A Matter of Principle (28 page)

Nicolas rubbed his chin. “If you are looking for a likely victim to rob, we haven’t much with us.”

“
Ooh, robbery. Now there’s an angle we hadn’t thought of!” said the first man.

“
Is that so?” Nicolas leaned back. “You stand out in this freezing rain just to mock passers-by until they fight you? For what purpose?”

“
Our own amusement.” Second Man did not sound amused. “Now, get down.”

“
I don’t care to.” Nicolas pressed his arm against Leif’s.
Steady, boy.

“
Get off that buggy!” First Man shouted.

“
Why?”

“
I’ll show you why!” Second Man growled, lifting a musket.

Nicolas pushed Leif to the footboard. The explosion from the gun echoed through the trees and Nicolas felt the ball pass through his hair. Leif was torn from his side and thrown to the frozen ground with a pained grunt.

Nicolas catapulted himself off the opposite side of the carriage. He bolted off the road, grabbed a branch from the forest floor, and gripped it like a sword. He pulled his dirk from its home on his belt. Obviously the musket was spent, but he had no idea what other weapons might be used against him. Armed as best he could be, he spun around and charged the men, bellowing a warrior’s cry.

The branch came down but was met by the musket. Nicolas went on the attack. His body remembered the Norwegian training. His movements were smooth and decisive; branch versus musket in the makeshift swordfight.

First Man stood transfixed, a pistol sagging by each hip, while Nicolas fought with exhausting grace.

“
Shoot him, damn you!” Second Man gasped.

Startled from his passive stance, he lifted a pistol and closed one eye to aim. Leif pushed up from the ground and threw himself at the man. Startled by the movement, the man whirled and shot wildly in Leif’s direction. The two fell to the ground, grappling and throwing punches.

Nicolas stepped back, and when Second Man pressed forward, he sliced the air with his dirk. Missing his mark in the failing light, he thrust again. Something dripped in his eye. He wiped on his sleeve and did not look to see if it was blood.

Second Man flipped the musket around. Gripping the barrel, he swung the heavy wooden stock back and forth, moving toward Nicolas. Nicolas bobbed and ducked, and looked for an opening for his dirk. Finding none, he pulled back and threw the heavy knife with all his strength.

He hit Second Man low on his ribcage. The dirk went deep, all the way to the hilt.

“
I’m hit!” the man cried, incredulous. “Help me! I’m hit!”

First Man rolled away from the berserk youth who pelted him without skill or mercy, swelling his eyes and drawing blood from his nose. He lifted the second pistol and aimed it at the Nicolas, who stood panting and unarmed but for a battered branch in one hand. Second Man fell to his knees. His hand grasped futilely at the dirk, and blood soaked his clothes; he was already dying.

The flash of the pistol was blinding. In the deep dusk, it illuminated the surrounding forest for a blink, burning that image into his eyes. The report of the powder rolled away into the trees, and the burnt stench stung his membranes. First Man turned toward the carriage. His jaw hung slack in impotent shock.

Sydney stood by the carriage, the pistol in her hand still smoking. First Man looked down at the hole in his belly and pushed against it with one hand.

“
I’m hit, too, Rodney,” he moaned. “I’m hit, too.”

Rodney did not answer.

He lifted the pistol and fired in Nicolas’s general direction. Then he fell forward, flat on his face, not bracing himself at all.

“
Nicolas!” Sydney screamed.

“
I’m here!” Nicolas answered. He leaned down and pulled his dirk from Second Man’s chest. It scraped against bone. Then he moved slowly toward the carriage. “Leif?”

“
Yes, Sir. I’m here.”

“
Are you hurt?”

“
Only my leg. It’s not broken, I don’t think.”

Death filled their nostrils. The reek of piss and shit, leaking from bodies unable to hold them back; the iron tang of spent blood. Clouds obscured the moon, so they had to feel their way to each other. Sydney’s hands skittered over Nicolas in a frantic inventory of his bodily parts. Then she held him, trembling, her face pressed against his shoulder.

“
I killed a man,” she sobbed. “Didn’t I?”

“
Yes.”

“
God in Heaven, please forgive me!”

“
You saved my life,
min presang
,” Nicolas murmured.

“
It’s a mortal sin…”

“
Nonsense. If you had not shot the man, he might have killed us all.”

“
Don’t say such a thing!” she cried, her voice muffled against him. “I cannot think of you dying!”

“
God understands, Sydney.” Nicolas lifted her chin. He could see the whites of her eyes. “You will not be banished to hell for saving your family from a pair of brigands.”

Sydney stared hard at him. “
Losing
you would be hell.”

“
I understand.” Nicolas touched her cheek. It was slick with tears. “Of all people, I believe I am most qualified to say that.”

“
What should we do now?” Vincent asked, climbing from the carriage. “Shouldn’t we summon the sheriff?”

“
Yes, we should.” Nicolas wiped something wet from his forehead, dripping in his eyes. This time, he tasted it. It was blood.

“
What about the bodies?” Leif asked.

“
We’ll leave them here. Come back for them tomorrow. Can you drive?” Nicolas felt the weakness that follows such excitement creeping through him. Pinpoints of light framed his vision.

“
Yes,” Leif answered.

“
Good. Because I believe I need to—”

When he opened his eyes, he was on the ground. He felt frozen wheel-ridges of mud against his back. He could make out the looming carriage on his left, and Sydney kneeling on his right. His head hurt.

“
Did I faint?”

“
Nicolas Reidar Hansen, you gave me the fright of my life!” Sydney sounded furious. “Where are you hurt?”

