A Nordic Knight in Henry's Court: Jakob & Avery: Book 1 (The Hansen Series - Jakob & Avery)

by Kris Tualla

  Turning impatiently toward her maid, Avery indicated that the girl should open the door for her. Elisa leapt forward to do so, and Avery walked inside, head high.

  Three men’s heads swiveled towards her. The tailor was a small man with thinning hair and protruding ears. He quickly turned to face her fully and bowed.

  “How may I be of service, my lady?” His tone was appropriately reverent.

  “I have come to give my advice and opinions concerning Sir Hansen’s choices.” Avery gave the knight an amused expression. “He is from Norway and might not understand the styles of the royal court.”

  Jakob bowed at the waist. “I am certain that Mister Thompson has the matter well in hand, Lady Avery. He does come highly recommended.”

  “That may be true, sir.” Avery tapped her chin with her forefinger. “Yet I cannot help but wonder why you are not making use of the king’s tailor in the Tower?”

  Mister Thompson paled. Obviously the threat of lost business concerned him.

  Jakob huffed a laugh. “I do not wish to dress like King Henry. I do not desire for all to see my… attributer?”

  “Attributes.” Avery spoke the word as her mind annoyingly fixed on the concept. She shook her head to loosen the images sprouting there. “Do you believe that the king dresses in a manner that purposefully displays his manly qualities?”

  Hansen looked surprised. “Do you not?”

  Avery frowned a little. “I never thought about it.”

  Now that she did, however, she completely understood Jakob’s point. Short pantaloons which only extended part way down his thigh, worn with tight hose hugging every curve of his bulging leg muscles. Short tunics, broad at the shoulders and nipped at his trim waist, which showed off the king’s athletic torso. Even his loose linen shirts somehow clung to his impressively sculpted arms.

  “But I think about it.” Hansen’s voice dragged her musings back into the shop. “And I am going to Spain. Perhaps it is different there. I need clothes to fit me, not Henry.”

  Avery nodded, trying not to stare at the knight’s intense blue eyes. “King Henry,” she deflected.

  “King Henry,” he complied. His eyes never moved from hers.

  “You make a valid point, my lord. And I agree.” She turned to face the tailor. “I am certain you will serve this man splendidly.”

  Tailor Thompson released his breath in a whoosh.

  “Thank you, my lady.” He bowed again.

  Avery glanced around the neatly stocked shop. “Perhaps you will not need my input after all.”

  “And yet—” Sir Hansen stepped forward. His proximity made her chest tingle in an unhappily pleasant manner. “I believe I would appreciate it.”

  When she hesitated, his gaze swept over her and returned to hers. “You know styles of Spain, as well.”

  Avery examined his expression, searching for a hint of guile. Finding none, she acquiesced to both his invitation—and her own preference. She gave the knight a small smile.

  “Very well, sir. I should be quite pleased to be of service.”

  Thompson clapped his hands and barked an order. A young man hurried from the back with a wooden chair. The tailor motioned toward it.

  “Please sit, Lady Avery.”

  “Thank you.” She settled on the worn seat, facing the men.

  Thompson rubbed his hands together. “And now we begin!”

  *****

  Two hours later, Avery walked back to the Tower with Sir Hansen—Jakob—as her escort. Their time together that afternoon had transpired much differently than she expected.

  In spite of his still-growing grasp of English, the Nordic knight proved quite eloquent in his expressions. Through the careful choice of simple words, Hansen made his wishes clear, and his decisions firm. He even made her laugh.

  Avery couldn’t remember the last time a man had made her laugh.

  “You are from Spain,” he said when the parade of fabrics first began. “Have you been to Barcelona?”

  Avery startled a little at the direct question. “Yes. I have. Why do you ask?”

  “I see on the map it is south, by water. What is the klima?”

  Avery understood the word; however the Norseman might spell it, the word sounded the same in Spanish. “The climate is very mild. Much warmer than England. In fact, the summers there are quite hot.”

  Hansen’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I think that the climate will require more shirts, for washing often.”

