by Kris Tualla
Reynaldo appeared to struggle with his response. “Because of your extensive wardrobe, my darling, I was not able to pack as much of my own.”
His wife rolled her eyes. “They have plenty of tailors in Barcelona. Better ones than in Segovia, I imagine. Order yourself some new pieces.”
Reynaldo’s jaw stiffened. “If our stay is extended, then I shall.”
Avery interrupted the revealing exchange. “Please sit. I have ordered refreshments.”
Reynaldo and Carlotta settled on the couch, side by side but not touching, as Avery reclaimed her upholstered chair. Carlotta’s regard moved around the room as if calculating the worth of its remaining art pieces and expensive furnishings.
A pair of servants entered and set a tray of pastries on the low table between Avery and her guests. Their conversation did not resume until the trio was once again alone.
Reynaldo took a couple small sips of his tea before setting the cup down and leaning forward, a solicitous expression sculpting his features. “Do you find yourself overwhelmed, Averia?”
“Why should I be overwhelmed, Brother?” Avery snipped. She set her tea aside as well, gathering her words to answer the preposterous question. “I only have a lifetime of finances to make sense of, a household which is hanging by a thread, and enough debts to bury me.”
Reynaldo recoiled, his face blooming scarlet.
Carlotta stepped into his void. “Whatever your current situation, my dear, I am certain Queen Catherine would come to your aid.”
Avery glared at her sister-in-law. “You do not know, what you think you know.”
“Even so,” Carlotta affected a concerned expression. “If you are too embarrassed to do so, I would be willing to go to London and speak with her on your behalf.”
Avery laughed out loud. “I have no doubt about that.”
Carlotta bristled. “I am only thinking of you.”
Like a spider thinks of a fly.
“And I do appreciate that.” Avery strained to keep her amused skepticism from her tone. “But I can assure you, Carlotta, that if I find I must make use of Catherine’s influence, I shall do so myself.”
“And if you wish for a traveling companion, please think of me.” Carlotta’s voice held a clearly desperate quality. “I wish to help you in any way I can.”
In that moment, Avery saw what her brother’s wife had truly hoped for when making the journey here: a chance to escape her husband in exactly the same manner that Avery had escaped her own. Her shoulders fell under the weight of that sad epiphany.
She turned her attention to Reynaldo and wondered if he had any clue about his wife’s expectations.
Apparently he did, because he fairly reeked of desperation as well. “I have come to help you, Averia. I can advise you on your investments. I am quite certain you merely misunderstood some of the information you were given, and with proper guidance all can be put right.”
Avery wondered how best to make her brother comprehend her humiliating and diminished situation—which she had learned of in fits and starts over the past two months since she arrived.
At first, she lived in a haze of denial, refusing to face the truth head-on; but that was no longer possible. Since Paolo’s death, it had been thrown in her face at every turn. Avery was in deep financial trouble. And at the moment, there was no visible way out.
She had nothing to lose by being blunt, so blunt she would be.
“Reynaldo, your shabby clothing, and lack of attending staff traveling with you, tell me that the Galaviz estate is on the brink of ruin itself.”
Carlotta gasped. She snapped her lace fan open and put it to anxious use.
Avery glanced in her sister-in-law’s direction, but continued to address her brother. “I am telling you the truth: Paolo was an ass. He was disabled by his disease, and others seem to have spent all of his money for him. All. Do you hear me?”
Reynaldo waved his hands dismissively. “This is only a minor setback.”
“Yours? Or mine?” Avery pressed. “Because mine has no end in sight.”
“Averia, women do not always understand—”
Avery was on her feet like a catapult had thrown her. She pointed an angry finger at her brother. “Do not tell me that I cannot understand money!”
“But investments are not exactly money—”
“No—investments are monies put to work on your behalf, am I correct?” she challenged. He flinched. “And if the investments are bad, the monies are gone. True?”
