by Kris Tualla
A knock on the door broke the men’s silence. Askel laid down the tunic he was brushing and dabbing clean, and opened the heavy wooden portal. The servant outside the door handed Askel a folded and wax-sealed missive.
Jakob’s valet crossed the room, staring hard at the seal before giving the note to Jakob. “Is that from King Henry?”
Jakob broke the seal and unfolded the message. He glanced at the signature. “Yes. He wants to meet with me at the eleventh bell.”
Askel collected the breakfast tray from the bed, its platters now denuded of food. “What will you wear, my lord?”
Jakob thought about which items of clothing he had already worn in Henry’s presence. Changing clothes often, even among the noble classes, was generally uncommon.
Considering the high costs of fabric weaving and dyes, plus the current fashion of elaborate laces and ornamentation, even the most high-ranking men and women owned a wardrobe dictated by their personal wealth. Only the king and queen had the resources to appear in new gowns and tunics as a matter of course.
For Jakob to meet the king in a third expensive tunic in three audiences would speak of Christian’s wealth. He pointed to a short one made of gold brocade. “That one.”
Askel nodded approvingly. “Very good, my lord.”
As the eleventh bell chimed, Jakob was ushered into Henry’s presence. Their meeting was being held in a private room and, besides the king, only Charles Brandon was present.
Jakob’s senses went on their highest alert. Clearly, this was no ordinary meeting between a king and his foreign guest.
“Ah, there you are Hansen.” Henry’s eyes held a hint of surprise as they swept over him from head to foot. Jakob surmised that his choice of attire had the desired effect.
He bowed from the waist. “How might I serve you, your Grace?”
Henry’s face took on a pensive expression. “I wished to speak with you privately about the Order of the Golden Fleece.”
At the word ‘privately’ Jakob’s glance bounced to the Duke of Suffolk and back to the king. Henry noticed.
“Rest assured, I have no secrets from the duke.” Henry lifted one brow. “And he keeps no secrets from me.”
Jakob dipped his chin. “I understand, my lord. It is good to have a man you can trust.”
“Can I trust you, Hansen?”
The bluntness of his question startled Jakob. Even so, he knew he must not hesitate to answer. “Yes. I am a man of… integritet? integritas?”
Brandon came to his aid. “Integrity.”
“Integrity,” Jakob repeated. “That is easy word.”
He looked into the king’s eyes. “I am a man of integrity. I always do what I say I will do. And I tell the truth.”
Henry leaned back in his chair and rubbed a finger along the bottom of his lower lip. His eyes narrowed. “What if you were asked to hide the truth? What would you do then?”
That was an interesting question—was Henry about to enlist his aid with some covert task?
“At some times, truth must be hidden,” Jakob admitted. “For… beskyttelse? Protectio?”
Brandon helped him once again. “Protection.
Jakob grinned, hoping to defuse whatever mischief Henry was contemplating. “English is easy.”
“Yes.” Henry steepled his forefingers and tapped their tips against his lips. “Protection is the key.”
Jakob decided to pull the conversation onto less esoteric ground, and back to the original subject. “How can I help your Grace with Golden Fleece?”
Henry drew a breath and shifted in his seat. The expression on his face indicated that he might have shifted the point of this conversation as well.
“I have decided who I will send as my representative. I expect that you and he might want to travel together to Barcelona.”
Jakob nodded. “Yes. That would be good.”
“You mentioned the idea of traveling through France.”
“Yes I did, your Grace.” Jakob winced and laid a palm over his belly. “Sailing does not like me.”
Henry chuckled at that. “I believe I can make certain that you are able to journey through France without any problems. And, if you are with my man, you will have only the best accommodations along the way.”
Though he wondered why the king would be so generous to him, Jakob tactfully ignored the implication that King Christian might have done less for his own royal representative. “Thank you, my lord. I would be very much grateful.”
“Good.” The king turned to Brandon and nodded.