  Avery chuckled. “Yes, please. I always hated being closed in stuffy rooms with men whose garments had not been freshened recently.”

  His eyes twinkled, pinching their corners and multiplying the lines there. “I am afraid you now describe my next year.”

  Avery’s eyes widened. “Have I?”

  The knight’s amused glance bounced to his valet and the tailor before returning to hers.

  “Knights and priests will fill the cathedral.” He gave an exaggerated sigh and wagged his head. “Perhaps the smell from the tombs will help.”

  The unexpected laugh which burst from her throat was oddly muffled by the surrounding bolts of fabric. Even so, Hansen chortled heartily at his own jest. The tailor joined in, though he kept his attention focused on the task at hand. Only the valet looked confused.

  Sir Hansen spoke to the man in a delightfully lilting patter; this was the first time Avery heard the Norseman’s native tongue, and she was intrigued.

  After the valet’s shy laugh died away, she faced Hansen again. “Say something more in your language, will you?”

  “Hva ønsker du at jeg skal si?” He grinned at her. “Du er en vakker kvinne, og du bør la din isen smelter??”

  The valet startled and turned his back.

  Avery stared at Sir Hansen. Though he spoke slowly, she only believed she recognized the last two words.

  “Isen smelter?” she repeated, her mood dimming.

  He shrugged. “I hear things.”

  “And you believe you are the man to make my ‘ice melt’?” Her cheeks felt hot enough to melt a glacier at that moment. Perhaps staying at the shop with the knight was proving to be a bad idea after all.

  Hansen held up conciliatory palms. “I make a very bad jest. I apologize.”

  Avery stood, glaring. “Sir Hansen, you know very little about me or the life which I have lived. I guarantee that if you did, you would understand exactly why I choose to keep to myself, rather than bed every randy nobleman who believes my true happiness resides in his breeches!”

  The tailor coughed, his face redder than any rose she had ever seen.

  At that moment, Avery believed she was even more outraged at her own uncontrolled outburst than either of the men gaping at her could possibly be. What was she thinking of, to speak so boldly? How did the Nordic knight manage to rattle her so?

  She turned to leave, but Hansen grasped her arm. She looked up into his eyes, startled to see the sadness in them.

  “I apologize,” he said again. “I am ‘ice knight’ as well.”

  Avery’s eyes welled with unexpected tears. “What?”

  His grip on her arm loosened. “I am not… I do not…”

  He was clearly struggling with his words, but Avery sensed that his struggle lay in how much of himself to reveal, not the words with which to reveal it.

  Hansen let go of her arm and pulled a deep breath which swelled his chest. “My hard life makes me choose the same as you. You are ice maiden and I am ice knight. Do you understand?”

  Avery nodded slowly, her watery gaze still probing his for any sign of dishonesty. “You actually do live like a priest, is that what you are saying?”

  “Yes.” He smiled a little and gave an apologetic shrug. “We are safe with each other. No melting ice.”

  Avery wiped her eyes. Though she should have been relieved, she wasn’t. That unsettling disappointment was something to be immediately ignored. She looked into the knight’s eyes and for a moment felt as if she was drowni
ng in their ocean-like depths.

  All she could trust herself to say was, “I accept your apology, Sir Hansen.”

  The knight bowed. “Please call me Jakob, now that we are friends.”

  Friends connected by a shared avoidance of bedsport? It was a peculiar sort of union, but one which posed no threat—and quite possibly a refuge. Avery gave him an unsteady smile.

  “I believe we should return our attention to the ordering of your clothing, Jakob.” She waved a hand toward the silent, owl-eyed tailor watching their odd exchange. “Before our unconventional behavior gives poor Mister Thompson an apoplexy.”

  As the church bell rang its sixth chime and the tones’ echoes faded, Avery smiled up at the tall man with the uneven gait walking beside her.

  “I enjoyed our afternoon together, Jakob,” she admitted. “You have excellent taste and a keen sense of practical style.”

