient structure had rough-hewn stones in the dormitory area, but in the more public areas the walls were smoothed and polished. In the cathedral itself, the floor became marble and the ceiling arched high overhead. Light gushed through colored glass, staining the shining floor and wooden benches with geometric rainbows.
He nodded whenever he passed the monks, but none stopped to talk to him. He understood. Discipline was the key to a monk's life. They would talk to him at mealtime, after their prayers. Brander tried to notice faces, though, and something unique that he might pin that man's identity to.
When he saw robed men begin to flow into the chapel, he followed and fell in line.
Kildahlshus
Hamar
Regin walked her estate for the rest of the day. What she saw was grim. So little work was being done that there wouldn't be enough grain to fill the storehouses. Not enough meat and fish salted or smoked. Not enough hay cut and tied for the animals. Not enough cheese pressed. Not enough wool spun nor cloth woven. Not enough of anything.
They could not survive the winter.
Anger jammed a fist under her ribs and she pounded her chest trying to staunch it. She should have known all of this. She never should have trusted Thorlak to manage their lives when his own was so out of control. Why had she been so blind?
Her foreman Hauk had been silent. He must have been keenly aware of their situation, and yet he said nothing to her. But then, she never asked him. Had he talked to Thorlak? He must have. But her husband's visits had become short and spaced far apart. And during his last visit, he was incapable of coherent thought, much less decisive actions.
Regin sank to her knees on the edge of a field once rippling with golden heads of wheat. Last year's chaff littered the ground amidst sturdy green weeds. Her small band of servants and the dozen or so faithful tenant families were her responsibility and hers alone. As their mistress and titled land-owner, she didn't have the right to run away and abandon them.
Not that she would, though the idea dangled enticingly before her. But this land was hers, and the labors of previous generations weighed on her frame. She would stay and fight.
"So, Father," she prayed. "What do I yet have to offer? What can I give in exchange for my land's salvation?"
You gave Your own life to save Man, she mused.
She supposed that she could give her life to save this land. Stripped to nearly nothing, her life was all she owned. But how? In what manner could she give her life that would improve her dire situation? What was her path to deliverance?
She knew the answer.
There must be another way.
Regin grabbed up a handful of dirt. She squeezed it into a loose clod, and then fingered it back into bits. This land was infinitely older than her family, but her family had control of it for centuries. It was up to her to keep it.
Again her only option, her last assets, stood in front of her and stared her down. She had no other choice.
"I will offer my title and my life -- as a wife -- to any man who is willing to pay the liens on this property. Kildahlshus will be completely his, as will I," she resolved.
Regin paused for a moment, summoning an image of the most distasteful male creature that might appear. She saw him climb into her bed and crawl between her thighs. She shuddered. As horrible as that might be, it would be preferable to losing her home.
"Besides, when we have children, the title and estate will pass to them. Just as if nothing had ever gone wrong," she justified. "I can do this. I must do this."
She waited while shocks of fear sped her heart and chains of grief tightened her chest. No tears fell, dried by the repulsiven
ess of what she was about to do. Finally, Regin climbed to her feet and brushed dried bits of grass from her skirt.
"I will do this. I shall write to Mister Gulbrandsen today. Though he couldn't help me with a divorce, I'm quite certain he can help me with a marriage."
Chapter Ten
Kildahlshus
Hamar
August 2, 1720
Regin fanned herself with the note from Lord Olsen and reached for a cup of water. Five thousand dalers. Oh, God. Thorlak's liens totaled just over five thousand dalers! Panic tingled her limbs. Oh, my God in Heaven.
Did Mister Gulbrandsen know? Surely he did. She suggested he ask Lord Olsen for the amount she needed to raise to save her property from seizure. He must have done so by now.
Five thousand dalers.
How could just one man lose so badly? It seems he would have had to apply himself rather diligently to the task! Hysterical laughter bubbled from her belly at that ridiculous idea.
"Apparently it was a natural gift!" she squealed. She began to laugh so loud and hard that tears wet her cheeks and made her nose run. "I'll wager he did it with his eyes closed." She laughed like a lunatic until her throat burned and her gut ached.
Five thousand dalers.
The average laborer earned a daler a week. Five thousand weeks? A hundred years!
"Is that all?" she yelped. "I'll only be a hundred and twenty-seven!"
Marthe ran into the room. "Lady? Who are you talking to?" She frowned. "What is so funny?"
Regin waved the letter. "Thorlak seemed -- to excel -- in losses," she managed, hiccoughing. "He - he - owes over five - thousand - dalers!"
Marthe stepped forward, retrieved the letter, and sat in front of Regin.
"Oh..." She blew the word slowly through rounded lips.
Regin's lungs still gasped in uncontrollable spasms. She didn't know if she laughed or cried, but truthfully it didn't matter.
