by Tualla, Kris
"Don't you know his language?" she asked Jarl, sincerely surprised.
"We're out of practice," Olvir said. "It's been eight years or so."
Stricken, she looked back at Brander. "Will you tell them?"
"Tell us what?" Lord Balder barked.
"He better say something that justifies his sharing our hospitality," Roald sneered.
Regin gasped. "But he's your brother!"
"That can be debated," Jarl said. "He has not acted in a brotherly fashioned for some time."
"Tell us what?" Lord Balder pounded the table.
Olvir touched Brander's arm and claiming his attention. "If you have some news to share, now would be the time."
Brander poured another goblet of akevitt and took a healthy swallow.
"Has he become a drunkard?" Lord Balder accused.
"No!" Regin looked around the table. Anger and suspicion closed in on Brander. How could they treat their own brother this way?
"Will he tell us soon?" Jarl asked. "Or will he simply drown himself in my akevitt?"
Regin stared at him. "Why do you all talk about him like he's not here?"
Brander nudged her arm. He handed her a letter. She unfolded it and saw the official wax seal at the bottom. She began to read and quickly recognized what it was. She looked up at Brander.
Read it to them.
She nodded, astounded: Yes.
She stood and cleared her throat. Her hands shook a little, softly rattling the paper. She began to read aloud. As the official accounting of the murderous monk unfolded, including the murders in Christiania and Tønsberg before Eskil's death in Arendal, the brothers began to sit up straighter. When she read the narrative outlining how Brander had tracked him and arrested him, guilty glances bounced around the room like jugglers' balls.
And when they heard how Brander proved the man guilty by feeding him his own poisonous opium with another monk as his witness, their jaws hung slack.
"It would seem that justice has been poetically served," Regin murmured. She folded the letter and handed it to Brander. Then she sat and waited for a response.
Brander tucked the letter into his wallet. He gulped his final goblet of akevitt. Then he stood unsteadily. She gripped his hand and his slightly unfocused gaze dropped to hers.
Tell them about your headaches, she motioned.
His eyes edged out from under his lowered brow and his consideration swirled around the table. Whatever he motioned in response was lost to her. But his disgust and fury were blatantly clear. He turned, and with one hand skimming the wall, he stumbled from the room.
*****
Brander fought his way out of his tunic and boots and trousers, leaving them in a jumbled heap on the floor of his bedchamber. He was relegated to a guest's room, his own quarters long since re-assigned. He sent his valet -- a young man of sixteen whom he didn't know -- for more akevitt and a bladder of hot water.
He really wished Lady Regin would come and rub that lavender salve on his chest. But that couldn't happen. He lay sprawled across his bed wearing only his long shirt, dizzy but not drunk enough to dull the mounting pain or put him to sleep.
He missed Niels.
Niels was going to be fine.
It was hard to work without him.
The valet returned with a bottle of red wine and the hot bladder. Brander wiggled his fingers to see the note he sent with the boy. Akevitt. Plain as a ten-foot wall. He pointed at it.
The boy shrugged. "They said you couldn't have akevitt."
Hell. Now they were treating him like a damned adolescent on his first spree.
Brander opened the bottle of wine and finished it in three long pulls. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He'd have to piss later. He pointed at the chamber pot then at the floor beside the bed. The boy moved it close. Then Brander ordered him gone.
He lay back on the bed and snugged the bladder behind his neck. The heat seeped into his knotted muscles and inched through his frame. He tried to relax. He hadn't relaxed for so long.
Eskil.
Visions of his baby brother, born when Brander was almost twelve, came unbidden to his mind. The boy had something the physician called colic; all Brander could see wrong with him was that he cried. Hard. For hours.
Brander held him, pulling him from their mother's arms. She looked so tired and weak, her face pale enough to appear blue. He was worried about her and it seemed the crying baby was making her worse.
Mamma, I can't hear him cry, he told her. You rest.
