by Kris Tualla
Jakob shrugged. “I can’t see past this building. But I hear a drum.”
A quartet of white horses moved slowly into view, their driver holding them back to match the pace of a stately human procession. Their black polished traces gleamed dully in the dim afternoon light, and their bridles’ headpieces sported black feather plumes. The cool intermittent breeze caused the horses’ tails to tickle their legs, and they whisked them in irritation.
The horses were held in check by a teamster dressed in black and wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He kept his head low.
“Funeral,” Jakob murmured.
“Yes,” Percival agreed.
An ornate, black-and-gilt wagon gradually hoved into view, and stretched along its generous length was a very large casket. A few of the observers threw flowers onto the wagon; some made the sign of the cross and kissed their rosaries. Others merely watched in curious silence.
Judging by the outrageous size of the casket, and the plethora of gilded carvings covering its surface, the deceased was either very obese, or very wealthy.
Most likely both.
“Can you see how long the procession is?” Jakob leaned forward in his saddle, but he was too far behind the crowd to be able to see around the corner.
“No.” Bethington pointed toward the procession. “But that must be the wife.”
A woman, dressed all in black and carrying a bouquet of white flowers which Jakob didn’t recognize, walked about five yards behind the hearse, as if to distance herself from the dead man.
She held her head high, nonetheless. Her back was stiff and straight, and she walked in a slow measured cadence with the drum beating behind her. Her bearing was almost defiant in nature, making Jakob wonder what sort of marriage this might have been.
Content was not a word that leapt to the forefront of his consideration.
Though her face was covered by a veil of black lace, something about her deportment pinged in Jakob’s mind. He leaned sideways toward Bethington, his eyes remaining fixed on the widow.
“Does she—” Before he could finish the question, a wet gust of sea air lifted the edge of the woman’s veil.
“Good God!” Percival breathed. “Is that—?”
Jakob’s heart tripled its own cadence in an instant. He stared,
hard, and willed the breeze to blow again. To give him another glimpse.
An impulse prompted him to call out her name, before a hard slap of good sense closed his mouth. As she crossed his field of vision, passing between the rows of gathered bystanders, Jakob saw his chance fading.
Please, God. Let me see her.
The veil edged up again, higher this time on a stronger gust, and he saw the woman’s aristocratic profile, pale skin, and neat black brows.
Percival grabbed Jakob’s arm. “She looks like the Lady Avery.”
Jakob nodded, unable to conjure a coherent sentence from the multitude of realizations bashing around in his head—until one thought bubbled to the top.
“Perdóneme,” he called out to the well-dressed man standing closest to Warrior. “Que ha muerto?” Who has died?
The gentleman looked up, squinting in the pale afternoon glare. “Señor Paolo Pacheco Mendoza, Vizconde de Catalonya.”
A viscount? Jakob imagined that would be a step down for a woman of Avery’s status—if the widow proved to be her.
“Y el nombre de su esposa?” he pressed.
The man looked at him as if he was daft. Then with a shift of expression which Jakob interpreted as extending grace for an obvious foreigner, he replied, “Su nombre es Señora Averia Galaviz de Mendoza, Condesa de Catalonya.”
Averia. Avery. Countess of Catalonya.
Married. Now widowed.
Skitt.
*****
Jakob sat in his saddle, stunned and unmoving, until the occupants of the crowd returned to their previous occupations. Percival cleared his throat. Jakob lifted his eyes to meet the other knight’s.
“I believe we continue this way.” He nudged his horse forward.
Askel and Denys waited for Jakob to follow his fellow knight before they fell in behind him, leading the tethered pack mules.
Obviously now was not the time to discuss what they has just witnessed, and the glint in Bethington’s eyes made that clear; but he had seen what Jakob saw. The set of the Englishman’s jaw communicated that he had recognized the lady as well.
Averia Galaviz de Mendoza.
Avery had been married.
Is that why she turned his proposal aside and left England so suddenly— because she was marrying another man? Four months was barely enough time for her to travel the distance, take vows, and lose her husband. Her second husband.
