by Tualla, Kris
As for her husband, he had been kind at first. He seemed to truly care about her and she did grow to care deeply for him. She strove to be a wife he could be proud of. Unfortunately, he did not feel the same compunction.
She wanted to hit something. Or perhaps scream. Whatever it was, she needed to get out of the carriage.
Her gaze lifted and met Lord Olsen's dark, unblinking consideration. "Stop! Stop the carriage!" she cried.
Lord Olsen pounded on the roof and the conveyance slowed. Regin launched herself to the ground before anyone could prevent her from doing so. Before anyone could touch her. She fell to her knees then scrambled to regain her footing.
"My lady!" Marthe blurted behind her.
Regin gave her back to the carriage and ran blindly into the forest. She halted, stiff-legged and fists clenched, tossed her head back, and screamed as loud and long as she could. She pulled a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut and screamed again. She fell to her knees and screamed yet again.
She didn't stop until her throat burned and she grew too dizzy to regain her feet. If she had eaten anything at all that day it would now be on the forest floor.
Lord Olsen's tall boots moved into her circle of vision, smooth black leather against dry autumn-painted leaves. She followed their length upward to his dark trousers, his woven green tunic, and his towering, solemn visage crowned with reddish gold tossed by a breeze. His gaze did not question her. And it didn't condemn her. He simply offered her his hand.
His gentle acceptance undid her.
Tears clutched her throat. She blinked and swiped tears from her eyes, but that didn't stop new ones from blurring her sight. For some reason, she couldn't draw a deep breath.
Lord Olsen waited.
He wiggled his fingers just a little.
She reached out to him. He helped her to her feet and brushed bits of leaf from her skirt. Then he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and led her back to the carriage at a thankfully slow pace. Along the way she gained control of her breath, though denied tears still thickened her throat and stole her voice. That didn't matter; Lord Olsen couldn't hear her anyway.
Once she resettled in her seat, Niels whistled and the carriage moved forward again. In the ensuing silence Regin knew that Lord Olsen was watching her. She felt the weight of his perusal like her heavy winter cloak.
Whether that was a comfort was yet to be proven.
*****
Brander expected Lady Kildahl to bolt. He saw the glint in her eye and the tensing of her torso. He would have helped her down but she was out of the carriage too quickly.
He watched her scream and felt the pain in his own throat. He understood what she felt; she was as trapped by other's actions as he had been. She was losing her home unjustly just as he lost his. The world was not fair and her exasperation today exploded in the same manner his anger had eight years ago.
When she took his hand, his chest warmed at the contact. When he brushed the dirt from her skirt, he felt like he was brushing away her pain. And when he helped her into the carriage he felt as though they were allies, both seeking to repair the wrongs done to them by those they trusted.
Except, of course, Lady Kildahl could not trust Lord Olsen because Lord Olsen was a lie. That unpleasant information was hidden away for another day in the distant future.
He watched her now. When her eyes met his, he tapped a forefinger against his temple without thinking about it.
A flicker of confusion passed over her brow. She tapped her temple in imitation and he realized he had been thinking out loud. And she was waiting for an explanation. He supposed it would make the journey easier if she understood some of his gestures. He refused to acknowledge the dangerous pleasure that prospect gave him.
Brander held up his forefingers. He nodded and mouthed: yes. Then held up his middle fingers, shook his head and mouthed: no.
The widow nodded, watching intently.
He repeated the motion that caught her attention and mouthed: I know. I understand.
Comprehension eased her features and was followed quickly by gratefulness and a shy nod. "Thank you."
Then she pointed at him and tapped her ear with a middle finger: You don't hear.
He bounced his middle finger on his thumb: No.
She pointed again and touched her lips with the same finger: You don't speak. Her raised eyebrows made it a question.
He pressed his lips together: No.
Lady Kildahl crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. Brander stiffened inside, preparing himself for her next question, assuming he knew what it would be.
