A Nordic Knight of the Golden Fleece: Jakob & Avery: Book 2 (The Hansen Series - Jakob & Avery)

by Kris Tualla

  “How may I help?” he asked, feeling like the proverbial knight rescuing a dame in distress.

  “I am not sure,” she confessed. “But I do not believe they are being completely honest with me.”

  “Do you wish for me to be there when you meet with them?” he offered. “My Spanish is not complete, but I can provide a daunting presence.”

  “And how would I explain your presence without inflaming the gossips?” Avery shook her head. “For now, I shall rest on the assumptions about my financial state made by my soon-to-be revealed connection with Catherine.”

  “That she rewarded you financially?” Jakob wondered why the queen would not.

  “Well, at the least that I have her ear.” Avery sighed. “I shall call on you when I have something of import to tell you. Is that acceptable for now?”

  Jakob rose to his feet again and pulled her to stand in front of him. He gazed into her nearly-black eyes. “I am your servant, Avery, day or night.”

  Then he dropped her hands, took a step back, and bowed. Spinning on a heel, he left the room before he lost the will to do so.

  *****

  Avery watched him leave. For a moment, she was afraid he might kiss her; but truthfully she was more afraid of what she might do if he did. As much as she hated to admit it, she was still deeply in love with the Nordic knight—a situation which became painfully clear the day he forced his way into her presence.

  One look at him, and she ached to throw everything in her life aside and run into his arms. A woman with less determination might choose to do exactly that and escape with the Norseman, consequences be damned. Avery almost wished she was that sort of woman.

  She was not, of course.

  Too many impediments stood between her and Jakob, ones which did not require any consideration at all when they were merely dallying in England, and a permanent relationship between them was impossible.

  First and foremost was the difference in their class. She was a countess; Jakob was merely a knight, the lowest of all noble stations. After that came the differences in freedom which those ranks provided.

  Under normal circumstances, a widowed vizcondesa would be financially and personally independent, able to choose her life’s path.

  Jakob, by contrast, was at the beck and call of his sovereign, dependent on the king for his income. And should he choose to marry without his sovereign’s permission, he would be released from the king’s service and be left destitute.

  In addition to all of that, titled widows in their mid-thirties had responsibilities upon which many people’s livelihood depended. Avery was not free to run again, not this time.

  The crux of her situation lay in the fact that her husband was dead. She was no longer married. Therefore, any relationship which she encouraged with Jakob could no longer be labeled as adultery. Even if she chose to take him to her bed, fornication seemed a lesser sin than that; at the least she would still remain faithful to one man at a time.

  After living a relatively independent life for nine years, Avery felt compelled to ferret out just how much, exactly, remained of her husband’s once thriving businesses. And was there any money left? If so, where was it invested?

  Once she had those answers, she would decide how—and where—to spend the rest of her life.

  And with whom.

  Avery crossed the drawing room and pulled the door open. Esteban staggered backwards and nearly fell. “My lady?”

  “Esteban, I need to arrange an appointment with Señores Garcia and Montenegro, at their earliest convenience.”

  The majordomo bowed. “I shall see to that at once.”

  “I would like them both in attendance—and you as well.”

  Esteban’s surprise altered his normally pleasant expression. “Why, if I might ask?”

  “I am going to get to the bottom of Paolo’s finances and your knowledge of the household expenses is a very important element in that.” Avery gave the servant a steely stare. “And none of you will be excused from my presence until I have all of those answers.”

  *****

  After his interview with Avery, Jakob joined Percival at the Santos y Pecadores tavern. Since meeting the Spanish knights there, he and Bethington had returned daily for their evening meal, forgoing a supper for two in the palazzo’s huge dining room in favor of the chance to know more of their fellow members of the Order. To that end, they always wore their collars so that they might be recognized.

  Percival poured him a mug of ale. “How was your audience with the Lady de Mendoza?”

