by Kris Tualla
Remaining by her side any longer was far too tempting. It was enough that his hands wandered over her clothing, and hers over his. He had promised not to bed her and he was determined to hold true to his word. Even so, his rebellious body ached for hers.
Once he was in Barcelona, perhaps he would take a mistress. Someone clean and intelligent. Someone he could trust, but not fall in love with.
Jakob was already feeling a sense of loss at the thought of leaving Avery behind when he and Bethington set out on their journey to Spain. He knew he was in love with the beautiful Spanish courtier, and the emotion deepened each time he was with her. But he also knew that he would never see her again once he was gone.
He shook off that unpleasant thought and renewed his search for Avery. Catherine and Henry had arrived, judging by the trumpets sounding beyond the tents. Avery must be close behind.
*****
Avery followed Catherine, who was lovingly escorted by her husband, into the royal tent. Her mood was subdued by yester eve’s confirmation of Henry’s infidelity, and she struggled to remain civil to the king. When Catherine asked why her demeanor was dampened, she claimed to be overtired.
“Sir Hansen visited me after he returned from his tasks. I am afraid we were in conversation until well past the midnight hour.”
“Only conversation? Nothing more?” Catherine’s expression conveyed her doubts.
Avery allowed a small smile. “A little more. But we remain chaste.”
Henry gently handed his wife into her seat and kissed her forehead. “Cheer for me, my love. Only your encouragement will drive me today.”
Avery pressed her lips together and looked away. The knowledge of his adultery was too fresh and her anger too volatile for her to hide.
Jakob’s voice called out, “Good day, your Graces.”
Henry faced the field. “Hansen! I see you have your weapon at the ready.”
“Yes, my lord. I hope to bring honor to the games on this day.” Jakob bowed, straightened, and turned his regard to Avery. “Lady Avery, I hope this day finds you in good health.”
The sight of her love, standing tall and glorious in the pale sunlight and dressed in athletic clothing which hugged his lean, muscular frame, could do nothing but elevate her mood.
“It does, indeed, Sir Hansen. Thank you.” Memories of his late-night kisses and touches brought heat to her cheeks. “And I hope the same for you.”
His grin made her heartbeat stutter. “Now that you are present, my lady, I cannot fail.”
Catherine’s silk-slippered foot knocked against hers.
Avery kicked the queen in return. “I shall be cheering for you almost as loudly as I do for the king.”
Henry laughed, deep and hearty. “Thank you, Lady Avery. And now, if you will excuse me, I shall make myself ready.”
Catherine’s gaze followed her husband. “I do believe he loves me, Avery.”
“Of course he does.” Avery scrambled for words which would not add lying to her list of sins. “I know that he will go to unusual lengths to protect you.”
Catherine met Avery’s gaze. “That is an odd statement.”
“He is a knight at heart,” she beguiled “And that is what knights do, especially for those they love.”
Catherine’s regard returned to her husband, now on the field and accepting his bow from a young page. “I never thought of Henry as a knight.”
Avery said nothing, but watched Jakob shoot several practice arrows. In the sport of shooting, his leg should not bother him. She wondered how accurate of a shot he was.
We shall soon see.
At the appointed hour, Henry stepped forward to address the crowd. The king’s booming voice carried easily on the hot, still day.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as King of England I welcome you all to this tournament, a joyous celebration of the final signature on the Treaty of London!”
Applause and accolades echoed around Avery. Catherine beamed her pleasure.
Henry waited until the cheers quieted before he continued. “And now I shall introduce our noble competitors.”
The two dozen noblemen walked onto the field and stood in a line behind the king, Percival Bethington following after Jakob. As Henry called out each man by name and title, the crowd showed its appreciation. Several were offered a token of favor by an adoring woman, which they accepted and tied somewhere on their bodies.
“Sir Jakob Hansen, trusted Knight of King Christian the Second of Denmark!”
“And Norway,” Avery muttered as she stood, preparing to offer him an embroidered linen kerchief as her token of favor.
Her attention was diverted by a woman who was somewhat familiar to her. Standing at the end of the same row as herself and the royal couple, the young woman was about twenty years of age and quite beautiful.
“Sir Hansen!” she cried, waiving a braided ribbon of bright blue, red, and yellow. “Sir Hansen, please accept my favor!”
Jakob stepped forward, flicked a glance toward Avery, and approached the young woman to accept the token.
Avery sank back into her seat, thoroughly confused. Henry, on the other hand, applauded and grinned wildly as Jakob returned to his place in line, tying the ribbon on his tunic as he did.
“It would appear that you have a competition of your own, today,” Catherine murmured. “Do you know her?”
Avery frowned. “I am not certain.”
“I told you not to hesitate overly long in showing interest in the Norseman.” Catherine tsked. “You might have lost this contest after all.”
Avery stared hard at Jakob, but throughout the remainder of the introductions he never looked her way.
*****
Jakob’s jaw clenched and he tried to appear unperturbed. The woman who called to him so urgently was very beautiful. And very young. Nineteen at best, Jakob figured.