She lifted open palms and shrugged: Why.
A pointed finger: You.
Middle finger touched thumb: Not.
First finger to lips: Speak.
She pointed at herself: Me.
Brander straightened and began to respond. She held up a hand to stop him. He tried again, and she shook her head, frowning. He leaned back, curious now.
You.
She beckoned with her hand: Come.
Palm to her chest: My.
She hesitated, her mouth pinched in concentration, then held bladed hands in a point over her head like a roof: Home.
Alarm shot through him. Why didn't he speak to her when he came to her home? That was not at all what he expected her to ask.
Brander felt his face warming. He remembered quite clearly the words she had used to describe the two men who snuck onto her estate, spoke with her tenants, and disappeared. She believed them to be creditors -- and in truth he was. But he didn't consider himself to be rude, vermin, a bandit or a plunderer. Only cautious.
Now she looked so perplexed. Almost betrayed. He looked at Marthe, but her blank expression gave nothing away. If she understood her mistress, she acted the discreet servant.
Unable to cobble together an explanation that didn't reveal his situation, Brander finally tapped his temple with his middle finger: I don't know.
Undisguised disappointment shadowed her eyes turning them stormy like the sky. Her cheeks hollowed. Her lips pulled to a somber pucker. She turned away from him and stared out the window.
Her message was clear: We are finished talking.
Guilt sped his pulse and filled him with fury. He did not owe this woman anything. He hadn't even charged her for his services, such as they were. Her losses were not his doing and he wouldn't accept her blame for any part of her circumstance.
Brander pounded on the roof of the coach. When it slowed down, he leapt out like it was on fire.
Chapter Thirteen
The road to Eidsvoll
October 3, 1720
Niels settled into the seat that Lord Olsen vacated. Thankfully he was a few inches shorter than his lord, so his knees didn't bump into hers with each jostle of the carriage. His auburn-streaked brown hair was windblown and his cheeks ruddy from the cold wind. Brown eyes bounced from her to Marthe, where they rested.
The scent of damp wool filled the coach. Regin looked out the window again, this time giving the view her attention. "Is it raining?"
"No, my lady. But the mist is thick," he answered. "And the wind blows damp."
"Will it slow our journey, do you think?" Now that it had begun, she wished her sojourn would end quickly. Waiting and wondering was exhausting and she had lost all patience of late.
"It may. But Lord Olsen expects to push through until we arrive in Eidsvoll, though that will be well after dark," he demurred.
"Beginning an expedition of twenty-five miles when the day is more than half over guarantees that, does it not?" Regin snapped.
Niels blinked slowly. "We were unavoidably delayed."
Marthe's cautionary elbow pressed against hers and Regin drew a steadying breath. This was not the man who had provoked her and he didn't deserve her ire.
"I assume Lord Olsen has procured our rooms for the night?" she asked in a softer tone.
"Lord Olsen has seen to every detail of this journey, my lady," Niels resp
onded with a steady gaze. "He is a very capable and thorough man."
Regin nodded and faced the window again. Niels' words were comforting; she needed someone 'capable' in her life right now. But she'd prefer that person to not be so devastatingly handsome.
How could she prepare herself to meet her new husband with realistic expectations when she would spend the next ten days or more in the company of the modern equivalent of an ancient Nordic god? Nearly six-and-a-half feet, long of long limb and muscle. Strong jaw and sculpted cheeks. Hair the color of precious metals.
And his eyes. She wasn't certain of their color, they seemed a mix of blue, green and gray. But their intensity gave the impression they could delve into her very soul.
How was any merely mortal man supposed to compete with that?
Especially one who needed to purchase a wife?
*****
Brander tugged his cloak tighter and swiped icy rain from his eyes. Four hours into their journey the wet, gray October sky had faded to black and slowed their pace. The oil lamps hanging from the carriage didn't illuminate very far in the soggy weather.
