A/N: Believe it or not, this story is still in progress: but here is the first chapter in any case, just to get everybody going. It's my hope to have the entire thing completed and posted by the end of this week. I look forward to your feedback on this one especially, as I've been waiting to write this for a very long time!
§ § § - January 6, 2001 – Lilla Jordsö
Not till the jet's landing gear bumped onto the runway at the lone major airport on Lilla Jordsö did Rogan Callaghan come back to reality and look around. So this was his destination. It was odd how it reminded him of the Ireland of his youth, although it was flatter by far. In the near distance there was the skyline of what he assumed was the capital city. The sky was overcast and there was a white dusting on the ground; flurries beat against the jet's windows as he gazed out.
He had been going over and over the presentation Julie had helped him write two days before. Roarke had been the first person he'd told, just that past Monday; they had been up till almost two o'clock that morning, with Roarke grilling him minutely, covering every possible point, and then making him sign reams of forms once he was finally satisfied with what Rogan had to tell him. It was official now, and he was happy to have leaped that hurdle, although he'd known all along that it was really a matter of bureaucracy and double-checking. Roarke had been in on this from the moment he'd thought of the idea. Now it was King Arnulf he had to persuade, and from what little he'd heard of the man—second-hand via Julie from Leslie—it would take French-kissing the Blarney Stone to gain enough loquacity to convince him.
The thought of Leslie made him bite his lip. Unlike her father, she had no idea what was afoot; Rogan had insisted she remain in the dark, for he hated the thought of crashing his cousin's hopes if this failed. Her entire future lay in his hands. The very idea made his gut freeze. He was so busy trying to convince himself he could do this that he wound up being the last to disembark, and shoved down his apprehension with a great effort and a lot of mental pep-talking on his way to pick up his luggage.
Fortunately, he was met by a long black limousine, just as he'd been promised, and gave the driver a smile and a tip of an imaginary hat. "I'm Rogan Callaghan," he said.
"Welcome to Lilla Jordsö, herr Callaghan," the driver said politely. "The drive to the castle will take about twenty minutes. There are refreshments in the back, so please relax."
Rogan nodded, outwardly unconcerned, but inside he was a bale of nerves. Still, he was curious enough to explore the inside of the car once they were on their way, and did indeed find a small cooler stocked with canned soft drinks. He poked through them and chose a Coke; he figured he was going to need caffeine to stave off jet lag till he'd dealt with King Arnulf. So far things were going as they should be.
When the car came within sight of the castle, Rogan let out a low whistle. It was the most forbidding place he had ever seen, including the forlorn ruins he'd explored as a child. How on earth did this country's royal family stand living there? The place was so impressively negative that he couldn't keep from blurting out the question the moment he saw his contact under the portico.
Princess Anna-Kristina laughed. "When I was a child and thought I was going to be the queen," she confessed merrily, "I had grand plans to raze this pile of stones and put in something modern. I used to think a glass castle would be lovely…I think I got that idea from some old fairy tale." She offered her hand on Rogan's chuckle and shook. "I'm so glad you're here! I told my sisters and swore them to secrecy—I want to catch Pappa by surprise, so that he doesn't have a chance to come up with some reason to refuse you. Leslie must be so excited!"
"Actually," Rogan said, falling into step beside her as they entered the enormous reception hall, "Leslie doesn't know. Both Mr. Roarke and I thought it was better she be kept in the dark, because the last thing we want is to devastate her if this somehow doesn't work out. You didn't tell your uncle, did you?"
"No, Uncle Christian doesn't know either," Anna-Kristina assured him. "As I said, only my sisters. I have to tell you, if this goes through, it's going to be wonderful for us all. Marina's different now from how she was when Pappa married her off to Uncle Christian. At that time she was slowly dying of some terminal disease, and she was serene, accepting, the most docile person I've ever met. Then she and her father were cured, and her whole personality seemed to change. She's still quite nice, but she's no longer docile and certainly not very serene. She stands up to my father against anything and everything, she suddenly talks all the time, and she's the one who set him straight on her marriage to Uncle Christian—without mincing words, I heard." She sighed. "I have to admit, if this works, it will be a relief to see her go back to Italy for good."
"Sounds pretty contentious at times," Rogan offered distractedly, trying not to be intimidated by the sheer size of the foyer. Though they spoke softly, their voices still echoed gently off the walls. "You're very sure you can get your father to see me?"
"Yes, I made certain to put the appointment on his schedule," Anna-Kristina said. "Since I insisted that the succession pass to my sister Gabriella, I've been Pappa's secretary. That way I can be prepared to make my own way eventually."
"Devious," Rogan said, grinning. "Here, since you're so deep in this…why don't you give this a once-over." He handed her his proposal notes. "My wife and I drew this up together a few days ago, and I can only hope it's persuasive enough."
Anna-Kristina scanned them, checked the contract Rogan and Roarke had drawn up together, and grinned widely when she saw the next-to-last clause. "Priceless!" she cried. "This will truly free Uncle Christian. I hope you won't mind if I sit in on your meeting."
