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

by Kris Tualla

  “And a smile, Lady Avery? Will you give me that as well?” he cajoled.

  Avery tried to remain stern and unmoved, but when her gaze met Jakob’s, he winked. Then he crossed his eyes. A laugh burst from her chest with such force that Henry stepped back.

  “Lady Avery, the knight only asked for a smile.” He glanced at Catherine. “Has he bewitched your lady, my queen?”

  Catherine chuckled. “No, your Grace. Though at times I wish he would.”

  “Enough!” Avery shooed Jakob away, though she was grinning. “Go now and do battle and leave us to our wine.”

  Jakob bowed, turned and strolled away. Avery’s gaze followed, once again appreciating the supple movement of his lean and sculpted form. He was a very handsome man, of that there was no doubt.

  Only then did she notice Percival Bethington’s crushed expression. She gave him a soft smile and a little shrug, irritated to realize she was most definitely blushing.

  Henry gave Catherine a quick kiss and followed Jakob with a determined stride. “Let us begin, shall we? Who has drawn the first throw?”

  The late afternoon’s competition commenced. Each of the twelve men had drawn a number, and would throw in that order. Henry decreed they would go through the entire contingent three times, with each man’s farthest toss being the one considered for the final judgment.

  Twelve little wooden markers had been prepared with one name written on each. They would be stuck into the ground to mark the distance of each man’s throw, and moved only if subsequent tosses exceeded the length of those which came before.

  Percival drew the number one spot. He stepped forward to the length of rope staked into the ground as the starting line, planted his feet and began to swing the hammer.

  Each man had a different style, the only rule being that they could not step across the rope. If they did so, that throw was discounted. Percival threw like a wagon wheel, looping his sturdy arms in circles at his side, around and around and around—until he let go of the handle.

  The heavy implement arced gracefully through the air from Avery’s right to her left, and landed on the ground several yards distant. She felt the heavy thud of its impact beneath her feet.

  “Well done, Sir Bethington!” Avery clapped her hands and complimented the beefy knight out of a sense of guilt—and to avoid making her day’s preference unnecessarily obvious to the noble crowd.

  Charles Brandon had drawn the number two spot. His style was similar to Percival’s, but his throw did not go quite as far. Henry clapped Brandon on the shoulder and said something which Avery couldn’t hear. Presumably it was some sort of encouragement.

  As for the king, Henry drew the tenth spot.

  Catherine slid forward in her chair, cheering her husband on. Henry held up the barre with her golden lace tied at the top of the handle. All of the spectators applauded approvingly. Henry took his place, settled his stance, and began to swing the hammer.

  When he let it go, the barre flew like it had wings, soaring upward and forward, until it reluctantly succumbed to gravity and tumbled to the ground. Everyone in the royal tent stood, assuring themselves of what they saw.

  Henry’s hammer landed three yards farther than anyone else’s.

  A cheer erupted in the tent, so loud that Avery thought the awning might be lifted into the air by the sheer force of the sound. Henry faced Catherine and blew her a kiss.

  Avery’s patience was stretched as tightly as the rope nailed to the ground. When a knight whose name she didn’t know stood up to throw in the eleventh spot, she groaned. Of course Jakob was going last. The fates had a habit of torturing her at times, and today was clearly one of them.

  When Jakob stepped up to the rope at last, he swung the barre loosely, as if to reacquaint himself with its weight. He adjusted his grip a few times. Rolled his shoulders. And then, without looking at her, he pointed the handkerchief-adorned hammer in Avery’s direction.

  She felt the weight of surprised stares all around her, but refused to take her eyes off the Nordic knight. Catherine made a soft, satisfied sound which Avery pointedly ignored. As Jakob began to swing the barre in big circles, she held her breath.

  The hammer flew in a slow arc across her field of vision. When it landed, the crowd hushed. It was impossible to discern from the tent whether Jakob’s hammer had gone farther than Henry’s.

  The servant in charge of the game ran out to mark Jakob’s throw. Because his barre flew at a different angle from the king’s, a cord was stretched from the rope to Jakob’s landing spot. Then the cord was pulled over to Henry’s marker.

