by Kris Tualla
“I—wait. You—you aren’t…” The man’s jaw dropped and his sword arm drooped. “Who are you?”
“I am the bastard Norseman. And I am not swiving Bessie.”
Jakob stepped toward the groom, adjusting his grip on the dagger behind his back. The man’s life was forfeit because of his foolish crimes, but now he knew Jakob was impersonating the king. That information could not leave this field.
Offering him a quick death here, under the guise of a carriage accident, would save him the humiliation of a public hanging—and spare Bessie’s feelings if she ever truly had a care for him.
Jakob pulled the dagger from behind his back. “You’ll die one way or another. Do you wish to confess anything before you do?”
The man stared at Jakob, his face going white as his shirt. Realizing that Jakob was serious, he raised the sword and charged.
Jakob leapt awkwardly aside, his battered muscles putting him off-kilter, and swung the dagger. He sliced the man’s arm, though that did not slow his attack. He whirled and ran at Jakob again.
Jakob meant to tire him, and once again leapt sideways to avoid the blade. He brought his fist down on the man’s arm, hoping to loosen his grip on the sword.
But the man was berserk, powered by rage and fear. He rushed Jakob again and again, and it was the knight who tired. On the next charge, Jakob threw his body at the man’s legs, taking him to the ground.
Acting on training alone, Jakob rolled to his feet and lurched onto the man’s back. Grabbing his hair, he yanked the man’s head up to expose his throat. One swift slide of his blade, and the man’s death was assured.
*****
Jakob could not know if Avery was present at supper, because he did not return to the Tower until after the seventh hour.
After killing the groom, Jakob removed Henry’s clothes and exchanged them for the dead man’s. Then he freed the horses from their traces and, riding one and leading the other, made his way back into London and the Tower.
Meeting an anxious Brandon under the awning two hours later than he was expected, Jakob explained everything that occurred. The duke immediately sent a carriage for Henry, and a search party to retrieve the upturned carriage and corpse. Jakob climbed the circular stairs to his apartment, desperately needing a hot soak.
He rested in the steaming water for nearly an hour, while Askel puttered and fussed around him.
Killing a man was never an easy thing. And the idea of calmly taking the groom’s life was discomforting at best.
“He attacked you, my lord. You were forced to protect yourself.” Askel’s expression was stern as he set down the tray with Jakob’s supper. “Besides the fact, he was condemned for treason, and going to die anyway.”
The valet was right. “Thank you, Askel.”
He turned to face Jakob. “Will you want your opium?”
“No. At least, not yet.” Jakob grabbed the edges of the tub to lift himself out. “I have an appointment to speak with Lady Avery.”
At half-past the ninth hour, Jakob walked toward her chamber, once more trying to discern a reason not to do what he was about to do.
Jakob threw every possible objection that he was able to conjure at his decision—and he acknowledged all of them. They all were indeed valid, from logistical, economic, or political viewpoints. Yet their validity failed in the face of Jakob’s overwhelming affections for Avery.
Having found her, he did not want to live any longer without her, knowing that his life would be diminished in scope if he was forced to. For that reason, once his upcoming responsibilities at the Order were completed, he had made the intrepid decision to follow Avery anywhere she wished to reside.
He stood in front of her chamber door, slowing his breath to slow his heart. His abused thigh throbbed with his pulse, and his palms were slicked with nervous sweat. He dried them on his hose, straightened his stance, and knocked on her door.
A maid cracked open the portal and peered up at him before turning to look over her shoulder. “My lady?”
A moment passed before Avery appeared in the scant space. She slipped through the opening and pulled the heavy door closed behind her. “May we speak in your chamber instead of mine?”
“Of course.” Jakob offered his arm, wondering what was happening in her apartment that she did not wish for him to see.
They walked in silence down the hallway, and around two corners toward the smaller accommodations. Jakob stopped in front of his chamber, deciding not to say anything until they were safely ensconced inside.
He opened his door. Catching Askel’s eye he gestured with his head for the valet to leave and give them privacy.
Askel dipped his chin, and slid past the couple, pulling the door solidly shut.
“Would you care for wine?” Jakob asked, moving to the sideboard.
Avery looked like she was about to decline, and then changed her mind. “Yes. Thank you.”
Jakob poured two goblets, irritated to note that his hands trembled. He turned around and handed the lady one of the glasses, then lifted his in wordless toast.
Avery did the same and swallowed a hefty portion of the burgundy liquid. She sank into a chair, her skin white, and her red-rimmed dark eyes underscored with purple smudges.
Jakob’s throat clutched at the sorry sight of her. He pulled a chair close and sat facing her. “What is amiss, Avery?”
She gave a little shake of her head. “Tell me why you wanted to speak with me.”
An avalanche of answers to that question tumbled through Jakob’s thoughts, baffling his attempt to bring them into order. He sipped his wine, trying to determine where to begin, all of his practiced persuasions having disintegrated.
“I suppose I shall begin with what is most important,” he said slowly. “Lady Avery Albergar, I have grown to love you with all my heart.”
Avery stared somberly, her lips pressed so tightly they had no color.