  Jakob startled at the name—he still thought of her as Avery Albergar, even though he knew now that never was her name. Jakob answered in Spanish, keeping his words simple for the Englishman’s sake.

  “Very good. She will not keep her years in England a secret, now. We are to say this to anyone who knows her.”

  “Did I hear you mention a secret?” Diego Hurtado de Mendoza clapped Jakob on the shoulder and winked conspiratorially. “Do tell.”

  De Mendoza was exactly the man Jakob hoped might appear. He chuckled. “The point is, it is not a secret.”

  “What is not a secret?” Pietro San Severino set his mug of ale on Jakob and Percy’s table. “May we join you gentlemen while you explain?”

  Bethington, who had been able to follow the conversation, gave an expansive wave. “Please do, your Graces.”

  Once the dukes were settled, de Mendoza fixed his brown eyes on Jakob. “Go on, then.”

  “The story concerns your cousin-under-law, the recently widowed Lady Aver—ia, de Mendoza,” he stammered.

  The duke frowned a bit. He did not look as if he expected anything good to be revealed. “I have not seen her in some years.”

  Jakob nodded. “That is because she has been absent from Barcelona, and her marriage, for these past nine years.”

  “I must admit, I cannot blame her.” Diego’s relief was clear. “And under that circumstance, I assume that she is in good health?”

  There was no mistaking the undercurrent of his question. “The lady is in excellent health, your Grace. Rest assured that she was untouched by her husband’s unfortunate situation.”

  De Mendoza lifted his goblet in silent toast before taking a large swallow.

  “Do you know where the lady was hiding?” San Severino asked. “Or is that the secret?”

  “It was—as long as Paolo de Mendoza was alive.” Jakob gave the men a knowing look. “She did not wish to be found and either dragged back to his poxed bed, or publicly divorced on false charges.” He added that second part on his own, but it was probably true nonetheless. “Clearly it was the husband’s own infidelity that killed him. The lady remained true, even at a distance.”

  Diego de Mendoza leaned forward, pinning Jakob’s gaze with his. “How do you come to know these things?”

  Jakob glanced at Percy, relishing the moment. “Do you wish to tell them?”

  The English knight shook his head. “You will say it better.”

  Jakob grinned. “Because Lady, ah, Averia was our Spanish tutor in London. She was the chief lady-in-waiting for Queen Catherine.”

  “No!” San Severino beamed as his palm hit the tabletop, rattling all their glasses. “That is perfect!”

  The elder duke wagged his head. “When she married Paolo we were told she had royal connections, but they were little more than vague rumors.”

  “Lady Aver-ia—” Soon that name should come more easily to his tongue. “Grew up with Catherine in Madrid and they shared a tutor. When Catherine married Henry the Eighth just over nine years ago, she called the Lady Averia to her court.”

  “It would seem that the lady seized the opportunity to better her situation, while her husband took a decidedly different path.” Diego shrugged. “But how can you be certain she remained faithful to her vows? Royal courts are never known for celibacy, in my experience.”

  Jakob looked at Percy, whom he caught in mid-swallow. “Tell them what the Lady Aver
ia was called in the Tudor court.”

  Percy coughed and set down his mug, his face reddening. “Do you mean, um, I do not know the Spanish words.”

  “Say in English,” Diego prompted in that language.

  Bethington faced him. “The Ice Maiden.”

  “La doncella de hielo?” the duke translated. Then he began to laugh and continued in Spanish. “Do you gentlemen expect me to believe that such a beautiful and accomplished woman has remained chaste for nine years?”

  Percy may not have caught all the words, but he understood the knight’s derision. “For one full year, she says no to me. I am told by every man at court, she will say no. Always. And she did.”

  San Severino slid his bemused gaze to Jakob.

  He shrugged. “She refused me as well.”

  Diego de Mendoza leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over a chest still impressively sturdy for a man of nearing sixty years. “And you found no evidence of any other affaires of the heart?”