Judging by Henry’s grin and subtle nod, that nubile female could be no one but Bessie. So she had made her appearance after all. Skitt.
Jakob would have to do quite a bit of explaining to Avery later. Hopefully she would be as understanding as she had been the night before. Though at that time, the offending female was merely a mental image, not a youthful and stunning woman sitting—Jakob squinted and slid his gaze to the center tent—seven seats from the queen.
Skitt skitt skitt.
There was nothing to be done about it now. Jakob shook himself mentally and focused on the shooting challenge.
Each man had his own identical target so there could be no mistaking whose arrows landed most true. As each competitor stepped forward, he was given three chances to hit the center.
Jakob watched the other men take their turns, preferring to be one of the last. Bethington waited in front of him in line, and as they sat in the tent he regaled Jakob with information about each man, along with a bit of gossip here and there.
“That one has just been given a title because he saved Henry’s life during a hunt last year.” Percival made a little face. “It’s a very small bit of land and he’s only a baron. But Henry likes him.”
The English knight’s running chatter was amusing, and occupied Jakob’s mind while he waited the hour and a half for the twenty men ahead of him to step forward, take their three shots, accept their accolades, and return to their seats. After the target was replaced, the next man took his turn.
When Bethington went out to take his shots, Jakob sneaked a glance at Avery. She stood, clapping and cheering for the English knight. She did not look his way.
I suppose I deserve that.
Even so, he couldn’t help believing that he had let her down. How fervently he wished he wore Avery’s favor, not the favor of Henry’s mistress.
Bethington shot well, all three of his arrows landing within inches of the center. Jakob was glad to see by Percival’s display of skill that he would be in good company, should they run into any trouble on their travels together.
Jakob stood, gave Percival a congratulator
y slap on his back, and walked to the mark, a mere one hundred yards from the target. Shooting at half the distance of the longbows’ range allowed the competitors more accuracy, while lessening the chance of a stray arrow impaling one of the pages assisting with the games.
Or the king.
When Jakob stood on the mark, he was handed his first arrow by a page. “Thank you.”
The boy appeared startled.
“Am I not supposed to speak to you?” Jakob asked, nocking the arrow.
His eyes rounded. “No one does.”
“Hm.” Jakob began to settle in position when he heard his name shrieked from the stands.
“Shoot true, Sir Hansen! As true as your heart!”
He did not look in that direction, but he did touch his finger to his forehead in acknowledgement. With a deep breath, he pulled his focus back to the target. Feet planted at shoulder width. Bow in his left hand, gut pulled back with his right, until the base of his thumb rested against his cheek. Aim.
Release.
The arrow landed inches from the center.
Jakob held out his right hand without moving or taking his eyes from the target. The shaft was laid across his palm.
“Thank you.”
“Sir Hansen, you are my hero!”
Hush, Bessie.
Jakob did not respond to her this time, but sent a second arrow an inch closer to dead center than the last. Again, he did not move, only holding out his right hand.
“Give me the truest one, son.”
A second passed before the arrow was pressed to his palm.
“Thank you, again.”
The crowd stilled as he raised the longbow for his third and final shot of this round.
This one is for you, Avery.
The arrow flew faster than a man’s eye could follow, and hit the straw-backed wooden target with a thunk. Jakob’s third arrow missed the center, but split the second arrow down the center.
He lowered the bow, turned to the cheering crowd, and bowed.
*****
Avery’s irritation with the woman grew with every annoying cheer. She leaned over and spoke in Catherine’s ear. “I want to know who she is, and how she came to be in this tent.”
Catherine nodded and waved for a servant. She whispered in the man’s ear, and he whispered a response into hers.
“She is one of the maids-of-honor.” Catherine answered. “her name is Elizabeth.”
“She seems a bit old for that,” Avery observed. “Why do you suppose she is still in the schoolroom and not yet promoted to be one of your ladies-in-waiting?”
Catherine shrugged. “I have no idea.”
Avery sat back and watched Jakob take his seat. Something about this scenario was very wrong.
As the host of the event, Henry shot last. All three of his arrows landed the closest of any other competitor’s to the center. When he finished accepting the cheers and applause, he came to sit beside Catherine while the targets were measured and compared. The twelve best archers would be called back for a second round of shooting.
“Well done, husband,” Catherine effused.
Henry lifted her hand and gave it a lingering kiss before helping himself to meats from a proffered tray.
“Has your taster sampled the food, your Grace?” Avery asked of a sudden.
The king stared at her. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
Avery forced a smile past her trepidation. “With all the people here, it is best to be safe. I only think of your wife’s peace of mind.”
Henry’s warm gaze moved to Catherine’s. “As do I.”
Catherine handed him a stein of cooled ale. Henry drained the mug before whispering something into Catherine’s ear. She giggled.
Avery’s gaze slid past the affectionate couple and landed on the maid in question. Her hazel eyes were pinned to the king and queen, and she was not smiling.
“Lady Avery?”
Avery’s attention jumped back to Henry. “Yes, your Grace?”
