6. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
No. He was not as happy as I was. Not even close to happy.
Unhappy best described it. Sullen. Rude. Well, not exactly rude, as I was a prince, so he couldn’t be blatantly ill-mannered to me in front of Houghton and Vetra, but he was a sliver away from raising a lip every time our eyes met.
Seated in the back of a security vehicle as we made our way through the lovely countryside of ?stermon, the tension was so thick it was a wonder Houghton could see through the fog of strain to drive.
Rani was engaged with Vetra, comparing notes from Alva to my PA to ensure we did everything on the agenda for the day.
Alva was nothing if not incredibly organized—much thanks to Rani for that, I was sure—and punctual to a fault, as was Rani.
I dithered over my clothing and hair overmuch, so we were running late.
A fact that did not go unnoticed by Rani.
Vetra and Houghton were used to my tardiness.
Vetra had taken to telling me an event began at nine when, in fact, it began at ten just to ensure I’d be there on time.
Most times it worked. This morning it didn’t.
I’d wanted to look good for Rani, as I was now contemplating how to win his affections back.
The casual jeans, sweater, and hiking boots look had worked, for he checked me out when I joined them at the SUV.
Then, of course, he frowned before climbing into the front seat beside Houghton.
So, he still found me attractive. Good to know.
I found him utterly delicious in his dressed-down garb for the day.
One didn’t wear thousand-pound Euro dress shoes to a sheep farm.
He was in jeans as well, topped with a crisp green button shirt with a light checked flannel shirt tucked in the front, out in the back, ala Tan France.
Feeling rather good about the once-over from Mr. Adhikari, I let my head rest on the window as the personal assistants chattered.
“The tour of the sheep farm will take about two hours total. Several members of the press have been invited, along with Jens Rankin,” Vetra was explaining.
Jens was a professional photographer who had been one of our chosen royal photographers for twenty years.
We called him out for all of our prestigious events as well as ceremonies, birthdays, and the like.
Back in the day, before everyone had a cell phone, this was common practice.
Now it was usually just for high-profile things, so Jens coming out was a sign that my parents wanted these rural visits to be captured well.
I’d take some casual images on my phone, as would Vetra, and we’d share them with Rani and vice versa for social media postings.
“After the tour, there’s a late luncheon at two at the Torslev town hall.
They’ll be serving lamb dishes mostly, as that portion of the country is very sheep-rich.
That should take two hours minimum. Houghton, the local law enforcement has been notified and will send two of their men to aid you in security. ”
“Very good,” Houghton said, glancing into the rear view to see me before his sight returned to the road.
“After the meal, there is a small concert for you by the local school children with some songs and dances at one of the town churches. That will be completed by seven, and we should have you back at the castle by eight. Nine at the latest. Is there anything you wish to add to the agenda, Sir?” Vetra asked, pulling me from my admiration of Rani’s lovely neck.
My gaze flew from his Adam’s apple to his dark eyes.
Then I looked at Vetra, cheeks warming, to avoid the glower from Rani that was surely coming.
“No, that should do me in,” I replied with a smile. “These farmers are such wild things that I may have to tumble into bed as soon as we return home to recuperate.”
Vetra chuckled. Houghton smiled. Rani rolled his eyes. Oh well, two out of three.
Sighing to myself, I returned to looking out the window as the PAs made small talk, while Rani twisted around in the front seat.
Soft classic rock played on the stereo, something from Hall & Oates, as the lush landscape rolled past. Outside the capital, which was quite modern in spots, the true beauty of ?stermon shone through.
Fields of rich, golden, early fall wheat, potatoes, sugar beets, acres of fodder feed for livestock.
Our soil was good, not as good as, say, Denmark’s, but good.
We had to import most of our fruits due to the cold weather that enveloped our island in the winter, obviously.
Pastures filled with cows, sheep, and goats lazing under a late September sun brought a smile to my face as we passed them.
I did love ?stermon. I just wish we were more progressive.
That would change under Frode, I was sure, for he had plans to bring our little island nation into the twentieth century at the very least, he liked to half joke.
Perhaps his eldest son might tug us into the twenty-first when he wears the crown.
