by Tualla, Kris
I am taking you to your husband.
"And that means you can no longer be kind to me?" she demanded.
It is kinder to keep my distance.
Regin narrowed her eyes. "Kinder? For whom?"
He snorted and threw his arms wide.
Regin spoke slowly and clearly. "What is wrong with you?"
Lord Olsen straightened and gave her an ugly sneer. He jabbed a middle finger at his ear: I can't hear. I'm deaf.
Regin didn't think. She simply grabbed the wallet from his hand. Being deaf is an inconvenience, she scribbled. What is truly wrong with you?
Lord Olsen fell back as if she had struck him. His cheeks hollowed and he considered her with a cold intensity that prickled her skin. He was so still she didn't think he was breathing. She knew she wasn't.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Forgive me."
Lord Olsen's expression didn't shift, but he held out his hand. She laid the wallet in it. He slowly withdrew a sheet of paper. This message was written in controlled, even letters.
You do not know the things that I know.
Regin's heart thumped with a surge of fear. Her gaze jumped from the paper to his smoldering stare. "Am I in some sort of danger?" she gasped.
He looked away from her and his eyes squeezed shut for a moment. He gave a quick shake of his head. Then he turned and began to walk back toward the carriage.
Regin followed without another word.
Holmestrand
October 8, 1720
Brander lay in bed, unable to sleep. Lady Kildahl's audacity still had his blood in a boil.
The weather had remained gray and drizzly all day and as they entered the village of Holmestrand the nebulous light faded to dusk. The inn he chose was small, clean and empty enough for them to rent four rooms. He left Niels to watch over the ladies while he sought out a different tavern for his evening meal.
After he ate a simple meal, he briskly walked the entire length of the town and back again. Twice. It still hadn't tired him enough to assure his slumber. He flipped on his back and pulled the pillow over his eyes. Damn the woman.
What was wrong with him?
What was wrong with him!
Well to begin with, he was disinherited because he was deaf. Not because he wasn't fully capable of running the Hansen estate, which he most certainly was. But he was never given that chance. Not only did his deafness cost him his rightful position, but it cost him heirs. No woman would ever want to marry him, damaged as he was and without land, so he never even courted anyone. And he never planned to.
So he chose to take a trade and make his own way. He sacrificed every luxury in order to save his money and procure his own estate. And once he did, he would finally prove to his father -- for all to see -- the gross injustice that was done to him, the eldest Hansen son.
To complicate things, he had at last saved enough money to purchase a suitable estate; but the lady of that very estate threw herself on his mercy and asked him to help her save it from... himself.
And now he was escorting that woman two hundred miles and handing her and possibly her property -- his property, in truth -- into his younger brother's hands. The younger brother who had already usurped his inheritance once.
And no one at Hansen Hall was prepared for his return after an eight year absence. Or knew the 'Lord Olaf Olsen' that Jarl engaged was actually his estranged brother, Brander Hansen. How he would be received was not anything he could predict.
Brander threw the pillow on the floor. He got up for a drink of water and pulled the window open. Cold wet air soothed his overheated skin until it puckered in protest.
What was wrong with him?
He was forced into close proximity with the most beautiful, intelligent and determined woman he had ever known. And she wasn't afraid of his inability to hear. In fact she ignored it, communicating with him without effort. She challenged him. She trusted him. She considered him a friend.
And she was going to marry his brother.
Damn the woman.
October 9, 1720
Rain fell steadily, blurring the transition from night to day. Regin buried under the blanket and pretended not to hear the knock on her door. Marthe entered anyway, accustomed to her mistress's lack of morning enthusiasm.
"What time is it?" Regin groaned.
"The eighth hour, my lady." Marthe tugged the blanket back. "The rain darkened the sun and we all slept later."
"But it won't deter us from our travels, I'll wager." She stretched and sat up. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she paused and sniffed. "Breakfast?"
Marthe smiled and held up Regin's skirt. "On its way up."