Why on Odin's good eye didn't he let Niels drive again? Why was he sitting here in the rain rather than rejoin Re-- Lady Kildahl inside the coach? He told himself it was because the road was uncommonly treacherous in the cloud-obscured night. Because he was the one being paid, so he was the one who should bear the discomfort. He smothered the possibility that the true reason was his attraction to the feisty baroness. That was a path that must never be traveled.
She stunned him when she asked her question. He had expected the common queries: Were you born deaf? Why did you stop talking? And he expected her question to be spoken.
To watch her motion to him, using the few words he had shown her and adding logical gestures to fill the gaps, knocked all responses out of his head. No one in his entire adult life had ever attempted to speak to him with their hands.
And she did it without a hint of guile, trusting him not to laugh at her effort.
Damn.
Now, three hours after darkness reigned, his stomach demanded that he stop and eat. And change places with Niels. A shudder born of damp and cold scuttled through his frame.
He pulled the horses to a stop. They stood with heads down, blowing clouds of moisture into the saturated air as he climbed from the driver's seat. Niels popped the coach door open. His concern was visible even in the dim light.
"Finally you will let me drive?" he asked.
Did you eat?
"Before it was dark."
Brander bumped him on purpose. Did you leave me any?
Niels grinned and bumped him back. "No."
Then he heaved himself up into the seat. As soon as Brander sat and pulled the door shut, the carriage rolled forward.
The close, humid air inside of the coach reeked of wet wool, dried smoked venison, ale, and burning oil from the small interior's lamp. And under it all he smelt the lemon soap. There were many occasions where Brander wished his sense of smell was not so strong; this was most assuredly one of them.
He pulled the basket of food from under his seat and set it on his lap. Only then did he really look at the women across from him.
Lady Kildahl was curled in a tight ball on the short bench. Her eyes were closed and her head rested in Marthe's lap.
Brander gazed steadily at Marthe, assuming she would read the question in his unwavering perusal. She did.
"My lady didn't sleep last night."
He opened the basket then raised his brows and shrugged: Why not?
Though he guessed the answer was obvious, the maid didn't show that in her reaction.
"We only had one day to prepare. There is much to do when you abandon your servants, your estate and your tenants for an indeterminate amount of time."
Brander chewed on a chunk of dried meat while he pulled his wallet from his tunic. He wrote: Can you read?
"Yes."
Does she fear her new husband?
Marthe's lips curved slightly. "No."
With an acknowledging smirk he wrote: Does she fear anything?
The maid chuckled a little. "Only losing her family's estate, my lord."
She is a strong woman.
"That she is, Lord Olsen. I've never met anyone like her."
Brander used his teeth to uncork the flagon of ale. He drained it before he had the courage to write: I will do all I am able to see her safely to her goal.
"She knows that well, Lord Olsen. And we are both extremely grateful."
*****
Regin was stiff, her limbs cramped from cold and inactivity. She tried to stretch them but they hit the wall of the coach. Then she remembered where she was. She opened her eyes.
The seat across from her was empty and the carriage was not moving. She pushed herself off Marthe's lap and rubbed her eyes.
"Where are we?" she rasped sleepily.
"Lord Olsen believes we are just over one mile from Eidsvoll. He says he sees the town's light glowing on the clouds."
"So it's no longer raining?" Regin asked. She wiped away moisture on the glass and tried to see through the square window. "Why are we stopped?"
Marthe half stood and opened the door. "For comfort."
"Oh!" Regin realized her bladder had prodded her awake, not the cessation of movement. "Very good idea."
The women climbed from the coach and stretched before stepping away from the carriage lamplight. Regin stepped behind a tree and squatted over sodden leaves. She pulled a deep sigh at the blessed relief. Her breath clouded around her head.
"How long did I sleep?" she asked Marthe, who heaved a white sigh of her own a few yards away.
"Two hours, I think..." came the answer. "You never stirred."
"Did Niels trade places with Lord Olsen?"
