by Tualla, Kris
The morning was overcast with thick white clouds obscuring the hilltops around them. There was no frost, but the damp cold was worse than a crisp chill. It soaked into one's bones and made them ache.
Time to get up. Time to get moving. Time to head into Arendal. And pray they beat the snow that hung heavy in the white clouds. Twelve miles yet to go. Four or five hours over the rough road with the damaged carriage. Twelve miles until he could get Niels into a warm bed with warm food, God help him.
Brander eased himself away from Regin and scooted out from under the wagon. His stomach rumbled its complaint. But the sky was too threatening to linger long enough to hunt, butcher and cook a meal. Yesterday's feast would have to hold them a bit longer.
Lady Kildahl crawled out from under the carriage soon after he withdrew his warmth. She shot him a shy smile before she stumbled into the woods. Brief as the smile was, it warmed him throughout. He hated that he would give her up. He hated that he wouldn't choose to keep her.
The snow held off for about an hour. Large icy flakes began to pummel them, carried on a quickening breeze that the road led him straight into. Brander turned around and walked backwards to keep the wet snow from blowing under his hood and melting down his neck. He shooed Lady Kildahl behind the carriage to walk in its protection.
He pulled the reins and led the horses. The poor animals were hungry as well, having had to forage in the woods at night for anything leafy they could gobble up. Now the snow beating against their faces made them irritable. They tossed their heads and balked.
The ground wasn't frozen so the first layer of snow melted. The second layer partly dissolved into the first. Brander's boot steps, followed by eight iron-shod hooves, churned the already damp road into mud and half-frozen ice. By the time the carriage wheels caught up, the slush was over half a foot deep. They carried the sloppy mixture off the road and plopped it back down with every half turn.
Their pace slowed as the flakes whipped them, blinding, biting, melting and soaking into everything. Between the increasingly dense snow and the fog of the not-quite-freezing air, Brander couldn't see more than ten yards ahead. He kept his eyes on the road, scanning for wheel ruts or hoof prints to assure he hadn't led them astray.
As the day aged, Brander knew they couldn't reach Arendal. If his guess was correct, they still had four or five miles to go. But his legs burned and he couldn't feel his toes. His cheeks were stiff with cold.
He stopped the carriage tight under a rock outcropping and began to loose the horses. The tap on his arm was Lady Kildahl. She stood with her arms wrapped around her waist. Her cheeks were bright red. Strands of her hair clung to her skin like brown vines growing under her hood.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
We cannot go on.
"How far is it?"
He held up four, then five fingers. He shrugged: It's too hard on the horses.
She nodded and didn't fight him, which was a surprise: What will we eat?
No hunting in this storm. Too dangerous.
She nodded again: Where will we sleep?
With Niels taking up half the coach's interior, that was a problem. There was scant room enough for the two ladies. His large frame would never fit.
You and Marthe in the carriage. With Niels.
Her eyes glared her alarm from under a lowering brow: And you?
He shrugged again. There was no dry ground anywhere to be seen. Perhaps he could curl up on the bench seat.
You will... "Freeze!" she complained.
What else can I do?
Her mouth twisted in displeasure. "You will have to go inside and dry off. At least do that much!"
Yes. But first.
Brander used the axe to scrape snow and slush away from the carriage wheels. If he didn't -- and there was a freeze overnight -- the wheels would be frozen to the ground and the conveyance solidly stuck. Regin understood what he was doing. She grabbed their bucket and began to scoop the heavy snow away from the wheels.
When they finished, she pointed him into the carriage with a determined expression that even a man as big as he wouldn't dare to cross. She followed, opened the door and exchanged words he couldn't see with Marthe. The maid nodded and stepped out of the coach and Lady Kildahl ushered him inside.
He sat so he could look at Niels. He hadn't conversed with his cousin for the three days since he found the man slumped on the driver's bench. Niels' color had gone from ruddy to pale. His light brown hair stuck out from his scalp like a jester's cap. His eyes were closed.