Brandon addressed Jakob. “If you will excuse me, I shall summon Sir Percival Bethington.”
Brandon crossed the room and opened the door. He spoke softly to the servant in the hallway, and then resumed his place by Henry’s side.
Moments later, a beefy gentleman with an open, jovial face strode into the room. He stood about five or six inches shorter than Jakob, but probably outweighed him. He swept a shock of dark brown hair out of his eyes.
The man glanced at Jakob, obviously surprised by Jakob’s Henry-like countenance. Recovering quickly, he turned and bowed to the king. “Your Grace.”
Henry waved a languid hand in Jakob’s direction. “Sir Bethington, this is Sir Hansen, knight of King Christian the Second of Denmark.”
“And Norway,” Jakob murmured.
Henry’s gaze flicked to Jakob and back. “Sir Hansen is Christian’s representative for the Golden Fleece.”
The man gave a small bow while he returned his stare to Jakob’s. “Percival Bethington.”
Jakob imitated the English knight’s greeting. “Jakob Petter Hansen.”
Sir Bethington’s mouth worked as if he didn’t know which of the obvious questions to ask first.
Jakob addressed what he thought might be the one at the forefront of the knight’s thoughts; after all, he had been asked it several times since his arrival in England just over a week ago.
“Jakob is a Bible name. Petter is also.” He shook his head. “I am not Jewish.”
“Oh. Well, yes. Of course,” Bethington sputtered. He tilted his head. “Has anyone mentioned—”
The other three men interrupted him in unison, “Yes.”
Bethington grinned. “Remarkable, is it not?”
Jakob looked at Henry.
Henry was staring at him, his features stilled in thought. “It is remarkable. I wonder if I might be able to use that to my advantage.”
Charles Brandon stepped forward, drawing both of the knights’ regard, and effectively forestalling any questions Jakob might have concerning Henry’s unexpected musings.
“The king wishes for you two gentlemen to become better acquainted. For that reason, Sir Bethington will be housed in the Tower until you depart for Spain—together.”
Sir Bethington appeared pleasantly surprised. “Thank you, your Grace.”
“Go now, and collect your things,” Brandon ordered. “When you return, you will be shown to your quarters.”
Sir Percival Bethington bowed low. “I am your servant, your Grace.”
He backed away, turned, and exited the king’s presence. Jakob faced King Henry again, expecting to be dismissed as well.
“I believe the two of you shall get along well.” Henry steepled his fingers once again. “But in any case, the easing of your travels, and the assurance of nothing but comfortable accommodations along the way, should make up for any conflicts of personality. Don’t you agree?”
Jakob gave a small bow of acknowledgement. “Your Grace has been most generous.”
“I am glad to provide, Hansen.” Henry spread his hands, palms up. “And perhaps, while you reside with us, there might arise an opportunity for you to practice your sworn service to England, in exchange.”
Jakob’s gut clenched. There it was—the devil’s deal. He didn’t allow anything to show on his face, however, and bowed again. “I would be much honored, your Grace.”
*****
Percival Bethington
was waiting for him in the hallway.
“It’s the damnedest thing, Hansen,” he blurted. “You could be the king’s twin!”
“So it seems.” Jakob kept walking.
Percival fell in beside him. “You are from Denmark?”
“Norway.” He glanced at Percival. “You are from London?”
“Hereford. Near the Welsh border.” Percival looked at Jakob. “You speak English, then?”
Jakob gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I am learning.”
“So quickly? I am impressed.”
“Most words are like Norsk, German, or Latin. And words are in the same order as Norsk. It is not so hard.”
They had reached the end of the hall and Jakob stopped. He faced Percival. “I am glad to meet you. We have much to discuss, I think.”
“Once I return to the Tower and get settled in, I’ll send you word.” Percival’s eyes brightened. “Perhaps we can explore London together. Two royal knights on the prowl, eh?”