Marthe stood and adjusted her skirt. "Yes, Lady. Soon after you laid your head in my lap."
That made sense. Regin thought she sensed the scramble of movement, but was too close to the edge of sleep to rouse herself.
"Ladies?" Niels called.
"We're coming," Marthe answered.
Regin grasped a handful of wet leaves to clean herself. She stood crookedly, her legs not yet fully awake. Together the pair stumbled over the black and uneven ground to the carriage.
Niels held the door open and Lord Olsen sat stiffly in the driver's seat once again. He didn't look in their direction. Niels handed them in and took the opposite seat once more. He banged on the roof and the conveyance lurched into motion.
Disregarding the lateness of the hour, the inn was well lit when Lord Olsen stopped the carriage in front of it. A portly man hurried out to help Regin and Marthe down from the coach and a pair of young boys retrieved their trunks. Niels conversed with the man while Lord Olsen led them inside.
The common room was empty. Regin tapped Lord Olsen's arm. "What time is it?"
He held up ten fingers, then two.
"Midnight?" she guessed.
He nodded.
Nearly seven hours past sunset on a cold and rainy pre-winter's night; no wonder the villagers were abed. Even the heaviest imbibers would have succumbed by now. Her belly rumbled.
"Do you think there is food?" she asked hopefully.
He nodded again and indicated she and Marthe should sit at a trestle closest to the blazing hearth. As soon as she did, an older woman approached with steaming trenchers of stew. She set them on the table and turned to Regin.
"Give me your cloaks, ladies. I'll hang them to dry."
She shrugged out of the damp garment, grateful. Her gown was damp as well and she prayed her room had a fire of its own for the same purpose.
Lord Olsen sat next to her and pulled the stew close. He attacked it as if he hadn't eaten all day. She wondered if he had gone without a meal, choosing to drive them instead. Niels sat beside Marthe and Regin noticed that the maid blushed, though she didn't turn her head toward the man.
When they finished their silent
meal, Regin and Marthe were shown to a small room with a bed wide enough for the two of them and -- thank the Lord -- a small fire. The women stripped to their linen shifts and draped their dresses around the hearth as best they could before hiding under the bed's thick blankets.
Regin shivered until her body began to thaw. Because the nap in the coach had revived her a bit, she wasn't able to quiet her thoughts enough to fall asleep, in spite of the comforting warmth of a full belly and a soft mattress. She longed to talk with Marthe but the maid's soft snore betrayed the woman's exhaustion.
With a deep and shuddering breath, Regin rolled over and faced the small room. One day of her transition was completed. She was one day removed from her home, and one day closer to her marriage.
I wonder if we will marry the day I arrive? Or will there be time for proper preparations? The exact date of their arrival in Arendal could not be predicted. Such a long journey was bound to be fraught with unexpected delays. Unless Lord Olsen was as single-minded as he proved today, pushing through fog, rain and darkness. And then there were the contracts to be signed and payments to be made...
Did her new husband -- Jarl Hansen -- know she was on her way to him? Did he know when to expect her arrival?
How old was he? Had he been married before? Did he have children?
Regin groaned softly and flopped on her back. She dragged the pillow over her eyes. Too many questions.
Perhaps Niels knew some of the answers. She determined that tomorrow in the coach she would ask him.
For reasons she couldn't acknowledge, she had no desire to ask them of Lord Olsen.
Eidsvoll
October 4, 1720
Brander sent Niels to tell the women that they would not be able to travel this day. Yesterday's rain and mist had not eased, and neither he nor Niels held an interest in spending a second icy day soaked to the marrow. Contracting a catarrh or possibly pneumonia would not be helpful to his cause.
So now he sat by the fire and ate another hearty if repetitious peasant meal of stew in a bread trencher and a big mug of summer ale. He had a book to read and he was enjoying his silent solitude. No one who owned all five of their senses could understand how tiring it was to miss one. There were days that his eyes ached with the strain of it.