  The servant straightened and bellowed the result to the crowd. “The king’s throw by a foot-and-a-half!”

  Jakob turned to Henry and bowed.

  Percival jumped to his feet, grabbed a hammer, and met Jakob halfway. Whatever he said to the Norseman made the tall knight chuckle. Jakob walked to the end of the bench and sat.

  He never looked at Avery.

  “He is an interesting man.” Catherine leaned toward Avery until their shoulders touched. “I can’t fathom his intent.”

  “I am afraid his intent is to out-throw your husband,” Avery whispered.

  “I mean with you.”

  Avery shook her head and focused her attention on Percival. “Throw well, Sir Bethington!” she shouted.

  Percival turned around and beamed. He touched his forehead in salute before casting.

  Avery’s leg bounced with impatience as eight more gentlemen took their turns. When Henry finally took his place, the smile he turned toward Catherine was strained. But when his barre landed, Avery blew a sigh of relief—the king’s second throw went farther than his first.

  The servant moved Henry’s marker and held up bladed hands just over a foot apart. The crowd in the royal tent applauded and cheered.

  Murmurs of speculation swirled around her when Jakob stepped forward, so thick that her skin prickled. Once again, he pointed the hammer in Avery’s direction without turning his head. He swung the barre in multiple circles and let it go.

  The mumbles became a corporate gasp when the Nordic knight’s cast flew farther than Henry’s. No one moved.

  Henry rose to his feet. He squared his shoulders. And then he clapped his hands. “Well done, Hansen.”

  A few of the courtiers in the tent followed suit, but most did not. Jakob bowed to the king and reclaimed his seat without glancing toward the group under the awning. Only one round remained, and Jakob was in first place.

  Avery buried her face in her palms. “I cannot stand to watch,” she moaned.

  Catherine’s voice sounded edgy. “Do not be ridiculous.”

  Avery dropped her hands to her lap. “I am not being ridiculous. You saw his expression.”

  Catherine stared at the field, her countenance grim. “I will be the one dealing with Henry if he loses, not you.”

  Avery’s gaze shifted to Jakob’s muscular back. “Do you think that Norseman is stubborn enough to try and win?”

  Catherine’s shoulders hunched briefly. “Heaven help him.”

  “Henry?” Avery asked. “Or Jakob?”

  “Both.”

  Henry’s third throw inched past Jakob’s. Relieved applause thundered from the tent. The gentleman throwing in the eleventh spot bowed out—his previous throws had fallen far too short to challenge anyone. Jakob stepped up to the line, hammer in hand.

  This time, he looked directly at Avery.

  She gasped softly, wondering if she imagined what she read in his eyes.

  Jakob started his swing. But something was different. Did anyone else notice? Her heart bashed against her ribs. Anticipation made her palms moist. Was the knight about to do what his body seemed to be telling her?

  Jakob cast his barre.

  Avery watched the flutter of her handkerchief as the hammer arced away from the Norseman—and landed hard, a full yard short of Henry’s mark.

  The crowd’s response was deafening.

  �
�Oh, thank God,” she breathed.

  A grinning Catherine rose to her feet and extended her hands toward her husband. “Well done, my king!”

  Henry leapt forward to clasp them. “I could not live if I lost your favor, my queen.”

  Avery kept an eye on Jakob, wondering if he would greet her and return her linen. She looked away for only a moment to answer Henry’s question as to whether she enjoyed the afternoon, but when she looked back, the knight was gone.

  Avery turned in a circle, searching for the brassy-haired crown which normally stood above all others, but Jakob seemed to have disappeared into the ether. She only spotted Henry now, as he moved among the competitors, slapping shoulders.

  She frowned as she spoke her frustration. “How odd.”

  Catherine turned and looked at her, eyebrows raised.

  Avery sighed. “Sir Hansen has disappeared. I wanted to congratulate him on his loss.”

  The queen laughed. “What an odd thing to say.”