The ragged draft team waited outside the inn, nipping at each other and snorting, obviously irritated to have been forced from their dry stable into another dank day. Niels said they would be traveling south yet again, as if Regin would find that fact remarkable.
More likely, it's an excuse to speak to Marthe, she mused.
Lord Olsen sat inside the carriage and let Niels drive. While Regin appreciated his presence and implied friendship, he was somber and uncommunicative. She decided she would rather do without such dismal company. The damp air in the coach coddled the pungent scents of wet wool, wet leather and mud.
Lord Olsen thankfully decided to end their day's sojourn early due to the steady drizzle which soaked the roadway and caked the wheels with mud. Tønsberg, only twelve miles closer to their goal, offered an array of inns and Lord Olsen stopped at two before declaring the third suitable lodging. Regin noticed that they passed an unusual structure -- a half-burnt religious residence set beside a round church -- twice during the search.
A large clock in the inn's common room showed nearly four in the afternoon, but the inclement day had already darkened toward night. A stout middle-aged woman led Regin and Marthe to a pair of connected rooms and promised to send up a servant girl with warm water and towels. Regin moved to the window and looked out onto the cobbled streets, dark gray and slick with rain.
"Do you think we might be able to get something warm to drink?" she asked. "I'm chilled and damp and wish to change into dry clothes."
"I'll ask about our trunks. I could use a change of clothes as well," Marthe said as she opened the door to the girl with the pitcher and towels.
The girl held out the toilette supplies. "Here you are."
That was odd. Regin turned to face her. "Set them on the table, will you?"
Her dark eyes darted around the space. "Th-this here's the ghosty room, my lady. I won't come in."
"Ghosty room?" Regin repeated skeptically. She nodded to Marthe who reached for the towels.
"Them two men died here less than a fortnight ago." The girl backed away. "They weren't shriven, so's they can't leave."
"Died? How?" Regin asked.
"Poison," the girl hissed. Then she whirled and scurried away from them.
Regin looked to Marthe. "Our dry clothes and warm drinks shall apparently be delayed," she sighed. "After we wash, I'll search out Lord Olsen or Niels to procure help with our trunks."
"I'll come with you, Lady. In the case you need assistance," Marthe said turning her back. Even so, Regin caught the edge of her blush.
"Niels appears to be a thoughtful man..." she posited.
Marthe fussed with hanging their cloaks by the fire. "Yes," was her cryptic reply.
"It is a shame he'll return to Christiania with Lord Olsen," Regin pressed.
"A hundred and fifty miles is insurmountable," the maid murmured, her back still turned. Regin walked from the window to the bed; it seemed neither of them would have the chance to marry for love.
"So, two men died in this room?" She turned her attention to details, looking for a clue. The room was lit by a healthy fire in the hearth and two oil lamps, one on the bed table and one on a desk near the window. The wood floor was clean and waxed and dully reflected the warm lighting.
Regin crossed to the bed and pulled back the
covers. The mattress smelled newly stuffed and was covered in tight, white linens. Two fat pillows were scented with lavender. A thick knotted comforter stuffed with feathers guaranteed a snug sleep.
"It would seem that any trace of the misdeed has been carefully cleared away," she mused, then looked at Marthe. "So I believe I have the best room in the inn!"
The older woman smiled wanly, "Yes, my lady. It would seem that you do."
Within the hour, a refreshed Regin and Marthe were enjoying hot spiced wine at a long table in the common room. Niels assured them that he would bring Lord Olsen to join them for supper. Then Regin could ask about a change of clothing. For now, sitting near the enormous hearth helped warm her considerably.
She knew Lord Olsen entered the room without fully seeing him, and she turned instinctively. Taller than anyone in attendance, he commanded her attention. He had changed clothes, she noticed with an irritated twinge. Dressed in a plain deep blue tunic, his eyes borrowed that color while his loose hair looked more like fresh flax than copper.