  “No. None. I do believe her religious convictions concerning adultery kept her strong in the face of temptation.” A flicker of Henry’s opposing dealings with his own temptations lit Jakob’s recollections, but he snuffed it. “She is a devout Catholic, as is the queen.”

  Pietro San Severino grinned. “I cannot wait to inform my wife of this story. It has the makings of intrigue.”

  Diego de Mendoza shot Jakob a narrow look. “You say this story is not a secret?”

  “No, your Grace. Paolo is dead. The lady is safely returned.” Jakob made a dismissive gesture. “When the people discover where she has been, and with whom, any speculation regarding her own reputation can be put to rest.”

  “I believe her reputation will be elevated as a result,” the elder duke posited. “She did quite well for herself, while my cousin languished, a victim of his own debauchery.”

  Jakob did not disagree with one single word of that appraisal. “As knights of the Order, it may fall to us to protect her in this.”

  “I agree with you. Yes.” De Mendoza nodded. “We must assure that anyone who makes a statement concerning the Lady Averia de Mendoza within our hearing is informed of the truth. This is our chivalrous duty.”

  Jakob smiled broadly. “Thank you, your Grace.”

  Chapter Eight

  December 1, 1518

  Avery sat in the back of Barcelona Cathedral, dressed in the respectfully somber garments of mourning, and tried to pay attention to the Latin religious services on this first Sunday of Advent.

  She could not go forward to receive communion today, because she had been negligent about going to confession. She had not confessed, in fact, since Paolo died just over two weeks ago.

  Before he passed, she confessed sins such as her anger at her avowed husband who acted in such a way that he was now dying so miserably. Or that she gave in to indolent urges and took a nap, when she should have been doing something useful, but unspecified.

  Or that she had impure thoughts—the recipient of those thoughts also remaining distinctly unspecified.

  Now that her husband was dead, if she went to confession she would be given wifely opportunities to buy indulgences, light candles, and pray her husband out of purgatory.

  Avery had no intention of praying Paolo de Mendoza out of purgatory.

  Let his women do it.

  The bench on which she sat wobbled and creaked, and the scent of cloves and cedar washed over her. Her soul relaxed in its welcomed presence. She turned her head and smiled up at the tall Norseman who settled beside her.

  Of course he would attend church here. When the Order of the Golden Fleece convened one month from today, Jakob would be spending many hours inside these ancient stone walls.

  Jakob’s shoulder brushed hers and he smiled, but he said nothing.

  Avery was suddenly anxious for the service to end so she might ask Jakob what magic he had worked concerning her situation. Since their last talk, whenever she left the palazzo she was accosted by past friends and new acquaintances alike, all offering condolences for her loss.

  Other than the frequency, that in itself was not unusual. What ensued however, was.

  Question after question about Queen Catherine of Aragon and King Henry the Eighth followed in rapid succession—as if Avery might dissolve away before their curiosity about the charismatic monarchs was sated.

  No one acted as if they pitied her any more, as they had done when she first reappeared in her home. Women now regarded her with obvious envy. Men considered her with respect. Invitations to dinners and gatherings increased tenfold, her period of mourning be damned.

  In what felt like an overnight occurrence, Lady Averia de Mendoza has been raised from her own death, and had gained a fair amount of noble notice.

  “Amen.”

  Avery made no move to leave, hoping that Jakob would take her hint and remain behind as well. He did.

  As men and women filed past the silent pair, their evaluative stares raked over the tall Nordic knight from brow to boots. Jakob wore the Order’s collar, as he always did now, and a few of the congregants did seem to know what it stood for.

  Others kept their thoughts hidden, though Jakob’s expensively tailored velvet tunic and gold-embroidered cloak, combined with the collar, declared him a man of importance.

  The smug thought, and he is standing by my side, skittered through Avery’s mind, causing a stab of post-mass guilt.

  Forgive me Father, for I have sinned

  Again.