Brander's foot was lifted and his attention jerked to Lady Kildahl. She was tugging at his boot, trying to remove it. He caught his heel on the toe of the other foot and loosed it. The wet leather slid off easily and the process was repeated on the other boot.
Lady Kildahl propped both of Brander's feet in her lap -- awkward because his legs were longer than the space so his knees bent and splayed outward. She used her skirt to dry them. Then with her warm bare palms she began to massage the feeling back into them. It hurt like hell.
But he was in heaven.
Brander leaned his head against the wall of the coach and closed his eyes. He knew how dangerous frozen toes could be. They blackened and if they weren't cut away the man would die of gangrene. Sometimes they died anyway, sickened by the amputation. He concentrated on the relief brought by the widow's intense manipulations.
When he opened his eyes, Lady Kildahl sat cross-legged facing him and Marthe was tucked on the floor. His legs angled toward Niels and his feet were by his cousin's head. He was wearing clean, dry stockings he didn't recognize. The coach was darker than he thought.
Hello sleepy head, the widow gestured.
He shifted his arse on the hard bench: I slept?
For an hour and a half, I think.
He squinted out the window. The snow seemed to have stopped but the sky was still low and thick.
He motioned: I'll go outside now. There is no room.
Lady Kildahl leaned forward and gripped his arm: No.
Yes. He unpeeled her fingers from his sleeve: I am warm and dry. The night is long. There is no room.
She pressed her lips together, obviously displeased, but helped him into his boots just the same. He folded himself in half in the crowded space and tried not to kick Marthe in the head in the process. He was almost successful. The thick wool stockings buffered his feet from the cold wet leather of his boots, at least for a while.
When he stepped from the coach he realized he was an idiot. The cold clammy air ran up his back and swirled around his neck. He already felt the stockings grow damp. Even so, he hitched himself up to the driver's bench. If he removed the axe, the bucket and anything else stuffed under the bench, he could wedge his body beneath it. The wooden seat would give him some protection against the night. And he stopped the carriage downwind under the rocky overhang, so the dying breeze didn't reach him.
I'll be fine.
As long as I don't think about Regin.
Chapter Twenty-Five
October 19, 1720
Sun sliced between his eyelids. Brander squinted and turned away before he opened his eyes. He unstuck himself from beneath the bench and did a quick assessment of his extremities. All had feeling and seemed to be working, though they were cold and stiff. He managed an awkward climb to the ground and stomped off to relieve himself.
The sky was still splotched with clouds, but the sun shoved them aside. The slush hadn't frozen overnight -- and while that was good for him as he slept exposed to the elements -- it meant another damned day of trudging through muck.
Thor's thunder, he was tired of mud. Every bit of his clothing had turned brown and he doubted his boots would ever be useful again. The women had it even worse. Both Re-- Lady Kildahl and Marthe had mud stains on their skirts and their cloaks that reached up to their thighs.
He was hungry, too. But he still didn't want to delay the journey. Only four or five miles more and they would be in a town wi
th inns and taverns and -- Hansen Hall. He made a quick visual sweep of the forest but the remaining snow disguised the ground. He wasn't about to start digging for nuts now. That would be like finding a specific pebble on a rocky shoreline.
Instead, he harnessed the irritated horses.
*****
The four miles into Arendal took over three hours to traverse. Mud caked the wheels, the horses' hooves, her boots, her skirt, her cloak. Regin was so hungry that she chewed on a little pine branch just to give her mouth something to do besides water uselessly. She knew she should help Brander keep the wheels scraped clean, but she didn't have the strength for it.
"There it is," she breathed. "Arendal."
They had topped a small rise and the road twisted downward from there. The North Sea inlet sparkled in the intermittent sunlight like Brander's beard did in the firelight. Fishing boats by the dozens docked at a long pier. A wooden stave church stood three stories tall in the center of the town. A crowd of people streamed from that building and a small group clustered in what appeared to be a graveyard beside it.
Brander stopped beside her. "Where is Hansen Hall?" she asked.