  Avery gave Catherine a knowing look. “You know what I mean. Henry will be jovial at supper—and Sir Hansen will live to compete another day.”

  “You make Henry sound like a tyrant.” Catherine drew a deep breath. “He is not. He is the King of England. And he is good at it.”

  Avery dipped her chin, her cheeks warming. Friendship with any sovereign required a certain level of respect, and in this case she had gone too far.

  “I never meant my words to sound that way, your Grace. I apologize.”

  Catherine slid a finger under Avery’s chin and lifted her face.

  “I love you, Averia. You are my oldest friend, and the one person in my court whom I trust completely. But you may not speak of my husband in that manner, even if he is not your king.”

  Avery swallowed her pride, once again, and said nothing. She was only two years Catherine’s elder, but at one time that counted for far more than it did now.

  She gazed into Catherine’s brown eyes. “I promise to watch my tongue, as well as the thoughts which drive it.”

  Catherine’s hand fell to her abdomen. She smiled softly. “Let us go back to the Tower and prepare for supper. The babe and I are famished.”

  As they left the tent, Avery’s attention was pulled to a hysterical adolescent girl, cradling a large limp dog. Bloody foam dripped from the dog’s mouth.

  “He poisoned my dog!” the girl shrieked.

  Though Catherine continued walking toward the royal carriage, Avery stopped. “Who did?”

  The girl pointed toward the carriages. “That man!”

  Avery glanced toward the line of drivers, grooms and horses. “Why would any of those men wish to poison your dog?”

  “He poisoned the food.” Her gasping sobs were now breaking through her explanation. “He carried a plate. He said it was for the king. But then—” A wail of despair stopped her.

  Avery stared hard at the girl, needing to be certain about what she heard. “Food for the king?”

  The girl nodded and ran a dirty hand under her nose. “But he tripped. And dropped the plate.”

  “And your dog ate the food?” Avery felt a chill slide over her skin. “Is that what happened?”

  She did not answer; instead she buried her face in the dead dog’s fur, rocking and moaning in her grief.

  Though her legs felt like wet stalks of grass, Avery turned and walked toward Catherine. She searched the dissolving crowd for Jakob, forcing her panic down with limited success. She was terrified that Lizzy was correct after all. It seemed someone was trying to kill Henry.

  “Jakob, where have you gone to?” she whispered. “I badly need your advice.”

  The man might as well have been a spectre because he was no longer visible.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jakob climbed the Tower stairs by taking one step with his left leg, and then bringing his right leg to meet it. Somehow, when he attempted to hold back on this final throw, he had awkwardly twisted his injured limb. A slice of pain was followed by a pounding ache that extended from hip to calf. All he wanted now was to lie down in bed and take his opium.

  Bethington caught up to him. “What’s wrong, Hansen? Is it your leg?”

  He nodded. “I twisted it on the last cast.”

  “Yes, your stance did look a bit odd that time.” The English knight tucked himself under Jakob’s right shoulder. “Come on then. At this pace you won’t arrive in your chamber until sunrise.”

  Jakob accepted the help while he pondered Percival’s unsettling comment. Was it obvious to others that he didn’t put full effort into the final toss? And what if it was obvious—did Henry notice?

  “Here we are.” Bethington lifted Jakob’s arm and ducked out of the way. “I assume your man is in there.”

  To answer the question, Jakob opened the door.

  Askel looked up from his spot near the window, and set down the shirt he was mending. He rose to his feet.

  Jakob turned to Percival. “My thanks, Bethington.”

  Percival clapped his shoulder. “See you at supper.”

  Jakob bounced a quick nod. Not a chance.

  When the chamber door was closed, Jakob let out a moan and limped to the nearest chair. He held his right leg straight as he eased himself into the seat.

  Askel was at his side immediately. “My lord?”

  “I twisted my leg casting my last barre. I’ll want opium and my bed.” Jakob began to loosen his tunic.

  Askel knelt in front of him to remove his tall boots. “What about supper? Shall I have a tray sent up?”

