by Tualla, Kris
Who could pay five thousand dalers for her estate? While the value of the land did exceed that amount, it was still a daunting sum of money to pull out of the air.
As for the title, that was worth something in addition. Barons were one step down from dukes, who were one step down from royalty. Nobility was not an easy thing to grasp, if it wasn't already given.
Then there was her. She would do all she could to be a good and faithful wife. Bear an heir or two. Three if God granted it. But her prospects would need to take a chance on this part of the bargain. It was very likely the deal would be struck in Mister Gulbrandsen's office, and her new husband would arrive one day unannounced, gripping the land ownership and marriage documents in hand.
He would own her as well from that day forward.
For five thousand dalers.
Saint Hallvard Cathedral Priory
Christiania
August 18, 1720
No noblemen had died in four weeks.
Not since three days before Brander entered the priory -- posing as the silent Brother Petter from Stavanger -- had anyone died in Christiania from poisoned opium.
Brander wasn't certain if the murderer had left the monastery, or if he had simply halted his game. He had discreetly discovered that a pair of monks left the monastery day before he arrived. He was told they were on a teaching mission, carrying many books with them and headed south about forty miles to a monastery in Tønsberg.
If the poisonings had truly stopped, perhaps the man had a change of heart. Grew remorseful for the savage killings. Improbable, but anything was possible in a society focused on serving God. But Brander learned long ago to remain skeptical of men and their motives.
More likely, he's poisoned himself in the process.
One young monk had died unexpectedly the week he arrived. He was said to have severe bowel disruption and high fever. He passed within a day of the mealtime prayer for his restoration. It was feasible that he exposed himself to the deadly substance.
Two other possibilities surfaced during Brander's long hours of inactivity and contemplation: first, that the man had simply run out of either opium or monkshood, and was thus far unable to replenish.
And second, that the man knew Brander was on his trail.
Either way, it was time to leave.
*****
Niels met him outside the monastery the next afternoon. They walked in silence until they reached Gulbrandsen's office. Inside, Brander changed into the clothing that Niels brought for him and he packed the monk's robes into a leather satchel.
"You're pale," Niels observed.
Brander snorted: I haven't seen the sun for a month!
"Or a woman," Niels teased.
He grinned: Don't be so certain.
"Speaking of women," Gulbrandsen interrupted, "I have interesting news. Very interesting. Close the door, will you?"
Brander settled in a chair with his pouch of papers and focused on what the solicitor had to say. He was feeling defeated by his lack of success after spending a month in monastic isolation. Hopefully the very interesting news was truly very interesting.
"I received a letter from Lady Skogen. You do remember her?" he smirked at Brander.
A little, he motioned with a half smile. Like he remembered how to breathe.
"She asked me to arrange a marriage with any man who is willing to pay off Skogen's debts."
"What?" Niels mouth hung open. He sat up straight and tilted his face toward Brander. "Did you understand that?"
Brander nodded slowly, but then shook his head as he pulled out a sheet of paper. He wrote: Any man?
"Those were her words."
Does she know I own those debts?
"No, of course not."
Niels touched his arm. "Would you marry her?"
Brander jerked his arm away. He marked with heavy black letters: You know I'll never marry. He glared at Niels and slid that paper across the desk and wrote another: And you know why.
Gulbrandsen broke in. "Then I assume you'll wait for another man to accept her offer, marry her, and pay off your claim to her property. Is that correct?" he asked.
Brander frowned, questions and worries bashing around in his skull too quickly for him to get them on paper.
What is she offering to this husband? came out first.
"Her title and ownership of the estate. And a wife, of course."
And their progeny inherit? So it stays in the bloodline?
"I would imagine that is what she's hoping for, Brand," Niels offered.
Brander leaned back in his chair. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and over his month-long monk's beard. His plan to acquire her estate was knocked sideways in so many ways and he hadn't had time to work out a solution. But he knew one thing for certain.
He reached for the paper and wrote: Her plan is brilliant.
And so was she.
Kildahlshus
Hamar
September 15, 1720
Regin swiped sweat from her brow and faced the cold breeze skimming off Lake Mjøsa. Her arms burned with the effort of holding a pair of huge draft horses in check. Her palms stung, but until blood poured from her leather gloves she wouldn't stop. Couldn't stop. There had to be hay for the stock this winter.
Or they wouldn't have any animals still alive by spring.
Half a dozen tenants followed behind her, forking the dried hay they cut last week into the wagon she drove. Regin knew they were capable of completing this task without her -- and each one of them could do it better than she -- but it seemed that the hopelessness which wrapped itself around her ankles and tried to keep her from moving forward had gripped them as well.
Until their mistress, the Baroness of Hamar, tied on an apron, pulled her skirt hem up between her legs and tucked it to her waist, slid into a heavy pair of work boots and grabbed the reins of the dray. The shock of such a sight surprised them into action. More work had been done at Kildahlshus in the last four weeks than in the previous six months since Thorlak stopped paying attention.
But Regin was exhausted.
