by Kris Tualla
Or worse, lose something to them.
“In light of this changed circumstance, you two must plan to apply yourselves fully.” She lifted a hand in warning. “And do not ask for mercy when you converse with the queen, for the additional lessons will not lower her expectations.”
Percival bowed his head in agreement. “I understand, Lady Avery. And thank you.”
“I understand as well.” Jakob’s wicked smile held more than a hint of the mischief she dreaded. “I believe we shall enjoy the challenge.”
June 23, 1518
The next afternoon, Jakob went to the drawing room early. He had procured paper, which he cut into squares the length of his thumb. Using pen and ink, he had written the Norsk words for all of the common furnishings in the room. Now he was placing those squares on the items they named. His plan was for Avery to do the same.
When Henry declared more games would take place—and it was only a matter of time until he did so—Jakob was determined to win the contest with Bethington. Jousting was the last thing his leg needed, especially since he only recently recovered from the last aggravation.
That said, since arriving at Windsor Castle he felt better than he had in a long time. Jakob attributed that in large part to the mild summer weather, but he credited his newly elevated mood as a close second. Plus, his decision to try and win Avery’s affection before departing for Spain gave him a delightful distraction to pursue.
He hadn’t bothered to think far enough ahead, however, to what he would do with her, once she was won.
“Perhaps she will come to Spain with me,” he mused. “It is her home after all.”
I wonder how far Toledo is from Barcelona?
“What is this?” Avery walked into the room, her gaze landing on individual squares.
“Names of things.” Jakob held out a small stack of the papers. “You will write the words en Español. Sí?”
Avery accepted the paper squares, her dark eyes twinkling. “This is a very good idea, Jakob. En bra idé.”
Jakob laughed. He ached to kiss her again, but the risk of discovery was far too strong in this public room.
At that moment he realized why she had selected this spot for the lessons—to discourage his advances. And Bethington’s as well, to be fair.
She glanced around. “Where is the quill?”
Jakob stepped aside, revealing the writing implements on the desk behind him.
When Percival entered the drawing room, Avery was handing papers to Jakob and telling him what the words meant. He was placing them beside their Norsk counterparts.
“Brilliant!”
Jakob swore he could feel Bethington’s booming voice bouncing off his back. “Have we missed any important words?”
The English knight strolled around the room. “If we have, I expect we shall soon discover them.”
Avery laid down the quill and capped the jar of ink. Striding into the center of the room, she clasped her hands together. “Shall we begin?”
*****
“Henry is leaving on the morrow.” Catherine stroked little Mary’s hair as the girl dozed in her mother’s lap.
Avery picked a sweet pastry from a tray. The three hours of language lessons left her famished, in spite of a decently substantial midday meal. She approached the queen, who was lounging on a couch.
“Do you wish to return to London as well?”
Catherine shook her head. “Life is more pleasant here in the country. And safer for Mary.”
Henry’s fear of disease seemed to be affecting his wife. The robust sovereign knew his elder brother died at a young age because he could not fight off illness well. As a result, Henry seemed preoccupied at times with his own health, often indulging in potions offered by physicians with accompanying promises of continued vitality.
“How did the Spanish lesson go?”
“Not only Spanish.” Avery heaved a put-upon sigh. “I am expected to learn Norsk as well.”
Catherine chuckled softly, so as not to disturb her daughter. “What brought that about?”
“Sir Bethington wishes to learn the man’s language, so that he and Sir Hansen might converse in secret at the Order.” Avery popped another sweetmeat into her mouth.
Catherine appeared impressed. “That is actually a rather clever idea.”
Avery wrinkled her nose. “Clever or not, I am now a student under the Norseman’s tutelage, as much as he is a student under mine.”
“And poor Percival must learn from you both.” The queen nodded. “This puts him at a disadvantage. Sir Hansen has taken a step above him.”
“I don’t know that Percival sees it that way.” Avery poured herself a cup of watered wine. “While his physical skills as a knight are quite good, his tactical instinct seems to be lacking a bit.”
Catherine grinned. “I would wager that Jakob’s tactical skills are not lacking in the least.”
That was not a comforting thought. Avery had not told her friend about Jakob’s declaration that he would campaign to win her heart, knowing that the queen would do anything she could to enable that quest. Had the Nordic knight already maneuvered himself into a favored situation without her noticing?
“At any rate, I am one day closer to them both leaving England.” Avery took a seat near Catherine and changed the subject of their discourse. “So—has the king heard from the Frenchman?”
“Not here at Windsor. Henry says word will be sent to the Tower, and he won’t know for certain until he returns.” Catherine stroked Mary’s head with one hand; the other rested on her unborn babe. “I suspect that is the reason he is eager to return.”
“And with thanks to Jakob’s heartfelt petition before the king, he and Bethington shall remain here until they are sent for.”
Catherine loosed what could almost be called a giggle. “To bask in your talented instruction, yes.”