Then he walked the boy outside, pacing miles of circles around the grounds of Hansen Hall until the babe finally fell asleep. It felt good to be helpful; there was so little they let him do. He walked the boy every day for months until his brother's crying finally stopped.
But his mother never got better. She died a year later.
Eskil.
Brander abandoned his youngest brother eight years ago. And sometime during those eight years -- according to Lodur -- Eskil turned into a wild young man. He spent his time drinking in taverns and sleeping in whorehouses. Became dissolute and debauched. Became the perfect target for Brother Mikkel's twisted sense of justice.
Brander rolled onto his belly and buried his face in a pillow. He cried without making sound. His throat hurt with it. His chest heaved and his tears soaked the linen pillow cover.
Hansen Hall
October 23, 1720
Regin and Jarl sat together and read over the marriage contract. Regin agreed to give full ownership of her ancestral estate in Hamar, plus the title of Baron, to her husband. In exchange he agreed to pay off the outstanding debts in the amount of five thousand and one hundred fifty dalers. The legal description of the estate was included -- provided by Mister Gulbrandsen. The only thing missing were the names of the creditors. Monies were to be paid to the solicitor and he would disperse them.
"I suppose they wished to remain anonymous," Regin posited.
"I imagine so. Gambling's a dirty business," Jarl said. He wiped his hands together as if to clean them. "I suppose the only decision left is when to hold the wedding."
Panicked raced through Regin's limbs and her heartbeat surged. She felt like the organ had climbed into her throat. "That would depend on you, Jarl. I know you lost your brother recently. Unexpectedly. And I don't wish to hinder your ability to grieve properly."
An odd expression crossed over Jarl's face, as if he was angry but unsure how much of that anger to express. "My youngest brother was a disappointment to the family. He had the same sort of temperament as Brander. Apt to do rash things."
"Oh, dear." They thought Brander rash. Regin wondered if yesterday's revelation about his capture of the killer had any impact on their feelings about him. It didn't seem so. Her pulse banged in her ears.
Sadness suffused Jarl's features. "I might go so far as to say his unsavory demise was earned."
"I'm so sorry, Jarl." What else could she say? She daren't champion Brander again without risking her betrothed's wrath. But why was she so intent on championing Brander?
Because I'm... No. I cannot be.
He nodded. "As am I. At any pace, I suggest we hold the wedding in three days."
"Three days?" she squeaked. "Is that enough time to prepare?"
Jarl took her hand. "May I be honest?"
"Yes. Yes of course." Oh my Lord -- what now?
"I am twenty-nine. And you are twenty-seven?"
She nodded.
"And you're a widow. We are not a blushing maid and her inexperienced adolescent lover. If we are agreeable to the terms of the contract -- and we are -- there is nothing to be gained by delaying the ceremony. In fact," Jarl's hand slid up her arm and curled behind her neck. His fingers were warm and smooth and tickled her nape. "There is much to be gained by acting promptly."
The image of Brander under the carriage flashed in her mind. Her heart punished her now, threatening to beat itself to death.
She forced the word out, "Yes."
"Good. Three days hence and you shall be my bride." Jarl leaned away from her and tilted his head. Surprise pulled at his brow. He touched one of her cheeks, brushing it tenderly. "Why look at you. You are a blushing bride after all..."
Regin grimaced a smile and nodded.
*****
Brander was still in bed. The afternoon's slanted sunshine sliced around the edges of the heavy drapes meant to keep it out. His head felt gripped in a vise and his belly demanded food. But the tray they brought to him sat mostly untouched.
He tried not to think but to escape the pain through sleep. But some of the pain wasn't physical and followed him into his dreams. Dreams of lost brothers and stolen lovers.
The bedchamber door opened as he stared at it, hoping for Lady Kildahl; what he saw lifted his mood almost as much. Niels walked into the room. Brander lifted his head and managed a grin.
Niels pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. He slumped as if the walk from his own room had seized his strength. Brander knew how he felt.