No suggestion the man might have made could appeal to Jakob less. “Yes. I look forward to it.”
Percival’s rosy cheeks split into a broad grin. “Until later then.” He whistled as he strolled away in the direction of the Tower’s exit.
May 20
Windsor Castle
Avery walked through the halls of Windsor Castle in search of respite from the Princess Mary’s stuffy chambers. Though Avery could not accurately ascertain any ill health suffered by the toddler, Catherine seemed convinced that her precious daughter was not feeling well.
As Henry’s only living heir, Avery knew that the tiny royal child carried a much heavier weight on her little shoulders than the girl would be able to understand for many years to come. Unless, of course, the queen’s current pregnancy produced a son.
“I hate to think what that poor boy will be subjected to!” she muttered.
He’ll probably be locked in a guarded room and fed nothing but bread and honey until he is eighteen years of age.
Avery stepped through an open door and into the spacious courtyard. The sun shone again today, unlike London where fog often defined the weather. The Windsor hilltop rose above the dampness of the Thames below and into a welcomed fresh breeze. She walked to the steep north side of the rise, where the lower wall allowed her to see across the English landscape for miles.
She had not seen Sir Hansen for days, and wondered if he had returned to London with Henry and Brandon.
Not that I care. That was a lie.
Something about the knight intrigued her. And Catherine’s suggestion that she take him as a paramour niggled irritatingly at the back of her mind. Avery had not bedded a man since she left Spain nine years earlier. Now she wondered if her body even knew how to respond to a man any more.
A staunch Catholic, the idea of having relations with someone who was not her husband still frightened her. She certainly did not wish for her soul to be cast into the fires of hell because she pursued something so fleeting as the pleasures of the flesh.
And yet, when she dared to open the machine-printed Bible which Henry’s grandfather procured over fifty years ago, the parts she read talked about the forgiveness of sins, not only eternal damnation for living an imperfect life.
Something about the way Lord Hanson carried himself, and the intense way he looked at her, strongly hinted that he knew quite a bit about the pleasures of the flesh.
An unexpected and very unwelcome warmth began to grow low in her belly. Slumped against the stone wall, Avery heaved a sigh of frustration and closed her eyes—only to see his face.
I don’t live like a priest.
She gasped and opened her eyes. Spinning on one heel, she hurried back inside the castle, returning to the distraction of her friend.
“Yes, Henry did say Hansen was returning to London with him.” Catherine wiped Mary’s forehead with a damp cloth. The little girl sucked her thumb and gazed at her mother with wide, clear eyes. “He wanted to introduce him to Sir Bethington.”
“Does that mean Percival will be attending the Order as Henry’s representative?” Avery queried.
“Apparently so.” Catherine looked over her shoulder, her eyes dancing. “And then you shall be rid of him.”
Avery sank into a chair. “He’s not a bad man.”
“No, not at all.” Catherine turned back to Mary.
“Just… overly persistent.” Avery shook her head. “I do not believe he was ever going to accept my refusal of his proposals.”
Catherine resettled on the small mattress so she faced her friend. “And now, he and Sir Hansen will spend these next many months together.”
Avery smacked her palm against her forehead and held it there. “Oh my Lord—no.”
Catherine grinned. “This should prove quite interesting.”
Avery’s hand fell limp in her lap. “Do you suppose the subject of the ‘Ice Maiden’ will come up between them?”
“It is sure to.” Catherine was clearly enjoying this situation far too much for Avery’s comfort.
“¡Maldito sea!” she swore.
“Lady Avery!” Catherine chastised, her brow plunging. “There is a child present.”
“Lo siento mucho, mi querido amiga.” Avery apologized. “I am very sorry, my dear friend.”
Catherine sniffed her irritation. “Forgiven.”
She resumed her ministrations, wiping Mary’s perfectly pink face once again. The little girl smiled at her mother, thumb still firmly in place.