  “Would you care to see my chair?” Jakob asked when only the priests remained. His deep voice resonated in the stone cathedral, even though he had spoken softly.

  Though his question forestalled hers, it did pique Avery’s curiosity. “Your chair?”

  “For the gathering of the Order.” Jakob stepped into the aisle and made way for her. “The members’ coats of arms are being painted on the seats in the choir.”

  Avery frowned and accepted Jakob’s proffered arm. “Are they painting over the Saints?”

  “So it would seem.”

  Jakob led her down the aisle to the massive choir at the center of the cathedral. “I was told that the Order’s herald, a man named Thomas Isaac, and the Order’s treasurer, Jean Micault, were commissioned earlier this year to prepare the church in a manner suitable for the gathering.”

  Avery had no idea what a momentous occasion this gathering truly was, but when she saw the brilliantly painted coats of arms there could be no doubt. Reds, blues, yellows and greens, liberally gilded with gold leaf, formed elaborate designs on the backs of each of the tall wooden seats.

  She stepped up into the choir and walked its length slowly, admiring the intricate work. “Who painted these?”

  Jakob answered from the other end. “A man named Joan de Borgonya. Have you heard of him?”

  “No.” Not that that proved anything about the man. “What does your Christian’s coat of arms look like?”

  “Like this.” Jakob looked at her and grinned, pointing at a chair about one third of the way from the altar.

  Avery returned to his side to examine the Danish king’s crest. The design showed two bearded men, wearing only appropriately placed leaves and holding large wooden clubs, flanking a shield divided into quadrants by a white cross. One quadrant held four blue lions, growling at the observer. Another held three crowns. In the two bottom quadrants were a dragon and a single lion wielding a scythe.

  Sitting atop the coat of arms was a jeweled crown, signifying that this member was a king.

  Jakob did a slow turn, examining the other shields. “There it is—Henry’s standard. That’s where Bethington will sit.”

  Avery knew Henry the Eighth’s coat of arms well, with its red dragon on the left, white hunting dog on the right, and tiny crowned lion, standing on a pearl-crusted crown atop a gold-plated knight’s helmet. The design did not evince modesty, any more than the man himself did.

  “Though set a bit off, you will face each other.�
� Avery flashed a conspiratorial smile. “That placement will aid in your secretive communications, no doubt.”

  “Yes.” Jakob did not appear to be paying attention to her. “I wonder where de Mendoza will sit.”

  Avery began to walk away. “Might I ask you something?”

  She heard Jakob’s booted steps start up behind her. “Of course.”

  Once she was out of the choir and back on the stone aisle, she turned to face him. “What did you—I mean, how does all of Barcelona already know that I was in England?”

  Jakob chuckled. “All of Barcelona?”

  “It certainly appears that way.” Avery laughed as well. “I have never been such a sought-after dinner guest in my life.”

  “I merely said that your whereabouts during your absence were no longer a secret.” Jakob’s expression turned mischievous. “And then the ‘secret’ became the most important thing to be known.”

  “Very clever, Sir Hansen.” Avery was, in truth, impressed. “I applaud you—and I thank you.”

  Jakob dipped his chin and offered his arm once more. “I am glad to be at your service, Lady Avery.”

  The fact that Jakob still called her Avery, instead of Averia, fomented a comforting glow deep in her breast. She and the knight shared her no-longer-secret past, and every time he used her English name he reminded her of their connection.

  If only she might hold on to that connection long enough to disentangle herself from Paolo, she would be eternally grateful.

  *****

  Jakob strode home from mass, stretching his right leg as he walked. Already he could tell that the milder Barcelona winter was going to be much easier on his thigh than either the chilling dampness of London or the frigid winters in Denmark.

  Warrior needed exercise as much as he did. He hoped that Percy would be amenable to joining him for a long ride and a hunt, but even if the Englishman declined, Jakob would not spend this afternoon inside doors.