She barely had the strength to climb into her bed at night. If it wasn't for Marthe bringing her a trencher of thick soup every evening she wouldn't be alive. The maid helped her undress and washed dried dirt and sweat off her limbs with a warm cloth. She cleansed her broken blisters and wrapped them with salve overnight. She cleaned the mud off the work boots and laundered her simplest gowns to be worn for work again.
All Regin could manage on her own was breathing. And putting one foot in front of the other. Looking farther ahead than the next footfall was more than was bearable.
She was not born to this station, nor bred to this labor. She was the eldest of three daughters. The one with the arranged marriage. The one with the title.
The sister after her married a viscount and moved to Denmark, but she died in childbirth two years later. And the sister after her went to Denmark to care for the boy and married her sister's widower. Regin hadn't told them about Thorlak's decline; right or wrong, she had too much pride. And she didn't want anyone's pity.
The horses reached the far end of the field and she struggled to turn them around. Her cheeks felt cold. When she ran her forearm over one, it was wet. She looked for blood leaking from her glove, but thankfully there wasn't any. Was she crying? No, she mustn't be; there was no time for crying. She tugged the reins again, ignoring her palms' screams of agony.
"Hah!" she shouted, and yanked the big horses' heads to the side. One tried to back up.
"No! Hah! HAH!" she screamed.
A burly peasant came forward and grabbed the obstinate animal's halter. Before she could find a voice to thank him, another man climbed on the wagon.
"I'll take the reins, my lady." His tone made it clear his resolve was immutable. "Your shift is done."
"Oh. Um... Thank you." Regin jerked a nod and, shakily moved to climb down.
Strong hands slipped under her arms from behind and set
her on the ground. With a quick touch to their foreheads, the men turned the dray around and the tenants went back to work.
Lady Regin Kildahl, Baroness of Hamar, stumbled back to her manor house on legs as weak as wet stalks of wheat. She sobbed without control as she crawled up the stairs, leaving a trail of tears and bloody handprints on the wooden steps behind her.
Lunde Boarding House
Christiania
Niels slipped a note under his unseeing gaze: No more opium deaths.
Brander's head lifted from the book's page he had been staring at for longer than he could recall. He frowned at his cousin.
None?
"Not since the one three days before you went into the monastery."
Maybe he left Christiania.
Niels shrugged. "Or maybe he stopped."
Brander wrote on the note paper: Has Regent Bråthen given an opinion?
"He's only pleased that the deaths have ceased."
Ceased -- for now.
Niels shook his head. "Have I ever told you how annoying you are?"
Brander smiled: Because I'm right. I understand.
"Bah!" Niels crumpled the paper.
Brander pulled out another sheet. Have we heard from Gulbrandsen?
"Regarding what, precisely?"
Skogen's debts.
"Not since you paid the last one." Niels sat on the edge of his bed. "Before you went into the monastery."
You use words like I became a monk.
"Haven't you?"
What do you mean by that?
Niels pointed his finger and jabbed it toward him. "Why don't you ask what you really want to know?"
And that is?
"If anyone has accepted the lady's offer."
A dull ache pressed against Brander's eyes. Every morning he awoke and renewed his resolve not to think, wonder, or inquire about Lady Regin's situation. Thus far, he had only succeeded in not inquiring.
How could he help but wonder? A man agreeing to her terms would force him to choose between recouping his money -- plus a little extra, of course -- and claiming the estate for himself.
And that made him think about Regin. If he claimed the estate, he would either have to turn her out, or offer her a position. But she was a Baroness, not a housekeeper. She would be insulted and rightly so. And then she would leave. Where she might go, he had no idea.
Niels waved his hand, pulling his attention. "Brand?"
What?
"Where are you?"
I'm right here.
"No you're not."
He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes: I'm tired. I slept poorly last night.
Niels gripped his wrist. "Headache?"
Yes. I think so. That explained why he couldn't concentrate.
"Get in bed. I'll get the new medicine and the akevitt." Niels stood.
That medicine doesn't help and it tastes vile.
"It helps put you to sleep, and that's what you need. Now stop whining. You sound like a little girl."
Brander shook his head and regretted the movement immediately. He blew out through tight lips. He pushed himself up from his chair and crossed the small space to his bed. Niels closed the heavy curtains to block the late afternoon sun. The room darkened comfortingly.
Brander's clothes landed in a pile on the floor and he slid between his sheets. Already his skin crawled and puckered, oncoming pain making it oversensitive to the fabric's touch. This one was growing quickly. Nausea rippled through him. Luckily the midday meal was several hours past; perhaps he wouldn't vomit. The space behind his eyes thundered. As he waited for the disgusting medicine -- and the reliable akevitt -- to take affect, he forced his thoughts on to something pleasant.
Regin. Her face floated in front of him... Glossy brown hair, waving in the sun. Sapphire blue eyes deep enough to drown in. Tiny waist, high bosom. Round bottom.
Selling eggs. She'd do whatever was required, he guessed. To keep going.
Thorlak never deserved her. She was too good for him. Too smart for him. Look how she outmaneuvered me. A little.
She was a faithful wife. More than he merited... She tried... But the estate's a mess...
Drugged tendrils entwined with his thoughts and pulled them apart, though they didn't dull the agony slamming inside his skull. His last coherent contemplation was: she can't survive the winter.