  “Thank you.” Jakob returned her smile. “And I thank you for your advice. It was of great help.”

  Avery’s heart warmed. “If I may be of future service to you in any way, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you again. Avery.” Jakob’s expression turned pensive. “And if I may help you in some way, please say this.”

  An unaccustomed sense of peace and protection suffused Avery’s core. She had no doubt at that moment that the Nordic knight would come to her aid, no matter what the situation. In all the precarious years she had been living with Catherine in the Tudor court, she never felt as safe as she did at this moment.

  On impulse, Avery tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  Jakob continued walking, wordlessly covering her hand with his.

  Chapter Eleven

  June 3, 1518

  Henry’s first surreptitious summons came four days later. Jakob was understandably nervous about their agreement to begin with, but when he read the duke’s instructions he was astounded.

  “Ride in the royal carriage through London and the near countryside. Smile and give occasional waves at the crowd?” He stared at Askel between sentences as he translated the note out loud. “There will be a herald and trumpets riding in front of the carriage proclaiming the Treaty of London to draw a crowd.”

  “Plenty of witnesses to King Henry’s actions.” Askel blew a sigh. “No one can say he was not there.”

  “Unless someone realizes I am not he.” Jakob stroked his short beard and looked at the clothes Brandon suggested he wear. The shirt had pleated sleeves with red fabric peeking through, and the purple brocade sleeveless tunic was trimmed in ermine fur.

  “Since I will not be disembarking from the carriage in public, I can wear my own breeches and not those short, puffy things that Henry is so fond of.” Jakob picked up the gold feathered cap which accompanied the note and crossed to the silvered glass mirror. He placed it on his head and critically examined his reflection. “This is not so bad, I suppose.”

  Askel stepped behind him. “I think it is quite fetching.”

  Jakob snorted. “I do not need to be ‘fetching’ anything.”

  “Even so, my lord. You might want to consider expanding your own style to incorporate something so modern.” Askel took the cap from Jakob and walked back to the clothes laid out on the bed. “What time does the duke expect you?”

  “At one o’clock.” Jakob followed his valet’s path. “If I do choose to adopt any of Henry’s habits, I will not put them into practice until after we depart from England.”

  “Even for the Lady Avery?” Askel teased.

  “Especially for the Lady Avery!” Jakob pulled his plain linen shirt over his head. “Of all the residents in this court, she is the last one who should be reminded of my resemblance to the king.”

  By the time the one o’clock hour chimed, Jakob was dressed in Henry’s clothes and awaiting Brandon’s summons. The expected knock came at the servants’ door, before it was pushed open from the other side.

  The duke himself stepped into the room. His gaze moved over Jakob and he sucked a long breath through his teeth. “It is uncanny, Hansen. Even I might be fooled.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” Jakob muttered.

  Brandon beckoned. “Come quickly. I have a guard keeping the servants away, but we must hurry.”

  Jakob followed Brandon through the narrow servant passages and down several flights of curving stone stairs until they reached the ground level. The heavy wooden portal to the Tower was open.

  The royal carriage waited outside, under a new awning with canvas walls, whose obvious purpose was to block the view of who might be entering or exiting the carriage A liveried footman held the cab door, standing at attention and staring straight forward.

  Brandon gripped Jakob’s arm. “Walk to the carriage with purpose and confidence. Do not speak to any of the servants. Simply climb in and sit down.”

  Jakob dipped a quick nod of acknowledgement.

  “Don’t be overly friendly to the crowds, but do project a warm countenance for the king’s sake.” Brandon let go of Jakob’s arm and patted his back. “I’ll be here when you return.”

  Jakob drew a steadying breath and let it out slowly. He squared his shoulders and walked from the staircase, out the door, and pulled himself into the conveyance. He dropped onto the seat, and the door shut behind him.

  Jakob sucked a quick breath and his eyes widened in surprise.

  King Henry sat across from him, dressed in Jakob’s clothes. Looking at him thus attired was much like looking in a mirror—albeit a slightly distorted one.