Reynaldo was still sitting on the cushions, looking up at her. “Yes, but—”
“And when monies are borrowed, there is interest charged. The borrower owes more than was taken, and that repayment grows over time.” Avery leaned over Reynaldo and glowered. “Do I have that correct as well?”
“You do, my dear, but—”
“Stand up, damn you!” Avery cried, stomping one foot in explosive frustration. “Act the man!”
Reynaldo clambered to his feet, his features shifting from placating to thunderous. “You do not tell me how to act!”
Avery poked his chest, shocked at her own uncommon display of temerity but not backing away from it. “And you do not tell me that I do not understand my own circumstances!”
Carlotta rose and wedged her way between sister and brother. “Stop this! Stop this instant!”
Avery stepped back. Her body trembled with violent emotions. “I apologize to you both. This is no way for me to treat guests.”
“We are not guests, we are family,” Reynaldo growled. “Family who came to help.”
Avery stared up at her brother, four inches taller and five years older. He was gray at the temples and squinted when he read.
“I cannot help you, Reynaldo.”
“That is not what I said!”
“No, but that was what you hoped.” Avery slumped back into her chair. “You had hoped that by managing the Mendoza estate, you could earn enough to save your own.”
Reynaldo’s face was florid with his anger and embarrassment, yet he had no believable denial to offer her.
Avery wagged her head sadly and spoke her sudden decision. “I am sorry, but I will be selling off as many items of value as I can to try and pay Paolo’s debts. I do not even know if there is enough to accomplish that, but I will try.”
Carlotta let out a moan and fell back onto the couch.
Avery looked up at her brother. “And I will be reducing the household staff within the month, as well. You may want to take that fact into consideration as you plan your return journey.”
Reynaldo’s knees gave way and his body crumpled to the cushions. Stricken, his skin drained of color as her words impaled his hopes with mortal accuracy.
His dark eyes, mirrors of her own, rose to meet hers. “What shall I do?”
Avery knew she should feel something more than she did—the Galaviz estate was her family’s home. Yet she traveled to Madrid at a young age, and grew up alongside Princess Catherine at Alcalá de Henares.
When her father condemned her into the hell of being married to Paolo Pacheco Mendoza, Vizconde de Catalonya, she stopped thinking of him as family. And after nine years with Catherine in England, her once strong attachment to Spain had declined.
“I do not know, Reynaldo. I cannot decide that for you.” Avery heaved a shuddered sigh and slid her glance toward Carlotta. Her sister-in-law’s sober face displayed a hopeless expression; though as Avery regarded her, she saw a glint of determination begin to grow. She doubted that glint boded well for Reynaldo.
“In spite of my words, you are both welcome to stay here as long as you wish.” Avery stood, indicating that she was finished with this interview.
Reynaldo glanced up, and this time stood without being prompted. Clearly he had learned his lesson. Carlotta rose more slowly, her gaze downcast and her features pensive.
Avery escorted the pair to the drawing room door.
“Dinner will be at nine bells this evening. I
do not anticipate other guests, so do not make a fuss over your garments. I will not be changing,” she added, lest either one believe she still threw barbs in their cumulative direction.
Reynaldo nodded dumbly, and opened the door. Carlotta stepped onto the courtyard balcony first, but then turned around after Reynaldo moved past her, taking one step back into the doorway.
She grabbed both of Avery’s hands in hers, staring intently into Avery’s eyes. “If you go back to England, Sister, I beg you to take me with you,” she whispered.
Avery gave a small shake of her head and answered in kind. “I do not know that I am going back.”
“But if you do.” Carlotta’s frantic grip was hurting Avery’s fingers. “Please. Do not leave me behind.”
Avery opened her mouth to speak, but Carlotta interrupted her. “I will do anything.” She leaned closer. “Anything. Do you hear me?”
A gush of pity softened Avery’s answer. “Yes. I understand.”
She though Carlotta was going to cry, so great was her display of relief. “Thank you, Averia. God bless you.”