You cannot see it from here.
He tugged on the carriage reins and started their descent down the hill. She followed, and tried not to stumble. She was cold and weak from hunger and exhausted from walking for days and filthy with mud and she had not slept comfortably for more nights than she could remember. All she wished for was that the journey would end.
Regin knew they looked rough, but she wasn't prepared for the blatant stares they garnered as they rolled into the village. Brander kept his hood up and his head down and he just kept walking. She wished she could be so cavalier. But she was about to meet her new husband and she couldn't be more of a mess.
Her emotions churned. She was losing her friend, a man she trusted. She was going to marry a stranger, a man she didn't know if she could trust. She wouldn't see her home again for six months or more. And because of the winter that bore down on them, there would be no communication with Kildahlshus. She couldn't know if her tenants survived.
She was losing her friend. She was losing the man she trusted.
She was losing the man she loved.
Regin felt the weight of the Kildahlshus on her shoulders. She stared at the road and concentrated on taking another step. I'm just too tired and I haven't eaten for two days. I'll feel better later. I will.
"Stop, there. Stop!" A man in a sort of military uniform stepped in front of them. Regin grabbed Brander's cloak. He whirled around and met her eyes, then the man's.
"What's amiss?" Regin asked.
"The hearse is coming." The man pointed to the heavy wagon that was bearing down on them. She looked at Brander to be certain he understood. His eyes were fixed on the hearse.
It rumbled past them in a rattle of metal and wood, leather and horseshoes. The huge iron wheels splattered her with muddy water.
"Oh," Regin gasped. She took a step backward and futilely tried to brush away the slop. In the end she knew it didn't make any difference.
She was relieved there wasn't a coffin on its platform, though the dead man or woman would have been a stranger to her. Still, a corpse crossing her path didn't bode well for her future at Hansen Hall. She looked up at Brander to see if he was ready to continue.
His eyes narrowed and he stared intently at her. Who?
"Who, what? Who died?" she asked.
He nodded.
She turned back to the soldier. "Excuse me, sir. Can you tell us who died?"
His gaze was palpable as it scraped over her, taking in her filthy condition. "What business is it of yours?" he sneered.
An inspiration seized her; a way to make the man speak. She tilted her head. "Was it one of the Hansen's of Hansen Hall?"
He recoiled. "Yes. How did you know?"
Regin's world shifted and she felt the cobbled street beneath her sway. Think. Ask a question. Don't stand there like a fool! "Which - which one? It wasn't Jarl, was it?"
"You know the family?" he asked, clearly skeptical.
"We are connected," she blurted. "Who died? Please, sir!"
The soldier glanced at Brander and was met with the sort of look that felt like daggers. Regin prayed he'd never look at her that way.
He cleared his throat. "It was the youngest son. Eskil."
"How old was he?"
"Just shy of twenty, madam." He bowed a little and dipped his chin. "If you'll excuse me?"
"Wait!" Regin reached out her hand. "How did he die?"
The man's eyes shifted sideways as if to discern what ears might be near. Then he whispered, "Poisoned. Good day." He spun on his heel and strode away without looking back.
Regin faced Brander to see if he had followed the conversation.
He stared at the ground. His jaw jutted forward and his beard rolled over muscles that tensed, released, and tensed again. His chest expanded and shrank in jerky breaths. There was no question that he followed every single word.
She touched his arm. He closed his eyes and shook his head. She didn't know what to do. They stood in the middle of the road in the middle of Arendal and she had no idea which way to go. She touched his arm again but he yanked it away. So she stepped in front of him and put her fingers under his chin. Stiff beard hairs prickled their tips. She lifted his chin and waited for him to look at her.
"You find that bastard, do you hear me?" she whispered.
His eyes were dark, stormy gray, refusing to borrow blue from the sky: Oh, I'll find him. And I'll kill him.