“
My scalp. I felt the ball pass through my hair, but I thought it missed me.” Nicolas reached for the spot and probed it gently. He felt a gash above his ear. “I guess it caught me after all.”

Sydney ran her hand up his arm and followed his fingers to the injury. “It will need to be stitched when we get home.” She sounded a bit less angry. “Are you able to get into the carriage?”

“
Of course.”
Probably.

Sydney seized his hand and her tug was just enough to get Nicolas on his feet. He climbed into the carriage and lay back across one seat. Sydney followed and sat facing him. Leif slapped the reins and the horses leaned into the traces, moving them once more toward home. Nicolas was silent, deep in consideration of the evening’s events.

“
I wonder who sent them,” he mused after some time.

“
Weren’t they thieves?” Sydney asked. “Common highwaymen?”

“
Which are
not
so common on this road.”

“
That’s true,” Sydney conceded. “Do you believe we were set upon intentionally?”

“
It’s the only explanation that is sensible.”

He heard Sydney draw a deep breath. “Beckermann?”

“
Perhaps…” Nicolas didn’t wish to concern Sydney more than was necessary. “If he felt that the fire was not effective in dissuading me. Assuming, of course, that was his doing as well.”

“
The debate yesterday night! You were very strong, Nicolas. Your points were clear and well received.”

“
I suppose…”

“
But if it
was
Beckermann, he certainly sent them far afield to accomplish the task. We are nearly to Cheltenham!”

“
But our departure was delayed,” Nicolas pointed out. “If they went looking for us, they might have traveled all the way to Cheltenham and then turned back.” He quieted, pondering the ramifications of the attack and wondering—again—if this whole endeavor was worth the risk.

“
Yes,” Sydney said.

Nicolas frowned. “Did I speak aloud?”

“
No. But I am sensible of the way your mind works.” She reached for his hand, fumbling in the dark carriage. When she found it, she raised it to her lips. They were warm and soft, and left a moist, cooling spot on his knuckles after she kissed them. He thought of the previous night and how her skin looked in the lamplight; smooth and rosy, inviting his touch.

“
You may not quit.”

Her words dragged him back into the cold, jostling carriage.

“
No,
min presang
,” he concurred. “I shall not.”

Chapter Twenty One

February 24, 1822

Cheltenham

Sydney felt a tingling up the nape of her neck. Head bowed in prayer, she glanced left, then right. In the opposite pew, Berta O’Shea stared at her, lips pressed to a line. Berta lifted the large pewter crucifix that hung around her neck and kissed it, then touched it to her head, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder. Her lips formed the word ‘witch.’

Sydney looked down at the floor, shaking with indignation. Berta was a Papist as was Sydney; but unlike Sydney she never attended the Lutheran service. It was obvious that the only reason she was here today was to taunt Sydney.

“
I’ll not dignify her with a word,” Sydney whispered.

“
What?” Nicolas leaned close, lowering his head.

If she looked at him, Berta would see her face. She dare not risk letting Berta see how much that accusation upset her. “After church,” she answered. She spun her garnet wedding ring around and around her finger.

Stefan squinted up at her with one open eye. “Are you talking while you pray?”

“
Praying is talking, Stefan. It’s talking to God.” Sydney closed her eyes. When the service ended, Sydney sought refuge in Pastor Fritz Mueller’s warm greeting.

“
Sydney! It’s so good to see you this day.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Father.”

By now, Pastor Mueller was accustomed to the misnomer. Since she suddenly appeared in Cheltenham almost three years earlier, Sydney worshipped here. It made sense; this was the church Nicolas attended. Catholic by faith, she had asked the Lutheran minister to hear her confessions and pray for her forgiveness. Together they reached a spiritual understanding that satisfied them both. And Fritz Mueller had helped her through impossible situations before.

“
Are you well, Sydney?”

Sydney startled. “Why do you ask?”

“
I don’t mean to be rude, but you look a bit pale.”

Sydney forced herself to stay calm. “Things have been—difficult—with the campaign.”

“
Oh?”

She shook her head. “I was not prepared for the enemies. Or the threats.”

Pastor Mueller took her elbow. “Shall we have one of our lunches, Sydney?”

Sydney looked over her shoulder at Nicolas. He spoke earnestly with Rickard, probably about the highwaymen. She faced the cleric. “Might we, Father? I have much to ask your advice on, and much I need your prayers for.”

“
Of course, my dear.” Fritz nodded his grayed head. He brushed back the few strands that remained faithful to his scalp.

Berta O’Shea stood in the back of the schoolroom which, every other Sunday, was converted to a church. Sydney ignored her, refusing to look in her direction, though she could see her from the corner of her eye. She slipped her hand into Nicolas’s.

He smiled down at her. “Don’t tell me. You wish to lunch with the pastor.”

“
Do you mind?”

“
Of course not.” Nicolas squeezed her hand. “I never do.”

“
Jeg elsker De,”
she whispered. I love you.

“
Jeg elsker De også
,” he replied.

Sydney needed to walk past Berta to leave the building. She lifted her chin and walked with determined steps toward the door.

Berta blocked her way.

“
May I help you, Mistress O’Shea?” Sydney asked as politely as she could manage.

Several women Sydney did not recognize crowded around the older midwife. “I’m surprised to see you here, Mistress Hansen,” she replied.

“
Is that so? Why, might I ask?”

“
I was told you were a Papist.” Berta clasped her crucifix. “Or have you left the
true
church?”

Conversations nearby quieted and eyes darted in their direction.

“
My faith remains unchanged.” Sydney would not give the woman more than that.