The woman dropped her hands, spun on her silk slipper, and marched past her husband, who stood close enough that he must have heard every word of her secretive request.
Avery looked at her brother. Though she regarded him with sincere regret, she knew her reaction to Carlotta’s words was nothing when compared to his personal pain and utter devastation.
Chapter Six
November 24, 1518
Jakob looked up as Percival Bethington strode into his chambers dressed in a dark blue mantle which fell to his hips. It had an intricate gold-embroidered border, about two inches wide, which held a variety of emblems that Jakob did not know the meaning of.
Grinning, Percy spread his arms, splitting the cape open, revealing its white satin lining. He rested his fists on his hips. “What do you think?”
Beneath the mantle he wore a belted robe of crimson velvet. The tubular sleeves and fitted cut of the garment allowed for ease of movement, and the robe’s hem fell just above his ankles.
Jakob chuckled. “What on earth are you wearing?”
Percy wagged a finger at him. “Just as I suspected. You have not opened your parcel from the priests.”
Jakob felt the blood drain from his face. “No.”
“Oh, yes, Sir Jakob Hansen, Knight of the Order of the Golden Fleece.” Percy spun on one foot just to goad him, Jakob was certain. “This is what we are to wear when attending all formal activities associated with the esteemed Order.”
“Does that include our regular meetings?” Please say no.
“No. Only the inaugural meeting on January first. After that we may wear our black mantles—still embroidered, mind you—but apparently we can choose the style and color of our under-apparel.”
“Thank the Lord,” Jakob muttered.
Percy reached under the cloak and behind his back. “I have saved the best part for last.”
The English knight held up a heavy gold collar which Jakob estimated was as wide as the mantle’s embroidery. It consisted of alternating gold links: a rectangle piece styled with a cut-out design resembling a sort of fleur-de-lis, and a square piece molded with a sunburst pattern and set with a semiprecious cabochon in its center.
The links met at a right angle in the front, from which point dangled a golden ram, its drooping body suspended by a twisted rope around its middle.
Jakob stood and approached Percy, relieved to see that something of their required dress would demand respect, not only by the impressive size and design, but by its obvious value as well. “What is the stone?”
Percy squinted at it. “Lapis lazuli, I believe. Or perhaps it might be sodalite.”
Jakob hefted the jeweled collar in his hand, appreciating the weight. “When do we wear these?”
“Any time we appear in public. Along with the black mantle.”
Jakob nodded. “I suppose we are serving in a very—what is the English word? For something not everyone can be a part of?”
Percy shrugged. “Exclusive? Elite?”
“Eksklusive. The same as Norsk.” Jakob grinned at Percival. “That is a new word for you.”
“Another easy one.” The English knight grinned. “It’s no wonder you learned English so quickly.”
Jakob gave a single-shouldered shrug and handed Percy the collar. “As I say, we serve in a very exclusive Order. To dress correctly is important, to ensure we are known.”
Percy draped the collar over his head and across his shoulders—the effect was striking, indeed. “I am going to change my clothes and put this away, and then I was thinking we might want to explore Barcelona. Have you an interest?”
Jakob huffed a laugh; his good-humored companion never passed on an opportunity to discover new taverns or other sources of amusement. Showing restraint for the last three days had clearly pushed Bethington to his limit. Besides that, Jakob needed to get outside the palazzo and think about something other than Avery. That path was not taking him anywhere helpful.
“Yes. I would enjoy that.”
Bethington bounced a nod, his smile wide. “Good. I’ll meet you in the courtyard. Oh—there is one other thing.”
Jakob lifted one brow. “What?”
“Wait until you see the hat.”
*****
“Askel!” Jakob called out, striding into the sleeping chamber. “Have you unpacked the parcel from the priests?”
Askel looked up from the tunic he was cleaning. “Yes, my lord.”
“Where did you put the garments?”
The valet set the tunic aside and crossed to a large wooden cabinet. “In here.”