*****
Hansen Hall was built on the top of a bluff about a mile west of Arendal's center. Dominated by a round tower built of rough stones, its turreted top stood three stories over the road and five over the empty moat that dipped around it. There were no windows in the tower, only the vertical slits which allowed archers to defend the inhabitants.
Extending off one side of the tower was a two-story structure, built centuries later of quarried stone. This addition had glass windows, leaded in a multitude of small diamond-shaped panes. Peeking over the flat roof of the medieval façade were several tall chimneys spouting gray smoke like a row of fluttering flags. Regin could hear waves impaling themselves below the cliff. She wondered how far down the water was.
The main entrance was centered in the medieval section, in an arched alcove beyond the moat bridge. A heavy wooden door stood under a carved "H" and displayed two sculpted friezes: Thor on one side, and Christ on the other.
Brander stopped the carriage in the yard. He took Regin's arm and together they climbed the stone steps, worn down in the middle by centuries of shoes. He grabbed the round iron knocker on the massive portal and thrust it against the planks. Regin heard the echoing beyond.
Her heart thudded as hard as the knocker and her chest felt as hollow as its sound. She trembled so violently, she thought Brander could certainly feel it. After an eternity, a servant opened the door. With a jolt, Regin realized she needed to make the introductions.
"L-lady Kildahl and Lord Olsen to see Lord Jarl Hansen," she stammered.
The man looked them over from head to heel and lifted a skeptical brow. "This way."
They were ushered into the Great Hall. It was drafty and Regin shivered with cold. Her boots left muddy footprints on the polished marble floor. She was so dirty her skin didn't even feel like her own and her hair was in tangles. She swayed, exhausted and faint from hunger.
"The valet in our carriage is very ill. Can you see to him?" she ventured to ask.
He tipped his head in mute acknowledgement and exited the hall. She and Brander were left standing alone in the cavernous room.
A tall blond man with strong features -- like so many of their Nordic race -- strode into the room. His eyes were clear and green as emeralds, his expression somber yet curious. He wore a dark green velvet doublet and he smelled so clean that Regin cringed. His gaze bounced incredulously from her to Brander.
"Lord Hansen."
Regin made to curtsy when Jarl shouted, "What the hell are you doing here?"
She straightened, stunned by his discourteous greeting. "I'm Lady Regin Kildahl, Baroness of Hamar!" she retorted. "You sent for me!"
"Not you, Lady!" Confusion and disbelief fought for dominance over Jarl's features. He threw a stiff finger in Brander's direction. "Him!"
Regin glanced over her shoulder. She faced Jarl again, angry at his blatant rudeness. "That's Lord Olsen of Christiania. You engaged him to escort me here."
"That's not Lord Olsen," Jarl scoffed. His color grew alarmingly red and he jutted his chin the same way Brander did. "Or is that the game you're playing now?"
Regin was lost. She looked between Brander -- sullen, glaring, unmoving; and Jarl -- nearly apoplexic in his accusations.
"What is going on?" she cried. "Brander?"
His gaze flicked to her and back to Jarl. He made a gesture that Regin could not have understood correctly. It wasn't possible.
"You think I have forgotten, Brand?" Jarl challenged. He pointed at her with his chin. "Did she understand you?"
Truth was slamming Regin's chest. "No..." she moaned.
Jarl stepped closer. "Then I'll tell you. The man before you who claims to be Lord Olsen is in reality my elder brother, Brander Edvard Hansen!"
The similarities in their looks suddenly became undeniably obvious. How could she miss it? Brander's words screamed through her head: I didn't inherit. My father had no confidence in my abilities. He is the oldest son -- at Hansen Hall.
She rounded on him and began to pummel his chest with her fists. "You lied to me! All that time! How could you do that!" she screeched.
The room grew too warm. The walls wavered like banners in a breeze. Her arms fell to her side and dissolved. She managed a squeaky, "You bastard!" before the hall went black and she floated away into tingling darkness.
*****
Regin awoke in a bed. She was cocooned in white sheets, multiple pillows and a down-filled comforter. The room was dark, lit by only a fire in the hearth.