“I want to congratulate you on your excellent tutelage. My queen says that Sir Hansen was particularly proficient in Spanish.”
Avery gave Henry another smile, this one no more than polite. “He has a gift with languages, my lord. Any tutor would have achieved the same results.”
“But not Sir Bethington,” Catherine countered. “You worked a miracle with him.”
Avery regarded the king. “Did your wife tell you that he claims to eat shoes that have been boiled with salt?”
Henry laughed, and Avery saw the maid’s head whip around to watch him. She returned her gaze to Henry.
“Yes. That was marvelous.” The king signaled for more ale and stuffed a meat pie in his mouth.
A waving flag on the field indicated they were ready for the second round. The crowd hushed as the twelve best shooters thus far were called out. Each contestant that was moving forward in the competition was met with enthusiastic accolades.
The mysterious maid outdid them all when Jakob’s name was called. Avery wanted to tear the braided ribbon favor from his chest and strangle the wench with it.
“She’s going to give herself an apoplexy,” Avery grumbled.
“Are you jealous?” Catherine teased. “What will you do about it?”
Avery did not reply.
When the second round of competition ended, the men enjoyed another break to refresh themselves while the shots were measured. Only six would continue to shoot.
Catherine had gone to relieve her bladder when Henry was making his way back to their seats. He stopped to chat with some of the occupants of the royal tent, but his eyes and his smile kept moving to the pretty maid.
The maid’s gaze landed on the king and remained affixed there.
Avery’s chest constricted as she watched them. My God in heaven. He wouldn’t dare.
She straightened tall in her seat—standing might attract the sovereign’s unwanted attention—and searched the field for Jakob. She found him, but his back was to her as he conversed with Percival.
Turn around, she willed. Look at me.
As if she had spoken audibly, Jakob did. His eyes met hers.
Avery stared at him, tilted her head to obviously look at Henry, who now was conversing with the maid, and then returned her gaze to Jakob.
The Norseman understood her question. He lowered his eyes and nodded once.
When he lifted them again, hers were blurred with angry tears.
*****
She knows.
Jakob wondered if he would ever cease to be amazed by the Lady Avery’s acute intelligence and skill at observation. A sense of relief flushed the stress of Bessie’s exaggerated attentions from his body. Now that Avery discerned who the maid was, she would easily make the next connection—that her interest in Jakob was merely a contrivance to hide where her true affections lay.
He placed a hand over his heart.
He watched Avery wipe her eyes, and then touch her own heart as well.
The tears surprised him—and the moment they did, he realized that they shouldn’t. Avery’s fierce loyalty to her beloved friend was being sorely tested by Henry’s actions. The king was the sort of man who manipulated those closest to him for his own means, all the while concocting reasons why his behavior was justified.
The steward of the games motioned for the flag to be waved, and then stepped forward to announce the six contenders for the final round. Henry, of course. Bethington, Brandon, and himself, plus the new baron with the small plot of land, and John de Vere, the Earl of Oxford.
The men would shoot from worst to best, though at this point in the tournament each one of the remaining nobles was truly was a skilled marksman. De Vere was to shoot first, followed by Charles Brandon, then the baron, whose name was Samuel Fowler. Bethington was next, and then the top two archers, Jakob and Henry.
The first four men completed their rounds, and Jakob knew he would be hard pressed to win against any of them. When he lifted his bow and
arrow, he heard Bessie’s cloying cheer once more.
Now armed with the knowledge that Avery would not be confused by the maid’s shouts of adoration, the girl no longer annoyed or distracted him. Jakob smiled as he pulled the gut string to his cheek.
The arrow landed dead center.
The roar of the crowd was a mere buzzing in Jakob’s ears as he nocked his second arrow and let it fly. This one fell about an inch to the side. Jakob smiled again. He knew what he must do.
He stood still, his final arrow in place, and waited until his heart slowed. He raised the bow, eased back the string, held his breath, and aimed.
The third arrow split the shaft of the second one.
Bethington pounded him on the back. “That was close, brother, So very close.”
Charles Brandon winked at him. “Once again, well done Hansen.”
Jakob accepted their words, knowing well that he might have split the first arrow instead. But doing so would make Henry’s victory impossible. He chuckled softly.
I did promise Catherine I would not win.
When the young king shot his arrows, and all three clustered at dead center, Jakob offered his hearty congratulations along with the rest of the noblemen. He was relieved to have made it safely through the first day of the competition. All he longed for now was wine, supper, and Lady Avery’s company.
Judging by the way she looked across the field at him, and touched her heart after he touched his, he happily anticipated that he would receive all three.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What’s on your mind, Averia?” the queen asked as they rested on the boat carrying them up the river Thames to the White Tower.
Avery faced Catherine. There was no way her answer could be an honest one. So she lied.
“I was thinking about my husband.”
Catherine recoiled. “Why?”
Avery hesitated, trying to craft her statement in a manner which would lead Catherine to the thing that truly weighed upon her. “I wonder if he had mistresses.”