He paused until his eyes found her. Then he wove his way between tables to reach her, a slight smile curling the corners of his lips. His gaze never shifted from hers. He bowed a little when he reached her, and sat across the table from her.
With brows raised, he pointed at her cup and she nodded her silent assent. He lifted the mug, inhaled, nodded, and set it down. Turning to wave at the serving girl, he indicated she bring two more mugs of the soothing beverage. As he did so, Regin felt Marthe shift in her seat. A moment later, Niels sat beside his lord, followed by the mugs of wine.
"I need my trunk," Regin stated, ready to fight if she was denied.
Lord Olsen moved his hands; she recognized 'good.'
"He said, good evening, Lady Kildahl," Niels said with a barely suppressed smirk.
Regin pressed her lips together, chastised and knowing she deserved it. She mimicked the motions back to Lord Olsen.
He bounced his fist twice over his heart.
"Very good?" she ventured.
Yes.
Thank you, she gestured. Is your wine good?
Yes. Thank you. And yours?
Regin nodded. "About my trunk?"
Lord Olsen grinned broadly, but then shook his head. His hands flew and Regin turned to Niels, helpless to keep up.
"The trunks are too heavy to unload from the carriage and take up to the rooms. When the stay is so short, it's not worth the effort," the valet translated.
Unbowed, she faced Lord Olsen. "I require a complete change of clothing. I am damp and uncomfortable."
Niels answered her while Lord Olsen watched the movement of his man's lips. "I will escort you to the stable, Lady Kildahl. You may remove any items from your trunk there, if that is satisfactory."
Can you not dry your dress by the fire? Lord Olsen asked.
"I want clean clothes," Regin replied deliberately. "Is that unreasonable request?"
Lord Olsen had the good sense to appear chastised in return.
No.
Regin lifted her mug to her lips. "I should think not. I must be well dressed if my 'ghosties' appear."
Marthe snorted, grinning out to her ears.
Lord Olsen reached across the table and pushed the mug down and away from her lips. His brow was lowered and his eyes widened under them.
What did you say?
"What ghosties?" Niels asked, ignoring his cousin.
"The servant girl says my room has ghosts," she explained, confused at the men's sudden shift in mood. "Certainly you gentlemen don't believe in ghosts, do you?"
Niels explained Lord Olsen's rapid gesticulations: "Not ghosts. Only the source of the ghosts." Then on his own he asked, "Did the girl say why the room is haunted?"
"Two men died there about a fortnight ago. Though you would never know it! The room is spotlessly clean and the mattress re-stuffed and made up with new linens--" Regin stopped when Lord Olsen's palm slapped the table with a resounding crack. She cocked one brow at the startling and rude interruption. "What?"
It was Niels who answered with a question of his own: "How did they die?"
Lord Olsen's blue gaze darkened to steel and pinned hers, immovable.
"Poison," she said. "Why does it matter?"
His answering motions were slow and clear, and Niels labeled them as he went: Your husband was poisoned.
The shaft of Lord Olsen's steel twisted in her gut. "But we are so far away from Christiania!" she objected, desperately wanting the unlikely connection to be real, but not believing it possible.
A look passed between the cousins then, and Niels nodded. He stood as he spoke. "I'll have your trunks sent up to your rooms. Baths as well." He turned and wagged his way from the room.
Regin glanced at Marthe, who appeared as confused as she felt.
Why? she signaled to Lord Olsen.
He pulled out his wallet and wrote: We shall stay for a few days while I investigate these murders. They might be connected to the murders in Christiania.
Regin slumped in her seat. As much as she wanted Thorlak's murderers brought to justice, this was going to postpone -- again -- her arrival in Arendal and Hansen Hall, delaying her intimidating introduction to her new husband. And delaying the payment of Thorlak's debts.
"Will the creditors wait?" she asked, fearing the answer.
An odd look crossed Lord Olsen's countenance, but disappeared as quickly as it came: Yes.