Avery watched the tender expression of love between mother and daughter. “At the least, one problem has been solved.”
The queen spoke over her shoulder, but did not turn around this time. “What problem is that?”
Avery felt a pang of regret as she voiced her decision. “With Percival Bethington as his closest companion, there is no possible way I would ever consider taking Jakob Hansen as a lover.”
Chapter Six
May 21, 1518
The next afternoon, Percival and Jakob ate their midday meal together in a tavern about a quarter mile from the Tower. Bethington lustily downed his second stein of ale, though Jakob had not yet finished his first.
While the men had not been together a full hour on this mild spring day, Jakob already figured out that Sir Percival Bethington did not do anything by halves.
Percy regaled Jakob with his life’s story while Jakob glanced at the thin crowd, wondering if anything the men said might be overheard—and if that mattered. The English knight, however, seemed unconcerned.
“After completing my early education at my father’s hand, when I turned fourteen he outfitted me and sent me to train with his brother.” Percival stifled a belch. “My uncle is a well-respected knight of the realm, as was my grandfather before him.”
Jakob considered the convivial gentleman across the table. He seemed to have perpetual smile and an untamable lock of dark hair hanging in his bright green eyes. Jakob was still deciding whether to like him, or find him consummately annoying.
Percival leaned back as their stew was set in front of them. “What about you, Hansen? What’s your story?”
Jakob poked the stew with his spoon, stirring it to cool it off. Even on this warm day, steam rose from the thick liquid.
“My path was more—unexpected.” Jakob drank the last drops of his ale and signaled the serving girl for another.
Percival grinned and clasped his hands over his bowl. “This sounds interesting.”
Jakob snorted. “I cannot promise that.” He waited until the girl brought his ale before he continued. “My family lives in Arendal, Norway. I am the second son and was meant to be a priest.”
Percival’s eyes widened. “Is that why you have a Biblical name?”
Jakob shrugged. “It might be. Also, my mother liked it.”
Percival lifted a spoonful of stew and blew on it. “So what changed your path?”
Jakob felt his cheeks warming. His counterpart came from a wealthy family, and Percival att
ained knighthood by the conventional route.
On the other hand, Jakob’s was a story of failure and shame.
“My father offers a son to be a knight for king when he owes money.”
“And that was you.” Percival touched his lips to the stew, and then blew on it again. “How old were you?”
Jakob chose not to explain the missing part of his story because it wouldn’t change the outcome. If he decided to like Percival, and they spent the next year of their lives together, then he might expand the telling, if the need arose. But not today.
“I was seventeen. I went to København and began training.”
Percival hissed a soft whistle. “That’s rather late to get started.”
“I had education in Norway,” Jakob defended himself, feeling a bit stung by the knight’s stated truth. “And I knew horses, swords and bows.”
“Right, then.” Percival ate a spoonful of stew, and then used the utensil to point at Jakob’s bowl. “This is delicious, Hansen. Try it.”
Jakob did and Percival was right, the stew was exceptional. He didn’t know what else to say so he took a second bite.
Percival lowered his spoon when it became obvious that Jakob wasn’t going to say anything else. “How long ago was that?”
Jakob knew what the man was asking. “Fifteen years. I am thirty two.”
“I am twenty nine.” Percival scooped another spoonful of stew. “Are you married?”
Jakob truly hated that question, though he never faulted anyone for asking it. Why should he? It was a logical query, especially for a man of his advancing age. “My life as a knight has not made marriage possible.”
The younger knight nodded. “I agree. We are not guaranteed long lives in our profession.”
Jakob ate in silence for a while. His personal loneliness pressed against his chest, made heavier, he was certain, by his isolation here in England. He was far from home and friends, and would not return for many months. Perhaps even longer.
“What do you know about Order of Golden Fleece?” he asked of a sudden.
Percival drew a deep breath and his brow lowered. “Not very much, I’m afraid. What about you?”