  Jakob considered the question, knowing that food would slow the opium’s relief. But his stomach rumbled and he knew he would be miserably hungry by morning if he did not eat.

  “Yes. I believe that is a good idea.”

  The valet helped Jakob undress and brought the water pitcher and basin to his side. “I’ll see to your supper while you wash.”

  Jakob dipped a cloth into the water and began to wipe the sweat and dust of the afternoon’s activities from his skin. And all the while he wondered if Avery knew what he had done.

  He hadn’t looked at her before his first two throws, only held the hammer sporting her handkerchief in her direction. His thought was to acknowledge her favor, without showing undue affection. Neither of them would benefit from rumors of an attachment spiraling through the court.

  And yet when it came to his final cast, and Jakob had already made the decision to hold back, something in his pride pricked him. Jakob didn’t care if Henry believed he had bested him—but he cared if Lady Avery did.

  So he looked at her. Met her eyes. Smiled with his. Hoped she read the message he was sending her.

  Then he threw his hammer, miscalculated his balance, and over corrected. When the pain sliced along his thigh he fought hard not to cry out or collapse to the ground. Thankfully, all eyes were on his barre—not him—as the hammer sailed to its crooked landing, falling a yard short of the king’s.

  Askel opened the door to the chamber. “Supper will be up shortly.”

  Jakob groaned. “All I want to do is sleep for the next twenty-four hours.”

  The valet collected the wet linens and dirty water. “Well, you can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

  “And why not?” he demanded.

  Askel offered Jakob a clean shirt. “Because there has been a message from the king. I couldn’t read all of the English, but I saw the word morning.”

  Jakob slipped the shirt over his head. “Where is the note?”

  Askel handed it to him. Jakob unfolded it, dread pressing him back against the chair even more strongly than the pain.

  The Duke of Suffolk invites you to hunt with him in the morning at nine o’clock.

  Jakob heaved a dejected sigh. When he agreed to help Henry, he expected to receive the better end of the arrangement. Now he was beginning to fear he’d made a deal with the devil himself.

  June 5, 1518

  Jakob didn’t appear at dinner yester eve, no
r had Avery seen him all day. Her disquietingly deep disappointment was not something she wished to acknowledge. Accepting how much she enjoyed the afternoon she spent with him, helping him order new clothing, and the secure way she felt in his presence afterward, were enough cracks in her carefully constructed icy barricade.

  “There is no harm in being friends,” she muttered as she was being dressed for the day. “We are of an age.”

  She caught the eye of her maid in the mirror and realized she had spoken her thoughts aloud. Her cheeks pinkened in the silvered glass, but she saw no reason to explain herself. If the servants thought she was daft, so be it. One more arrow to warn away anyone who might draw too close.

  Yet when Percival sat down across the table from her at supper, Avery was unable to keep herself from asking about Jakob.

  Affecting a bland expression, she addressed the knight casually. “Where is your compadre? Is he not joining us this eventide?”

  Percival shook his head as he sopped gravy with a chunk of bread. “I would not expect him, based on how he was when we returned from the games yesterday.”

  “Oh?” Avery tried to swallow the concern which rose in her chest, hoping it would not come out in her tone. She took a sip of wine and cleared her throat before she asked, “How was he?”

  A shadow passed over Percival’s expression; whether that was because of her concern, or his own, wasn’t clear. “He could barely climb the stairs. Seems he twisted his injured leg on the last throw.”

  The throw on which he deliberately held back. So she had not imagined that after all.

  She set her goblet down. “Does he require a physician?”

  Percival shrugged. “I do not know. Though I would imagine that his man knows what to do. Jakob told me that Askel had been in his service before he was speared.”

  “Speared?” Avery repeated to make certain she heard him correctly. That was not what Jakob had told her.

  The knight waved his knife, a hunk of meat impaled on the tip like a gravy-dripping flag. “Some battle with the Swedes.”

  She opened her mouth to say that Jakob was actually thrown from his stallion, but stopped. Perhaps the truth lay in a combination of the two: he was thrown after being speared. In that case, quibbling over details was fruitless.