Chapter Seventeen
Tønsberg
October 9, 1720
Brander wasn't wholly surprised to find that deaths by poison had occurred in Tønsberg. No opium deaths occurred in Christiania after two monks left Saint Hallvard Cathedral Priory, headed for this town. If his theory proved true -- that monks were poisoning noblemen as punishment for defiling their bodies and leading common men into debauchery -- then murders here could be anticipated.
Nor was he surprised that they had occurred at specifically this inn. When they arrived in the town, Brander decided which inn to choose based on its proximity to Saint Olav's Church and monastery. Driving through the streets that surrounded the religious order, he evaluated each one as the possible choice for a nobleman who wanted to indulge in the use of opium.
Nonetheless, he was elated to have chosen luckily.
He bounded up the stairs after supper, thanking God he had thought to pack his disguises, and excited to see his trunk waiting for him in his room. He would have to discuss strategy with Niels before making a move, but he thought that on the morrow he might visit Saint Olav's monastery as the silence-avowed Brother Petter.
When Niels arrived, the cousins hunkered down and planned their strategy. They needed to work quickly -- Lady Kildahl would not sit long in Tønsberg without complaining. And the winter would not hold back her winds just because Brander needed to dawdle.
October 10, 1720
Brander slipped silently from the inn in the frosted dark, well before the sixth hour. He wanted to arrive at the monastery before matins and at this time of year the monks' morning prayers were half an hour before sunrise. Head bowed and covered by his hood, he walked into the church and joined the line of devout monks filing into chapel.
A few brothers looked directly at him, obviously curious. He didn't blend in with them; he was dressed in the brown homespun of a Franciscan, not a more formally attired follower of Saint Olav. He nodded his acknowledgement, and then dropped his gaze. It was not yet time to engage with anyone.
When the prayers were over, Brander followed the monks into their dining hall. He sought out the senior member and handed him a note that read: I am Brother Petter and I have taken a vow of silence. I have brought a written message from Prior Daniel at Saint Hallvard's Cathedral Priory in Christiania for Brother Mikkel and Brother Tomas.
The man's gray-circled head lifted to reveal a face too young to match. He smiled and the only lines in his face gathered beside his eyes. "Welcome, Brother Petter. I'm Father Stefan. After we break th
e fast I'll meet with you in my chamber."
Brander bowed and took a seat alone. As he played the role of an intentionally forgettable stranger, any attempts at conversation would not be helpful.
*****
Father Stefan motioned Brander to a seat. His chamber was smaller than Brander expected, but everything was in its place and a warm fire burned in the hearth.
"So - you've come from Saint Hallvard's Cathedral Priory?" he queried.
Brander pulled his wallet from his robe, opened it on his lap, and unwound the twine from a shrinking stick of graphite. Father Stefan watched with obvious interest.
"How long have you been silent?" he asked Brander.
Brander hesitated. With a shrug he wrote: Eight years. And yes, I am come from Saint Hallvard's.
"Eight years?" Father Stefan met his gaze. "By your own choice?"
Brander gave the answer that always stopped the questions: I am being disciplined.
"Oh. I see." Father Stefan's consideration was curious and intent. "You said you have a message for Brothers Mikkel and Tomas."
Brander pulled the letter from his wallet that he and Niels had collaborated on the night before. He handed it to the senior cleric.
Father Stefan's brow puckered. "This doesn't look like Prior Daniel's hand writing."
It is not. One of the brothers wrote it for him.
"And why is that?"
Prior Daniel took a fall and sprained his wrist.
"What sort of fall?"
He tripped over a chicken.
Father Stefan pressed back a laugh. "A chicken?"
Brander curled one side of his lips and smiled with his eyes: I could not fabricate that sort of circumstance.
"No, I suppose that's true!" The clergyman grinned and turned his attention to the inked correspondence in his hand.
My dear Brothers Mikkel and Tomas,
I pray that this missive finds you both in good health. Your absence at Saint Hallvard's has been noted, and we pray that you will return to us in the future.