Jakob saw the red velvet robe and dark blue mantle—twins of Bethington’s—and the more subdued black mantle. “Where is the collar?”
Askel’s eyes brightened and he reached behind the clothing. “In this pouch, my lord.”
Jakob unfolded the soft, sueded leather to reveal his own version of the golden collar. His, however, had amber in place of the lapis.
He held it up to the light. “I wonder, might that be intentional.”
“What, sir?”
Jakob gazed at the younger man. Askel had been in his service for eight years, joining him right after the deadly fire that injured his leg. “Bethington’s collar has blue lapis. Mine has Baltic amber.”
Askel’s features twisted in a sly smile. “King Henry’s man did ask me about it.”
“Hmph.” Jakob rewrapped the collar. Henry the Eighth never ceased to surprise him. “Show me the hat.”
Askel pulled a wad of black fabric from a higher shelf. “There are two. This one is for regular usage.”
The chaperon consisted of a thick, rolled brim that circled his skull. Bursting from the top, like a fine woolen fountain, pleated fabric imitated a broad feather plume. A narrow swath about three feet in length extended from the left side.
Jakob placed the hat on his head and draped the—what would he call it? A scarf? A veil?—loosely under his chin, and threw the end over his right shoulder. He examined the effect in the silvered glass.
“It is rather fetching, my lord,” Askel opined.
Jakob thought he looked passably handsome in the headpiece; it would do. He liked the way his reddish-gold hair looked against the black. “You said there were two?”
Askel nodded. “They are styled alike, but the other is red.”
Jakob reached up and removed the chaperon. “When do I wear the red one?”
“Only during the mass of the Virgin.” Askel replaced the hat on its shelf.
“That is a relief.” Jakob pointed to the second cupboard. “I shall wear the burgundy tunic today. And the high boots. Sir Bethington and I are going exploring.”
Askel helped him into the garment—one of King Henry’s, acquired for their agreed-upon ruse. Jakob did not offer to return the king’s garments when he left England. Considering that he was required to buy himself new clothing as a result o
f the bargain with Henry, Jakob considered the English king’s cast-offs as merely extra compensation.
Jakob thought a moment, and then strapped his sword to his belt. Weapons would not be allowed in the cathedral of course, but at this moment there was nothing about his person to tag him as a knight of the Order. He and Percy were foreigners, still unknown in the city.
He smiled as he went down the back staircase. A little anonymity never did anyone harm.
*****
There was always a supply of taverns near a church. Jakob didn’t know for certain why that was true, only that it had proven so in England, as well as Norway and Denmark. Perhaps for the screwing up of one’s courage before going into the confessional. Or for facing the often equally daunting task of completing one’s penance when finished. In any case, he and Bethington had their choice of several establishments to pick from once they retraced their steps and returned to the cathedral square.
“Let us have a drink in each,” the Englishman suggested. “Find a favorite or two by process of elimination.”
Jakob laughed and wagged his head. “You are certainly methodical in your pleasures, my friend.”
Percy leaned closer. “I would not want to miss an opportunity by falling lax in my efforts.”
Jakob bowed and extended one arm. “Lead on.”
The first tavern was entered and exited in quick order. The grubby floor had been covered in straw—an excellent breeding place for vermin of a nasty variety. The smell of unwashed bodies, the sort who never bathed, was rank as well.
“I can accept the smell of sweat on an otherwise clean person,” the English knight commented once they were back on the street. “But I find the sort of filth which has actually become part of one’s body disagreeable in the extreme.”
Jakob agreed, thankful that he was raised to wash himself daily, and bathe whenever the weather was warm enough. “Shall we go into that one?”
Percy read the placard aloud. “Santos y Pecadores. Saints and Sinners.” He chuckled. “Sounds perfecto.”
This establishment was a vast improvement over the first, both in cleanliness and clientele. Jakob noticed a trio of finely dressed men, all wearing the golden collars of the Order. He tapped Percy on the shoulder and tipped his head in their direction.