The idea taunted Jakob with vicious jabs, ridiculing him without mercy for daring to hope that he might yet, at the age of thirty-two, find a woman to share his life. Now that door was not only slammed shut, but wrapped in heavy iron chains and hung with an enormous lock.
How had he misjudged Avery’s affections so completely, he wondered. When he held her in his arms… He could still feel the curves of her frame pressed against his, and smell the soft aroma of her perfume. Jakob gave his head a quick shake to dispel the excruciating memory.
Perhaps it was a monetary decision. Perhaps she did not have the income which he assumed her station as the noble childhood friend of King Henry’s wife, Queen Catherine of Aragon, and her chief lady-in-waiting would provide.
Even if that were true, there was no reason to believe she might be tossed from the Tudor court and be left to her own devices. She could remain safely at court throughout Catherine’s lifetime.
Averia Galaviz de Mendoza.
Bethington rode in front of him. Wisps of his dark brown hair were loosened from its ties by the brisk breezes and flailed about his head. He cast a worried glance back at Jakob now and again, his clear green eyes bright in the dimming day.
During their six-week journey, Jakob eventually told the Englishman—who had, himself, courted Avery unsuccessfully for a year before Jakob arrived—the whole of what transpired between him, and the beautiful Spanish lady. Including, of course, Jakob’s spurned offer of marriage to the woman known in the Tudor court as the Ice Maiden, made just three days before Avery disappeared from England without explanation.
Percival offered all the appropriate sounds of understanding and co-misery and then, at his urging, the pair of knights drank in the tavern until morning. That was the one day that they did not travel, even though the capricious French weather was unusually pleasant and accommodating.
Averia Galaviz de Mendoza.
Skitt.
THE HANSEN FAMILY TREE
Sveyn Hansen* (b. 1035 ~ Arendal, Norway)
***
Rydar Hansen (b. 1324 ~ Arendal, Norway)
Grier MacInnes (b. 1328 ~ Durness, Scotland)
Eryndal Bell Hansen (b. 1327 ~ Bedford, England)
Andrew Drummond (b. 1325 ~ Falkirk, Scotland)
***
Jakob Petter Hansen (b. 1485 ~ Arendal, Norway)
Avery Galaviz de Mendoza (b. 1483 ~ Madrid, Spain)
***
Brander Hansen (b. 1689 ~ Arendal, Norway)
Regin Kildahl (b. 1693 ~ Hamar, Norway)
***
Martin Hansen (b. 1721 ~ Arendal, Norway)
Dagne Sivertsen (b. 1725 ~ Ljan, Norway)
Reidar Hansen (b. 1750 ~ Boston, Massachusetts)
Kristen Sven (b. 1754 ~ Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)
Nicolas Hansen (b. 1787 ~ Cheltenham, Missouri Territory)
Siobhan Sydney Bell (b. 1789 ~ Shelbyville, Kentucky)
Stefan Hansen (b. 1813 ~ Cheltenham, Missouri)
Kirsten Hansen (b. 1820 ~ Cheltenham, Missouri)
Leif Fredericksen Hansen (b. 1809 ~ Christiania, Norway)
***
Tor Hansen (b. 1913 ~ Arendal, Norway)
Kyle Solberg (b. 1919 ~ Viking, Minnesota)
Teigen Hansen (b. 1915 ~ Arendal,
Norway)
Selby Hovland (b. 1914 ~ Trondheim, Norway)
***
*Hollis McKenna Hansen (b. 1985 Sparta, Wisconsin)
Kris Tualla is a dynamic, award-winning, and internationally published author of historical romance and suspense. She started in 2006 with nothing but a nugget of a character in mind, and has created a dynasty with The Hansen Series, and its spin-off, The Discreet Gentleman Series. Find out more at: www.KrisTualla.com
Kris is an active PAN member of Romance Writers of America, the Historical Novel Society, and Sisters in Crime, and was invited to be a guest instructor at the Piper Writing Center at Arizona State University.
“In the Historical Romance genre, there have been countless kilted warrior stories told. I say it's time for a new breed of heroes. Come along with me and find out why: Norway IS the new Scotland!”