  The sovereign’s brow lowered and he touched his cheek. “Brandon should have asked you to shave.”

  Jakob touched his own cheek without thinking about it. “Shall I go back?”

  Henry shook his head. “The common people do not know the difference. Even so, in the future I think it is best that we see to that detail.”

  “I agree, your Grace.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “And your hair is longer than mine as well. Will you cut it?”

  Jakob suddenly felt his identity slipping away. Shaving was one thing—he usually kept his jaw clean in hot weather, and had simply been lax these last weeks. Cutting his hair was too much to ask.

  “No. I will hide it.” Jakob removed the cap and stuffed his hair under it. “If I cut it like yours, then people at court will see more of how I look like you. That is not good.”

  Henry’s brow softened. “That is very good thinking, Sir Hansen.”

  Jakob’s hands dropped to his lap. “Is this better?”

  “Yes.” Henry gave a small smile. “Thank you.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a tall house. The ground floor was built of brick and stone, and the upper two floors were the plaster-and-timber style which had become quite popular in England. A small, well-manicured flower garden behind a low wall separated the home from the street.

  “This is my destination, Hansen. I shall see you in a few hours.” Henry leaned forward. “Remember—do not speak.”

  The carriage door was pulled open from outside, and Henry leapt out with clean, athletic grace. He turned and bowed from the waist. “Thank you, your Grace. I appreciate your generosity.”

  The door was shut, and seconds later the carriage began to move forward. Jakob sighed and settled himself in an approximation of Henry’s usual stance.

  This is it. My hour of reckoning.

  *****

  The herald and his trumpeters excelled at their tasks. Jakob knew London was quite a large town, but even so he was stunned at the number of peasants who crowded the roadsides to catch a glimpse of their sovereign king.

  He felt a bit guilty, deceiving them as he was. But with no one to converse with for the three long hours he sat alone in the cab, he had plenty of time to think about his actions.

  On the one hand, he was helping the king commit adultery. Jakob was not proud of that in the least. He liked Catherine, and felt sorry for her.

  On the othe
r hand, Henry did seem to love his wife. Though selfishly giving in to his own base urges now, in an odd way he truly was protecting his wife at the same time. Whatever medical advice he received—whether Jakob had any faith in it or not—Henry closely followed.

  Yes, the king wanted a son to rule after him; but he doted on the Princess Mary nonetheless. And if Henry so decreed, the house of Tudor could hold the throne through her lifetime at the least, even if no other live birth resulted from his marriage to Catherine.

  Jakob only needed to make certain that Lady Avery never discovered their ruse. Because of her lifelong friendship and loyalty to the queen, he was certain that Avery would expose the deception.

  Or would she?

  Avery would never risk shocking her dearest friend while Catherine was in such a delicate condition—especially considering her previously failed pregnancies and births. But Avery very well might confront Henry.

  In his brief time at court, Jakob had learned one thing about Henry: the young king hated to be told no. He hated the persons who told him no as well. With Henry riding the current high tide of popularity as he was, crossing him was not in any way wise.

  For a lady-in-waiting to chastise the king, even privately, could result in Avery being summarily banished from the court. Jakob could not see her risking that possibility either.

  On the other hand, she would kill Jakob.

  Torture him first, and then kill him.

  Slowly.

  With a start, Jakob realized he worried about Avery’s judgment the most. Though their newly-cemented friendship had not yet had time to solidify, he eagerly looked forward to it doing so.

  He anticipated long, complex conversations held in diverse places—picnics on sunny days, in front of hearths on rainy ones. Discussions on rides across the countryside. Chats over simple suppers in tucked-away taverns.

  Good Lord.

  When did he begin to plan all of this? In his sleep?

  “Must have been,” he murmured. “I don’t recollect any of it during my waking hours.”

  As the carriage turned a corner, the cab suddenly shook and shuddered. A creaking, grinding, groan emanated from the front left wheel, ending with a loud crack as the carriage twisted, dropped, and jammed to a tilting halt.