Avery clapped her palms together and looked upward in prayer. “Please, my Lord, I beseech thee—make swift the feet of the Frenchman!”
*****
Jakob and Percival stood in Henry’s outer chamber while the king was being dressed for supper.
“I leave on the morrow, one hour past dawn,” he said through the open door. “You two may stay here and continue with your language studies.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“If indeed the French have come asking to sign the Treaty of London, I shall not meet with their man until I have summoned you both to my side.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
Henry strode from the sleeping room into the outer chamber, his valet following after him. Henry rubbed his hands together, clearly optimistic about the anticipated events, while the servant attached a short brocade cape to his shoulders with jeweled clasps.
Henry lifted a cup from a tall table, and held it up as if offering a toast. “By claiming I cannot meet without you men there, I can make the appointed gentleman wait even longer.”
He drained the goblet.
Jakob was gathering a clearer picture of how England and France’s delicate relationship was indeed very much like Denmark and Sweden’s. The obvious result would be that, no matter what promises were made, he and Bethington needed to cross that country with an eye to their backs at all times.
“We shall rush to your side the moment you send word, your Grace,” Bethington stated.
“Good.” Henry set down the empty cup and fixed his gaze on Jakob. “Rest your leg Hansen. I want you in top condition when you return.”
Jakob understood the king’s covert meaning. “I shall, your Grace.”
Henry flashed a broad smile. “Because once this treaty is signed, I shall host a celebration like none you have seen.”
Jakob glanced at Bethington. The king must be referring, instead, to the games—including the joust—which both Jakob and Percival had a chance to avoid.
Jakob gave a small bow. “I am always at your service, my lord.”
“Yes, Hansen. Yes you are.”
“As I said, rest your leg,” the king warned. “You will be a very busy man once you return to London.”
After the pair was dismissed and departed from the king’s presence, Percival jumped on that declaration like a terrier on a rat. “Why does he say you will be so busy?”
Jakob shrugged and kept walking. “Training for the games, I suppose.”
“Then why wouldn’t I be busy as well?” Percival sounded a bit offended.
“Perhaps because you are in such top form that you will require less effort than I,” Jakob suggested.
Bethington snorted. “Do you know your own form at all, Hansen? There are few knights in England who can match you in stature or agility.”
“But I am damaged, Percival. And as such, I extend more effort with every movement.” Jakob gave his companion’s arm a good-natured nudge. “Do not forget that.”
Chapter Twenty-One
June 30, 1518
Jakob could see the Tower of London and its four flat-topped barbicans as he and Bethington topped a rise. Though they were three or four miles outside of the city, William the Conqueror’s limestone fortress still dominated the landscape four hundred years after it was built. Oddly, it now felt like coming home.
The summons from King Henry arrived yester evening, and the two knights and their valets rode out at dawn, accompanied by the message-carrier and a pack horse. Henry’s instructions stated that they would not be returning to Windsor soon, so pack accordingly.
With eight days of intense language lessons completed, Jakob and Percival practiced during their ride, speaking Spanish to each other during the morning and Norsk in the afternoon. Jakob often found himself reminding Bethington of things they had learned, thereby strengthening his own grasp of the Romantic language.
Percival was most definitely gaining Norsk faster than he was Spanish. In Jakob’s economy, that was far more important anyway. He felt their ability to communicate secretly would be quite useful in the unknown political arena into which they were entering.
Besides, Jakob could always translate Spanish for Bethington if needed.
“French is like Spanish,” Percival stated suddenly.
Jakob turned to face his companion. “Is it?”
Bethington nodded. “I don’t know a lot of French, but several of the Spanish words we learned are similar to what I do know.”
That was surprising news. “If that’s true, that will help our journey.”
The English knight grinned. “We can test it, you know. If the ambassador speaks in French, we can try to figure out what he is saying.”
Jakob pointed a gloved hand in Percival’s direction. “But not let him see that we are.”
“Truly spoken.”
The men rode in silence for a pace, and for the hundredth time since they left Windsor this morning, Jakob’s thoughts turned to Avery.
He went to her straight away when Henry’s message arrived to tell her he was returning to London. At first, he thought he imagined her disappointment. Until she kissed him.
Jakob had not initiated any further amorous displays since the night of the solstice masquerade. Instead, he focused on being an outstanding pupil, impressing her with his abilities during their lessons, and acting the consummate gentleman otherwise.
He did touch her as often as he could, but in expected ways: offering his arm when he escorted her down a hall, a hand on her waist as he allowed her to precede him into a room, brushing her shoulder with his as he leaned close during supper conversation—where he always sat beside her. He even allowed his thigh to bump hers under the table.
Not only did she accept his touch, but she seemed to welcome his presence, squeezing his arm as they walked, or laying her hand over his when she answered a question.
Many men underestimated the power of restraint with women, a power he was only now beginning to understand. The kiss he denied her that night as she left his room haunted him. The kiss she gave him yester eve shouted to the rooftops that she had been haunted as well.