Lord knows ?stermonians were a stubborn lot.
Just look at how long Rani was able to hold a grudge.
Not that it wasn’t a well-founded enmity.
I’d been an arse. Still was, if I were being honest, but I was trying to lessen my jerk standing. That had to count for something, right?
***
“Shame you weren’t here in the spring. We could have shown you how to shear the sheep. My da used to do it all by hand. He’d sit on that stool there in the corner, sit the sheep down on its arse, then clip away with one hand while holding his pipe in the other.”
I gave Shepherd Jakob Davidsen a kind nod as one of his four hundred sheep chewed on my back pocket.
We were surrounded by white cotton balls with legs.
Most were polite. Several were pushy, and a few were downright crude.
I’d been nudged in the balls at least ten times by bony-headed ewes and gangly lambs.
The past hour, I’d been deflecting nut shots while trying to be cheerful for the press who were following the good farmer and me through barns and pastures.
Pastures thick with sheep shit. I gave up trying to avoid the mounds of pellets after the first thirty minutes.
I’d have to ring for my father’s valet, Gorge, to tidy up my clothes when I got home.
I didn’t employ a valet as I could dress myself, and quite well, thank you, but digging sheep poo out of the treads of my hiking boots was not exactly my cup of tea.
“He stood the sheep on their heads?” I asked because someone had to.
“No, not on their heads. On their arses. This is my wife coming now.” Farmer Jakob snickered at my silliness.
An older woman in a paisley coat appeared out of the barn, face weathered from years in the sun just like her husband’s.
“She wanted to present you with a scarf she knitted from our very own wool. She’s a bit shy, though, so she asked me if I’d talk to you for her. ”
“How kind of her,” I said, taking the bright green scarf from the timid woman and wrapping it around my neck. Cameras clicked away as I shook hands with the wife whose cheeks turned cherry red. “Thank you, Mrs. Davidsen. Just what I needed. It’s chilly out here.”
“You’re welcome, Your Highness. We are immigrants from Norway.
We love it here. We love the royal family.
We are very much honored for you to be here,” she softly said right as someone yelled something from behind us.
So much for her shyness. Her brown eyes went wide just before I was knocked arse over kettle from the rear.
I flew forward with speed as shouts rang out around me.
There was no time to react with any kind of grace.
I went down hard, face first, in a shitty mud puddle with a grunt of pain.
Arms out, I managed to block the fall a bit, but not enough to keep my chin out of the muck. The smell was much stronger down here…
“Solberg!” a younger male voice bellowed. I lay there, winded, as mucky boots raced around me. I blinked, wheezed, and took note of hooves racing past with several people in chase.
“Your Highness!” Houghton called, dropping down beside me as the beast who attacked me ran in a circle, the ram’s head down in order to knock someone else off their boots as the farmer’s son, maybe a hired hand, tackled the beast to the ground. “Are you all right?”
Vetra and Rani arrived, both looking terribly worried, which made me happy to see. At least he didn’t hate me so much that he wanted to see me mangled by a British Suffolk ram named after a Norwegian hockey player. Things were looking up!
“Fine, yes, fine,” I lied as my guardian eased me into a sitting position among a herd of nosy sheep. The ram was subdued for the moment, but I could see the dislike in his horizontal eyes.
“Shall we see if you can stand?” Houghton asked with a hand under my elbow that I hurried to gently shake off.
“I’m fine, truly.” I got to my feet, a little shaky, a lot filthy, and gave the press a hearty, embarrassed laugh to put them at ease.
“I’ve been rearended before but never with that much force,” I tossed out to be witty as my head spun from the impact.
Rani actually snorted in amusement then coughed to cover the sound up.
“Deepest apologies, Your Highness,” Farmer Davidsen said as he ran up to check on me. “My youngest son, Henrik, did not latch the ram’s gate well. Please, let us take you inside to wash up your face and hands.”
“That would be most kind,” I replied, limping along making bon mots with the press as was my role in life. Rani stayed close, his deep brown gaze filled with concern he tried to hide but couldn’t. A faceful of sheep dung and a bruised coccyx were a small price to pay for those worried glances.