Good to see you.
"It's good to see anyone," Niels replied. "Headache?"
Started yesterday.
"Did you get drunk?"
Yes. Still hurts.
"Hot bladder?"
Yes. Still hurts.
"Lavender salve?"
Please, God. And more akevitt.
"I'll ask Marthe."
Thank you. She never left your side, you know.
"I know." Niels smiled. Was he blushing? "What about you?"
Me?
"You caught the monk, I hear. Gave him his own medicine."
Yes.
"I'm sorry about Eskil. I'll miss him."
Me, too.
"Have you told them about King Fredrick's reward? About the title?"
No.
Niels frowned. "Why not?"
They hate me. They think I can't do anything right.
"They know about the monk?"
Yes.
"And they weren't grateful?"
I drank a lot and came to bed. They think I'm a drunk and wouldn't give me more akevitt.
"Maybe they'll express their gratitude when you're better."
I don't care what they think.
Niels gave him a challenging look. "No?"
No.
"What about Lady Kildahl?"
Brander shrugged the shoulder he wasn't laying on.
"Are you going to let her marry Jarl?"
Why not?
Niels leaned forward. He spoke slowly and clearly. "I have known you for a quarter of a century. You have never been in love before, so I doubt you'll be in love again for another quarter century. And by then you'll be too old. Or dead."
You think I'm in love?
"No." Niels leaned back in his chair. "I know you are."
Brander closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear anymore. And he certainly didn't want to think about Regin marrying Jarl. His head hurt badly enough as it was.
We'll leave when you are well, he gestured with his eyes closed.
Niels touched his hand. He opened his eyes.
"Brand, don't be a fool. Don't let her go," he urged. "If you do, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."
Bring me akevitt and the salve, he replied. Then he closed his eyes. Their conversation was over.
Chapter Thirty
Regin and Marthe spread all of Regin's skirts, bodices and sleeves throughout her bedchamber. Three days should be enough time to fashion a suitable wedding gown out of what she already owned. Marthe unfolded a length of felted wool that held ribbons, laces, embroidery threads and buttons. The challenge was to use the meager supplies to their best advantage. While Regin worked on the dress, Marthe would sew a new sleeping gown for her.
"I think the gold silk skirt and sleeves," Regin suggested. "They are the best quality after the black velvet."
"And you'll not wear black to a wedding in any case," Marthe scolded. She lifted a cream satin bodice. "How about this with them?"
Regin fingered the bodice. The satin was in good condition but it was plain. "We had gold silk left from the skirt, if I remember. Do you have it?"
Marthe dug through a small pile of folded fabric pieces. She held up a scrap as if it was a battle trophy. "Here it is!"
Regin cut a small piece of the silk and folded it to look like a rosebud. "Do you like this? I could trim the top of the bodice with gold silk roses..."
"And this." Marthe held up a small string of seed pearls. "We could glue a pearl at the base of each bud."
"And use this gold metallic thread to embroider leaves!" Regin laughed. "Perfect!"
The women set to work, silent at first. Marthe cut linen for the nightgown and began to tuck and pleat the front. She wove narrow blue ribbons through the gathers to match Regin's eyes.
Regin worked on the silk rosebuds. The last time she wore the gold silk skirt she wore it with the burgundy wool bodice. It was the first day she sold eggs in the Hamar market and she didn't want to look poor. It was also the day she noticed the tall golden stranger staring at her from across the square. His eyes met hers and she was captured.
Now that man was no longer a stranger.
The panic that jolted her when she was talking to Jarl began to shatter her again. After seven years of marriage to Thorlak she never felt as connected to him as she did after three weeks in Brander's presence. And worse, she couldn't look at Jarl without seeing his elder brother.
"Ouch!" Regin sucked blood from a needle-stuck finger.
"My lady?" Marthe lifted her face from her needlework.