“And I believe you love me as well.” It was not truly a question, though he did hope for some sort of response. When none was forthcoming, he cleared his throat and continued.
“I never looked for love. I never expected love. To feel this way is a surprise to me, after all that happened before in my life.”
Avery allowed a small, silent nod.
Jakob had no choice but to continue his monologue, all the while wondering what she was thinking. “Rest assured, I have thought of all the possible objections to this union.”
He set his wine down, and began to list those objections—and their counterpoints. “I must go to Spain. But you have a home in Spain.”
Avery inhaled a quick breath, and held it.
“When the meeting of the Order is finished, I can ask to serve King Christian from Spain—or England.” He pinned her dark gaze. “Wherever you are.”
Her brow twitched, and she released her breath.
“If he says no, then I will ask Henry to be one of his knights. He likes me.” Jakob held up a hand. “Even if I must still act in his ruse, I would do this to be with you.”
Avery’s shoulders drooped. Tears hovered on the edges of her lower eyelids.
“And if Henry says no, I do have some income.” He paused, wondering if it was wise to mention her financial status as well, yet at this point it would seem he had nothing to lose.
“And I think that you have income, because you are noble,” he ventured. “Together, we will live in comfort.”
Avery’s tears breeched the dam of her lashes. She pressed tightly-fisted hands against her lips, still not offering a single word to the conversation.
There was only one thing remaining for Jakob to say. He slid from his chair and knelt in front of Avery.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
He reached for her hands, pulling them away from her face, and unfolding them as he did. He gripped them firmly, encouraged when she pressed back.
“Will you look at me, Avery?” he whispered.
She blinked her eyes open.
Thick black lashes, spiked to sharp points by her tears, framed her eyes. Pale wet cheeks gleamed in the candlelight, giving the impression of polished marble. Her lips, devoid of her fists’ protection, were now trapped between her teeth. Her gaze cut from side to side like a frightened bird before finally landing on his.
Jakob peered into her eyes, willing them to remain still and fixed on his.
“I love you Avery. I love you enough to be the one man who will rearrange his entire life for you—if you will have me.”
Avery’s brow furrowed and twitched, but her gaze stayed with him. Her breath blew from her nose in sharp gusts—like a bull preparing to charge.
Jakob pulled a steadying lungful of air; the time had come. “Will you extend to me the honor of becoming my wife?”
A sob broke Avery’s silence. She pulled her hands from his and repeatedly swiped at her cheeks. She sniffed wetly, running the back of her hand under her nose in a very unladylike gesture.
Jakob fumbled for a linen, pulling one from inside his tunic.
Avery accepted the proffered kerchief and scrubbed her eyes and nose—not that it had any effect on the continuing stream of tears. Her breath came in shuddering gasps, the sort that resulted from extended periods spent crying. It occurred to Jakob that much more was going on than he knew.
“Avery?” he prodded softly. “Will you say something?”
She wagged her head slightly, staring at the floor. “I must give you up.”
Jakob frowned, uncertain he heard her correctly. “Give me up?”
Avery’s words were clipped and separated by her gulping spasms. “I cannot—I must—say goodbye.”
Jakob sat back on his heels, stunned. “Why?”
“I cannot—tell you.” She lifted her eyes to his, pleading for his cooperation, if not his comprehension. “There are—situations—I cannot—control.”
“We will control them together,” Jakob insisted. He knew he sounded desperate, and perhaps he was; but watching all hope slide through his grasp like dry sand completely knocked his pride aside. “You do love me, do you not?”
A fresh moan escaped her, and her shoulders began to shake. “That—does not—matter.”
Jakob shook his head, which already felt wobbly—like it was detaching from his shoulders. “No. That matters most of all.”
Avery jumped to her feet. She looked down at Jakob, still on his knees in front of her, and her dripping tears baptized his face.
“Good bye,” she croaked, touching his cheek with one finger.
She fled the room before he could stand.
July 16, 1518
Catherine held on to Avery so tightly that Avery wondered if the unborn babe might be squeezed from the distraught queen’s body.
Her tear-ravaged voice was rough in Avery’s ear. “I cannot believe this time has come so quickly.”
Avery held her dear friend in return, unable to let go. “We knew it would. But I, too, hoped and prayed it would be delayed further.”
Catherine loosened her grip and leaned back to look Avery in the eye. “Will I ever see you again?”
Avery pressed Jakob’s kerchief against her eyes. When she rushed from his rooms the night before, she forgot it was in her hand.
Now it was the only tangible thing she could carry with her to hold the Nordic knight close. She inhaled the scents of cloves and cedar while they still clung to the fabric, knowing that eventually his scent would be left behind as well.
“I swear you will, Cathy. I just cannot promise you when.”
Catherine’s expression shifted. “Henry told me something rather startling last night. It seems that Jakob caught the miscreant who caused Henry’s horse to go mad at the joust.”
Avery’s chest tightened at the mention of the Norseman’s name. “He did? How?”
“My husband refused to give me all of the details, of course,” Catherine made a pouty moue. “But apparently the man attacked Henry when the two of them were out yesterday, and Jakob fought him off and killed him.”