Chapter Eleven
Christiania
September 29, 1720
Gulbrandsen summoned Brander and Niels to his office, saying only that it concerned the opium deaths and a new client.
Why go through Gulbrandsen? Brander scribbled. Why not contact Lord Olsen directly?
Niels shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps he didn't know how to reach us?"
Brander twisted his mouth in disagreement, but he had no other explanation to offer.
Have you heard of any recent deaths?
"No."
So Frederick might be withdrawing the offer of a title.
"What comes in easily leaves through the same door," Niels observed.
You cannot lose what you never had.
"A coin in your hand is better than the promise of two."
Two feet on the ground, not your head in the clouds.
Niels chewed his lower lip a moment. His eyes narrowed. Finally he spoke. "You win."
Brander grinned widely: I always do.
When Gulbrandsen greeted the men, he was puffed up like a mating sparrow. His eyes squinted with glee and his smile seemed to touch both ears. Not the demeanor Brander would expect when discussing murders by poison and a person requesting discreet discovery.
"Sit, please. Can I offer you some wine? Akevitt?" He bounced to the other side of the office where a sideboard held drinks and goblets. Obviously he was fully recovered from his near-death experience.
Brander nodded: Akevitt. Please.
Gulbrandsen turned his back and began to pour. Niels touched his shoulder and began to motion the solicitor's words. Even after more than five years' acquaintance, the man sometimes forgot Brander couldn't hear him.
Niels stopped abruptly and spun to face the older man, giving Brander his back.
Brander backhanded his cousin's arm: What?
Gulbrandsen turned and handed them each a glass of the strong alcohol. He looked like a hound that made off with a hambone.
Brander threw his arms wide, nearly spilling his drink: What?
"Oh, I'm sorry, Brander. You're so capable, I do forget you can't hear me. Forgive me." Gulbrandsen tottered around his desk.
Brander flashed an annoyed glare at Niels and pulled out his paper and graphite. His cousin rubbed a smile away with his knuckles.
The solicitor settled across from the pair. "First, the poisonings. King Frederick is not put off by the cessation. He wants the guilty party found and punished. He's adding a purse -- though of undisclosed size -- to the offer of a title for the man who can bring the culpable miscreant to justice."
That was better than what they expected to hear. Brander resolved to give this particular puzzle more of his attention. He nodded his understanding.
"And the new client?" Niels asked.
Gulbrandsen steepled his fingers. His eyebrows arched. "It appears the Baroness of Hamar has an offer."
Brander felt like those pointed fingers had just jabbed him in the throat. He gave a couple dry coughs into his fist. He sipped the akevitt and his eyes watered a little. He looked back across the desk.
Who?
"Who?" Niels echoed.
"This is where the new client appears," the solicitor stalled, grinning.
"The client who made the offer?" Niels asked.
"Yes."
What does he want from us? Brander scribbled.
"He wants the discreet and dependable Lord Olsen to escort Lady Kildahl from Hamar to his own estate for the actual marriage."
Niels glanced at Brander then addressed Gulbrandsen. "Why doesn't he go to her himself?"
"Di
stance. He is afraid he cannot get to Hamar and back to his own estate before the weather turns impassable."
How far is he from Hamar?
"About two hundred miles."
"How did her hear of the lady's situation?" Niels queried.
"Through me. I had an opportunity to represent both parties."
Brander looked at Niels. We would have to leave straight away, he gestured. Eight days in each direction, do you think?
"That depends on the direction, Brand." Niels addressed the solicitor. "Where are we taking her?"
After a very fecund pause, Gulbrandsen mouthed the word quite clearly, "Arendal."
Brander slammed his palms on the desktop and shot to his feet. His papers and graphite tumbled to the floor. Anger fizzled his blood and quaked through his limbs.
This can NOT be!
The lawyer slid his chair back, his mirth completely quenched. His eyes reflected his surprise and not a little fear.
Niels stood as well and pressed against him, arm's length along arm's length, the warmth and pressure wordlessly steadying him. Brander tightened his jaw so hard that a less healthy man might have cracked a tooth. He jabbed a finger at Gulbrandsen.
WHO?
"Jarl."
Brander stopped breathing. He digested that bitter name for a pace. Then he spun on his heel and strode from the office, slamming the doors behind him. He marched through the cobbled streets and alleys of Christiania, heedless of his direction but never getting lost. He knew this ancient city's secret ways far too well.
Jarl Hansen would be twenty-eight by now. Brander expected his younger brother would have married years ago. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he was a childbirth widower.
Why in God's name does he want another estate? he fumed. He's already got mine!
And now he was poised to undercut Brander again.
Brander had not communicated with his family since the day he left Hansen Hall in Arendal. In his imagination, he played out different scenarios for his triumphant return as the master of his own estate. They would see him differently, then.
No longer the deaf boy who wasn't equipped to inherit what -- by rights -- should be his, he planned to appear wearing the finest of clothes and traveling with a staff of servants in the best of coaches and livery. He would show his father and his brothers that he was worthy of their respect and honor. More than worthy.