"I'd welcome your support," Rogan said, eyeing her thoughtfully. "But listen, before we do this, I want you to test my product against what you currently import, and let me know if you notice a difference—and whether one seems better than the other."
Anna-Kristina smiled. "We can do that right away. My sisters and mother and I were having a late lunch, and there's ice cream for dessert. We can put some on that and make the comparison then."
In a massive dining room, she introduced him to her mother, Queen Kristina, and her younger sisters, Gabriella and Margareta. They greeted him, the princesses with excited smiles that confirmed they were in on the secret, and urged him to take a chair. Rogan watched, his gut roiling again, while the three sisters did a blind comparison.
Queen Kristina, who was watching, studied them curiously and said something in jordiska, to which Anna-Kristina replied at some length. Kristina grinned, nodded at Rogan and excused herself; her daughter giggled. "She wished us good luck, and she hopes we win our fight," she told Rogan.
Rogan smiled. "Another one on my side…that's good to know. So, what's the verdict, then? You may as well put me out of my misery."
"There's a less sharp flavor to this one," said Anna-Kristina thoughtfully, indicating the right-hand half of her bowl. Like her sisters, she had sprinkled each source over half her ice cream. "I think it lets the flavor of the food shine through better, too. What about you?"
"I agree with you," Gabriella spoke up. "The right-hand half of my ice cream tastes much better than the other."
Margareta nodded vigorously. "So which half is yours?" she asked.
"You lasses have given me a great deal of hope," Rogan said, grinning broadly at them. "The half you like better is mine." The three princesses cheered, and he laughed.
"Don't forget to let us know what happens," Gabriella reminded her sister as she and Rogan got to their feet. "It's really time all this came to an end."
Anna-Kristina nodded. "As soon as I have the official word," she promised.
The churning began again in Rogan's gut as he followed Anna-Kristina out of the dining room and across the enormous reception hall through which everyone entered the castle. "Is King Arnulf as unreasonable as he's been made out to be?" he couldn't help asking.
Anna-Kristina paused in the middle of the hall and looked curiously at him. "I suppose it depends on who you are and what you want," she said. "Marina, for example, has always been able to get away with everything…and Uncle Christian can't even take a deep breath without my father scolding him for it, it seems. I myself fall somewhere in the middle. He's a terribly old-fashioned man, but it's possible to make him see reason; it's only that it can take some time."
"Then maybe we'd better send for a couple pitchers of water," Rogan said, glancing back at the dining room. "I already have a case of dry mouth, and having to speak at length will just make it worse."
Anna-Kristina nodded. "I'll take care of it. Wait here, and I'll go into Pappa's office with you when the servant brings it out."
Rogan took the opportunity to peer around the great entry hall; it stretched up into what seemed like the very sky, and was heavily monochromatic with its gray stone, ivory marble floor, and black wrought-iron hand railing along the second-floor balconies that ran the length of either side of the hall. About a dozen chairs on each side lined the walls, and Rogan supposed the king liked to leave all visitors sitting there awaiting his leisure. He scowled to himself. Someone he once knew used to advise him, "Never let 'em see you sweat, Rogan, old man. No matter if he's a janitor or a king, he's just a human being, same as you and me. He's still gotta get up and stand in the john every morning." As soon as the last line scrolled through his memory, he let out a laugh. His buddy had been right, as usual, and he relaxed. The simple fact here was that the king had to have the stuff just to stay alive; if Rogan could beat the count's price, he'd just about have a sure thing.
Anna-Kristina came out with two servants, one bearing a pitcher and a pair of tumblers, the other carrying a tray each of sandwiches and cookies. "This should help," she said, "and my father can have some too, so that everyone is comfortable. His office is that last door near the corner over there. Follow me."
Rogan and the servants trailed her to the door, on which she tapped before calling to her father and pushing it open. She stepped inside; Rogan and the servants squeezed in after her, and the princess shoved the heavy door closed again while the servants placed their burdens on a corner table and Rogan took in the large but windowless room. It, like the others, had stone walls, in this case hung with tapestries that looked to Rogan as if they dated from the Viking era. They were faded, frayed and undoubtedly fragile.
His eyes skipped to the figure behind the desk. King Arnulf II was studying him without expression; he was a surprisingly slight man, very pale, with mostly gray hair and permanent lines carved on either side of his mouth. He struck Rogan, upon first glance, as being careworn, under a burden he could never shrug off.
"This is your one-o'clock appointment, Pappa," Anna-Kristina said.
Rogan offered a slight bow. "Rogan Callaghan, Your Majesty," he said.
Arnulf nodded back, without changing expression. "Please be seated," he said in a thick, rolling jordisk accent. "You need not call me 'Your Majesty' each time you address me. I believe the English word is 'sire', is it not? That will be enough."
"As you will, sire," Rogan agreed, taking one of the large heavy chairs in front of the desk and placing his briefcase down beside it. The case had been Julie's suggestion; she had apparently figured it would make him look more professional. To Rogan it was only an affectation, but since he was dealing with royalty he guessed it couldn't hurt. In any case, it had come in handy for transporting his notes, copies of the contract he and Roarke had so painstakingly written together, and several spice jars of his very first carefully harvested crop of amakarna.