"It's nothing," Regin deflected. She looked at the welling drop of blood and sucked it again. So many feelings spiraled inside her that she couldn't sort them out. They tangled hopelessly and tied up her thoughts in endless circles.
"Marthe?" she ventured.
The maid looked up again. "Yes?"
"What if I never see Kildahlshus again?"
The nightgown crumpled in her lap. "Why would you ask that?"
"Jarl says he is planning to send Roald to Hamar to run the estate."
"That seems a good idea, doesn't it?" Marthe asked. "To have a capable chamberlain living there? One who can oversee the tenants? Make certain their needs are met and the work gets done?"
Regin slid her gaze to Marthe. "Yes. That's all quite admirable. But - but what about me?"
Marthe's shoulders sagged. "What is truly on your mind?"
What was on her mind? Regin was suffused with a sense that she was losing everything she ever had and it pulled her into a pit of terror. And that made no sense. Marrying Jarl would give her all that she sought. She would have her debts wiped away. Her ancestral family's estate -- Kildahlshus -- would be saved from creditors.
"What family?" she whispered.
Marthe leaned closer. "My lady?"
"I said what family?" Regin peered at her maid. "I am the only one left."
"You still have your sister--"
"Who is married and living in Denmark." Regin shook her head. "She isn't coming back to Hamar, Marthe. I am the last one."
She stood and paced across the chamber muttering, "I'm the last of my line. Why do I even care about the estate? My children will be called Hansens. Jarl will probably change the name from Kildahlshus to one of their family names. It's all for naught."
"But your children will inherit," Marthe said. "I thought this was what you wanted."
Yes. Children. Unless she died in the birthing bed. So many women did.
"And Lord Jarl is said to be a fair and trustworthy man. All of the servants have told me so," Marthe pressed.
Jarl. At the least she would have a new and respectable husband. Regin heaved a sigh and moved to the window. She leaned her forehead against the thick glass and stared at the courtyard below. Tiny balls of snow danced on the wind, blowing in eddies and piling around the stone building.
She felt like she too was being blown on a capricious wind, her path swept a
side and her destination uncertain. "Marthe..."
"Yes?"
She hesitated before she let the words out slowly so as not to startle the silence. "What if I changed my mind?"
"Changed your mind? About what?"
Regin turned toward her. "About marrying Jarl."
Marthe stood and clasped her hands in front of her chest. "You would lose Kildahlshus."
"I know."
She raised a brow. "And then where would we go?"
Regin swallowed, her throat gone dry and her eyes stinging. "Christiania."
The maid stepped closer. "And how would we live?"
This was so difficult to put into words. But she had to know. She couldn't let the possibility melt away like early snow without testing it first. "I need to ask you a question."
"Go on."
"Has Niels said anything about Brander?" She gulped a breath. "Or me?"
Marthe's eyes dimmed. "What are you thinking?"
For a moment, Regin considered telling Marthe that she was desperately in love -- not with Jarl, but with his elder brother. That Brander understood her like no man ever had. That his very presence made her heart dance. That she could not imagine settling for less, even if it meant she would lose her estate. Suddenly a third story garret seemed comfortable and secure. Rife with passionate possibilities and unconventional prospects.
"My lady?"
"Never mind, Marthe. Let's get on with our tasks." Regin straightened. "And stop looking at me like that."
Regin walked back to her seat and took up her needle. Her finger had stopped bleeding. She folded another bit of gold silk into a rosebud and laid it against the bodice. The women worked in a quiet broken only by the faintest taps of snow on the windows.
Marthe's soft voice stirred the air inside the room. "Opportunities seldom pass but once," she said. "Wisdom lies in knowing when to grasp them, and when to let them go by."
Regin's fingers stilled. Her pulse thrummed. She wouldn't look at Marthe, afraid of what she might see in the woman's face.
Should she -- could she -- allow Brander to 'go by'? Or should she grasp him with both hands and submit to an uncertain future with the deaf gentleman of discovery? A future whose shape she couldn't begin to imagine? '