He had gone to her chamber to deliver his news. She invited him in, and sent her maid to the kitchen for refreshments. Once they were alone, she sat close beside him, looking up into his eyes, and giving him a wonderful view of the swell of her bosom.
“I must confess, Jakob. I will miss your conversation at dinner,” she began, giving him a quirky smile. “But you do exhaust me during our lessons.”
Jakob dipped his chin. “I only wish to learn as much as I can, while I am at the knee of the world’s most beautiful and competent teacher.”
She leaned back a little. “Why do you say I am beautiful?”
The question surprised him; enough that he took a moment to try and decipher what she was truly asking him.
“Most men would say you are beautiful because of your thick black hair.” He tucked an errant strand behind her ear, allowing his fingertips to slide down her neck. “They think how it would feel against their skin in intimate moments.”
Avery’s cheeks pinkened.
“Others might say your eyes.” Jakob’s knuckle lightly stroked her cheekbone. “So dark they seem to have no bottom. Yet when you smile, they light up in a way I do not have English words for.”
He touched her lips, now slightly parted. “Some men would say the color of your lips, and how soft they are.”
Avery’s voice was soft and breathy. “And what would you say, Sir Hansen?”
Jakob pulled his hand away. “I would say first, it is your heart. You are beautiful because you cared enough to make me tell my secret.”
Avery swallowed visibly, her eyes locked on his.
“Second, I say your mind.” He touched her hair again.” You are beautiful because you think well, and you are wise.”
Her eyes suddenly glistened with unfallen tears. “I am not so wise…”
Jakob’s hand slowly caressed the back of her head, moved across her bare shoulder, and down her arm, raising gooseflesh. “Last, I say you are beautiful because you ask me this question, and—” He stared into her eyes. “That was the answer you want to hear.”
She kissed him then. A kiss salted with tears.
Jakob could not imagine why she cried, but he did not ask. He simply pulled her across his lap, and answered her kiss with one flavored by his own churning emotions.
The feelings growing within him were nothing like the frantic affection he felt for Uma. This was different. Slower. Built on the more solid foundations of age and defining experiences. A love that could last far beyond the erotic urges of youth.
When the maid returned with the tray, Jakob and Avery sat once again as prim conversationalists, only the lady’s slightly swollen lips giving any hint of their shared passion moments earlier.
“I don’t know what came over me,” Avery murmured, eyes fixed on the honey she spooned onto a piece of bread.
“It comes over me, as well.” Jakob smiled at her and heaved a sigh. “We are like magnets. We are pulled together, and yet pushed apart.”
Avery looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Yes. That is exactly what it is.”
“What does the magnet do?” Jakob prodded. “When two are together the right way, they cannot be easily separated.”
She frowned a little. “And there lies the problem, Jakob. We cannot be together the right way.”
“Because you are a Spanish lady, living in England. And I am a Norseman, traveling to Spain,” he assumed. “Perhaps someday you return to your home, or not. But I will return to mine.”
Avery’s brow smoothed. “Yes, of course. And these places are so very far apart.”
Jakob leaned toward her, his question sincere. “And so, what do we do?”
“I don’t know.”
Jakob took her hand. “When I am gone from you I think about you. So, even if we are not together, we are together.”
She shook her head, confusion sculpting her expression. “What are you sayin
g?”
“I am saying that staying away from you does not change my interest in you.” He squeezed her hand. “Is this the same for you?”
She smiled a little. “Yes.”
“So even if our being together ends someday,” he posited. “That end will not be made easier by staying apart now.”
“No. Not at all,” she admitted. “You are quite correct.”
Jakob leaned back, still holding her hand. “That is the answer.”
Her dark eyes flicked to his. “I still will not bed you.”
His own response surprised him, because it was true. “I do not expect you to.”
The fingertips of her free hand touched his lips. “Kissing is quite nice, however.”
He grinned. And complied.
“What are you smiling about, Hansen?” Bethington barked.
Jakob dragged himself back to the present day. “I am thinking about a cool bath, supper in that pub on the hill, and many large steins of beer.”
Percival laughed. “I shall go with you!”
July 1, 1518
Henry requested the knights’ presence at two chimes of the clock the next afternoon. Jakob and Percival were ushered into the king’s formal drawing room, past a crowd of petitioners who stared openly at the two large and richly outfitted warriors.
“Here they are now.” Henry motioned the pair to the front of the room. “Sir Bethington, of England…”
Percival bowed to the stranger they were being presented to.
“And Sir Hansen, of Denmark.”
Jakob bowed as well. “And Norway.”
Henry grunted a little warning. “Gentlemen, this is Antoine de Marsailles, French ambassador to England.”
The older man was very well dressed, though so thin that his cuffs rolled around his wrists, and two heavy rings were only held in place by age-swollen knuckles.
Percival dipped his chin. “Bonjour, monsieur.”
Jakob did the same, and repeated what he assumed was a polite greeting.