Anna-Kristina ensconced herself in the other chair and made herself comfortable. Her father glanced at her but evidently didn't object to her presence. "I understand you have a business proposal?" he asked of Rogan.
"I do, sire," Rogan said and lifted the briefcase onto his lap, where he opened it and withdrew one of the spice jars. "I reside on Fantasy Island and operate a greenhouse there, specializing in rare and exotic spices. Just recently I finally achieved the right mix of conditions and soil to successfully grow amakarna, and I present to you a sample of my first crop." He closed the case in order to reach across the desk to hand Arnulf the jar; the king took it, staring in visible surprise.
"There has been only one source as far back as anyone knows," Arnulf said slowly, rotating the jar in his hands and examining the contents. "Now you tell me you are an alternate source?"
"Yes, sire," Rogan said. "Admittedly, a brand-new one, but an alternate source all the same. I've worked on this for a full year, and the results are excellent."
"They are, Pappa," Anna-Kristina broke in. "Briella and Magga and I tried some of it, and it tastes far better than what the count sends us. Try some and taste for yourself!"
Arnulf gave his daughter another surprised look. "You sound very certain."
"Of course," she said, eyeing him as only one of his own offspring could get away with doing. "Mr. Callaghan gave us the chance to compare his spice and the count's side by side. Mr. Callaghan's is much better."
Arnulf returned his attention to the spice jar, rotating it again, turning it upside down to peer at the bottom, then removing the top and taking a cautious sniff. He blinked in amazement, his eyes widening, and sniffed again. "It has a milder scent than the spice we use currently," he said.
"Yes, doesn't it smell lovely?" Anna-Kristina agreed, springing out of her chair and taking a cookie off one of the waiting trays. "Try it on this."
Rogan watched her in amusement; she seemed to be doing all the selling for him. She handed the cookie to the king, who tapped a few fine grains of the spice out of the jar atop the dessert and then took a bite. Unconsciously Rogan tensed with anticipation.
The king sat there and chewed the cookie for what seemed to be an abnormally long time; he finally swallowed, ruminated silently for a few seconds, then ate the rest of the cookie in frustrating slow motion. Anna-Kristina sighed loudly; Rogan forced himself to be patient. No point in blowing the sale now…
Once more Arnulf swallowed, and then smiled, completely unexpectedly. "You are correct, Anna-Kristina," he said, "this spice is of an excellent quality. I too can taste a great difference from the count's product." He gestured toward the trays. "Bring me a sandwich, then, and when I have tried it on that, I will give you the verdict."
Could it be that simple? Rogan would have held his breath, but now that he'd seen how the king took his time about eating, he knew he'd faint before Arnulf had finished chewing his first bite. He shifted a bit in his chair, trying not to look obvious about it, and waited in silence. Anna-Kristina lost patience after her father took his second bite, got up and took a sandwich for herself. "Would you care for one, Mr. Callaghan?" she asked.
"No, but thank you, Your Highness," Rogan said with a quick smile. Anna-Kristina resumed her seat, appropriated the spice jar and sprinkled some on her sandwich, which she then proceeded to devour with exaggerated noises of enjoyment that had Rogan fighting not to laugh. Her father gave her a long stare, but she simply smiled angelically at him and popped the last bite into her mouth.
"Absolutely wonderful," she announced. "I wouldn't mind being hooked on amakarna if it were this. The count's leaves a peppery aftertaste."
Arnulf eyed her again, just a trace of amusement glimmering in his eyes. "No one likes a pushy salesman," he said drolly. In spite of himself, Rogan's laughter escaped.
Grinning briefly, Arnulf turned his attention back to Rogan and said, "I am very interested in obtaining your spice. As my daughter says, this is of excellent quality, and it allows the flavor of the food to come through, rather than masking it." With another glance at the princess, he admitted, "And yes, the count's spice does leave a strange taste after it has been swallowed, whereas yours does not." He pulled open a drawer in the desk and poked around in it for a moment or two, till he extracted a folder and opened it. "This is the current contract with the count," he said, lifting it and peering at it critically, as if searching for something. "It is due for renegotiation within several days in any case; there will be no problem with breaking this, especially if the price is right."
Anna-Kristina sat up in excitement and beamed at him. "That's wonderful, Pappa!"
"Have you a contract I may examine?" Arnulf asked.
"That I do, sire," said Rogan and took out one of the copies. "However…before we reach an agreement on a price and sign our respective copies, there is one point I must make particular reference to; the clause is in the contract." At Arnulf's quizzical look, he drew in a deep breath and said, "My only ironclad stipulation for activating the contract is that you free your brother, Prince Christian, from his arranged marriage."
Arnulf went completely still and stared at Rogan with astonished eyes. Rogan calmly returned the gaze, exerting all his control to keep from breaking first. He's still gotta get up and stand in the john every morning. Surely he wasn't that cruel…