Avery’s mind filled in all the missing pieces of that partial explanation, and the ramifications of such an act. “Jakob said nothing when we spoke.”
But then, I did not allow him the chance to.
Catherine touched Avery’s cheek. “The Nordic knight is a humble man. He will miss you, Averia.”
“I know.” Avery wiped her tears again. “But nothing can be changed.”
The queen’s hand fell to her womb. “I needed you here for the birth. Whatever shall I do without you?”
Avery saw the unspoken remainder of that question in her friend’s anguished expression: if this babe dies, too.
“This is a strong boy, Cathy,” Avery assured her of the common hope. “Please don't work yourself into a state.”
A uniformed seaman stepped up behind Avery. “My lady, the tide has turned. It is time to sail.”
Catherine threw her arms around Avery once again. The queen’s tears soaked Avery’s neck. “Write to me, Averia. Every week. Promise me.”
Avery nodded, her throat too constricted for sound, and whispered, “I love you, Cathy.”
“I love you, querida mia.”
The seaman cleared his throat in a very urgent manner.
Catherine pushed Avery away and made the sign of the cross with her rosary. “God bless you on your travels, my dearest friend.”
Avery dipped a small curtsy, a last reminder of Catherine’s status, and turned to follow the seaman onto the ship.
*****
Avery stood at the bow of the ship, refusing to cast any backward glances toward the Tower of London. After nine years of sheltering in its solid refuge, she knew well what it looked like. There was no point in prolonging the soul-rendering pain of her departure by watching it disappear from view.
Forward was the only way to face now. And the only way to hold onto her sanity.
The mess she left behind when she escaped to Catherine’s court had caught up with her. She knew it would. Five years ago the clock began ticking toward this end.
At least I had these five additional years. It might have been far less.
If it had been less, then she never would have met Jakob—the tall, handsome Nordic knight with the impossibly Jewish name, and a face like the king’s.
Was that a blessing, she wondered, or a curse.
Avery lifted his kerchief to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. She knew what she must do. Stretching out her arm, she held the fabric beyond the railing, watching it flutter in the wind like a flag of surrender.
And then, she let it go.
Chapter Thirty-One
July 20, 1518
Jakob prowled through the Tower for four days, much like an angry wolf, sniffing for prey that could not be found. The Lady Avery seemed to have vanished like a spectre.
He snapped at Percival for no reason, and growled at poor Askel until the valet nearly forced opium on him to help quiet his overpowering frustration.
Instead, Jakob went out by himself and got roaring drunk.
He staggered out the last of three taverns he visited that night, each time staying until he was unable to peel the grasping whores from his torso.
“Tide å gå videre,” he mumbled. Time to move on.
Weaving his way toward the Tower—it was impossible to get lost from the damned thing—he turned to his left and climbed Tower Hill. He tripped on a rock and slammed to the ground, landing in a mixture of cool grass and mud.
Skitt.
Jakob climbed awkwardly to his feet, the chill of dampness cooling his knees and thighs, and stumbled higher on the rise. A sudden wave of nausea slowed him, and he bent over, resting the heels of his hands on his knees.
“Skitt.”
A hand slid around his waist and eased him to the ground.
“You’ll want to be careful, sir.” The young woman’s voice floated into his muddled brain. “Ye look sick and all, and ye’ll be robbed. Or worse.”
Jakob lifted his face and squinted at the girl.
“Holy Mother of God!” she breathed. “It’s you.”
“Who?” he huffed. Judging by the girl’s aroma—a mixture of perfume and sweat—she was just one more whore which the night had to offer.
“The one what looks like His Majesty.”
He snorted and flopped a loose arm, which had seemingly lost its bones back in the last tavern. “What do you know.”
“I know,” she stated. “I’ve seen ye.”
Something pinged in Jakob’s ale-soaked mind. “Seen me?”
“Aye.”
He wished she would hold still and stop splitting in two. He rested a hand on her shoulder to encourage that restraint. “Where?”
“At Miss Blount’s house.”
“SKITT!” Jakob bellowed. He fell backward, splaying his limbs on the cool greenery.
“Damn …him.” Drunk as he was, Jakob had the presence of mind not to curse the king out loud, especially in a public place.
The whore lay down alongside him, curling her body to his. Her hand rested lightly over his crotch. “Your secret is safe with me, sir. I promised.”
“Promised?” The heat of her palm reminded him of Avery. He shoved it away.
She placed it back on him, a little firmer this time. “If ye don’t wish to be found out, ye must look like I’m servicing ye.”
Jakob groaned. “Who did you promise?”
“Lady Avery.”
Jakob bolted upright—a very large mistake. His head swirled like a dervish and his stomach declared its rebellion.
The girl pushed him aside in time for him to avoid puking down his own chest. He rolled to his knees, head hanging like a dog, and emptied the sour remnants of his greasy supper and quarts of ale.
When he finished, she wiped his mouth, tsking as she did.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lizzy.”
“Are you a whore?”
She lifted one brow. “And what else would I be, out here alone and chasing down men in the middle of the night?”
Jakob coughed a dry laugh.
