Two days later, Christian stood fully dressed in a tailored but somber traveling coat. He dismissed Dr. Madsen with a handshake and a formal, almost cold, word of thanks. The doctor, still vaguely unsettled by his patient's transformation from delirious boy to obsessive scholar, could find no medical reason to prevent his departure.
"The journey will be arduous, my lord. Do not hesitate to rest," was his final piece of advice.
"The time for rest is over, Doctor," Christian replied, and left it at that.
The journey from Copenhagen on the island of Zealand to Eskildsgård on Funen was a microcosm of the world he now inhabited. The carriage rattled over the capital's noisy cobblestones, past the spires of churches and the grand facades of ministries, before giving way to the muddy, rutted roads of the countryside. He watched the landscape slide by, a patchwork of fallow fields and small, clustered villages puffing woodsmoke into the gray sky. Every league, every farm, was an equation of inefficiency he was already solving in his head.
His valet, Lars, sat opposite him in the carriage, occasionally offering observations about a passing landmark. Christian used the man's innate talkativeness as a tool.
"Lars, you grew up on the estate," Christian said, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery. "Tell me of Manager Madsen. Is he a good master to the tenants?"
The question was posed with a casual, almost weary air, as if making conversation to pass the time.
Lars shifted slightly. "He is… efficient, my lord. The ledgers are always in order, or so he says. He works the men hard, but the estate turns a profit. Some say he's more merchant than farmer."
"A merchant?" Christian asked, turning to look at his valet.
"He has a keen eye for a deal," Lars elaborated. "Always at the port, overseeing the shipments himself. He keeps the docks busy, that's for sure."
I'm certain he does, Christian thought, a cold, clear image forming in his mind: Madsen standing on the docks, his portly figure overseeing the loading of stolen oak, a smug smile on his face as his master's wealth sailed away on the tide. Lars's innocent words were more damning than any ledger.
The crossing of the Great Belt, the strait separating Zealand and Funen, was made on a small, coal-belching steam ferry. Christian stood on the deck, the cold, salty spray whipping at his face. He watched the churning paddle wheels propel the vessel through the choppy gray water, a piece of modern technology that was still a novelty here. It was a symbol of the future, a force that would shrink the world, a force he had to master. For the first time since his arrival, a feeling that was not cold calculation but something akin to exhilaration touched him. The scale of the challenge was immense, but the potential prize was a world.
As they disembarked on Funen, the air smelled different—richer, earthier. After another few hours of travel, the carriage turned onto a private, tree-lined road. This was the domain of Eskildsgård. Christian saw the fields he had only studied on maps, the dark line of the northern woods on the horizon. Finally, the manor house came into view.
It was not a palace, but a fortress built for living. Two stout, square towers of gray stone flanked a large central building of dark timber and plaster. It was three stories high, with a steep slate roof and dozens of windows that glittered like eyes in the fading light. It was a place of substance, of old power, built to endure Danish winters and the passage of centuries. This was his home. This was his base of operations.
As the carriage clattered to a halt in the main courtyard, the great oak doors of the manor opened. The household staff, from the cook to the stablehands, had assembled on the steps, their heads bowed. At their head stood a man in his late forties, portly and red-faced, his expensive waistcoat straining at the buttons. His hair was meticulously oiled, and he carried himself with the supreme confidence of a man in charge.
This was Henrik Madsen.
The manager strode forward as Christian descended from the carriage, his face a mask of solemn sympathy.
"My lord," Madsen boomed, his voice rich and smooth. "A tragic homecoming. We have all been praying for your father, and for your own swift recovery. The estate welcomes you."
Christian met his gaze. He saw the flicker of assessment in the man's eyes, the quick appraisal of the young, grieving heir. He played the part he had rehearsed. He allowed his shoulders to slump slightly, his expression to remain clouded with sorrow.
"Thank you, Manager Madsen," Christian's voice was quiet, almost frail. "It is good to be home, though I wish the circumstances were different. I am weary from the road. We can discuss the estate's affairs in the coming days."
Madsen's smile became a little more genuine, a little more relaxed. The boy was weak, exhausted. Not a threat. "Of course, my lord. Rest and recover your strength. I have everything well in hand."
"I am sure you do," Christian said, his eyes sweeping over the assembled staff before returning to Madsen. He then turned and, with Lars at his heels, walked past the manager and into the great hall of the manor.
Later that night, Christian stood in his father's study. It was a room paneled in dark oak—ironically, the very wood his manager was so diligently stealing. It smelled of old leather, pipe tobacco, and beeswax. He looked out the large window, down into the same courtyard. He could see Madsen crossing it, sharing a hearty laugh with the head groom, his silhouette illuminated by a lantern. The man looked comfortable, powerful, secure.
He sees a boy, Christian thought, his hands resting on the cold windowpane. He sees an heir, overwhelmed by grief and responsibility, who will be content to sign whatever papers are put in front of him. He thinks he has weeks, months, perhaps years more to continue his plunder.
A thin, cold smile touched Christian's lips.
He has no idea the axe is already at the root of his tree.