by Kris Tualla
§ § §
Lizzy walked a few yards in front of Jakob so as not to gain unwanted attention. She stopped acquaintances she knew and slipped into taverns and inns where she trusted the owners, to enquire about the big English knight.
Using the information she gleaned, they followed a crooked path through an area of London which Jakob was only slightly familiar with, and only then because of his many carriage rides when he played the part of the king.
Thank God that is finished.
“He was here most recently,” Lizzy said after exiting an inn. She turned back and began to walk in the direction from which they had come. “The girl followed him a ways, hoping to get him to bed her, but he said no. Said he was going home.”
“Back to the Tower?” Jakob shook his head. “Percy you will drive me insane, I swear it is true.”
“Shall I walk back with ye, Sir?”
Jakob looked down at the girl. “No, but thank you. Your help has been immeasurable.” He reached into his pocket and fished for coins.
Lizzy put up a hand. “Ye don’t owe me anything.”
Jakob stopped walking and grabbed her hand. He pressed the two silver coins into her palm and closed her fingers around them. “Consider this my first investment.”
Lizzy’s eyes teared, the moisture sparkling in the lamplight. “You are a good man, Sir Hansen. I will remember ye in my prayers.”
The prayers of a whore?
Jesus Himself walked with the worst of the worst.
“Thank you, Lizzy. Lady Avery and I appreciate that.”
§ § §
“Daughter is good. Loves a father. Alltid.”
Percival looked as if he had been punched in the chest. “I will need to protect her from men like me.”
Bergdis leaned forward and gripped his big beefy hands in her aged ones. The contrast was startling to her, but it made what she wanted to say that much more poignant.
“Percival Bethington, du har et godt hjerte. Med bønn og veiledning, kan du ikke mislykkes. Dine barn vil stå frem og velsigne deg. Jeg lover deg.”
“Thank you, Lady Hansen.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “If my mother herself were here, she could not have set me right with more skillfulness.”
§ § §
Jakob threw the front door to his house wide open with irritated force. He froze when he faced Bergdis holding Percival’s hands, the pair sitting cozily together in his drawing room. The English knight’s cheeks were damp and he hurriedly wiped them dry.
“Bethington! I have been out these past hours searching the city for you!” Jakob shut the door hard behind him. “What were you about, man?”
Percival stood. “I apologize, Jakob. I did not mean to be gone so long.”
Jakob crossed the room. “Why were you gone in the first place?”
“Jakob…” His mother’s voice held a warning tone that sent him straight back to his childhood.
He clamped his jaw shut, lest he snap at her like a petulant adolescent.
“I was experiencing a sense of distress, Jakob,” Percy began. “It overwhelmed me.”
“Distress over your marriage?” Jakob assumed.
“No.” Percy shook his head. “Distress over my impending fatherhood.”
Jakob relaxed a little. He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of wine. In spite of all the taverns and inns he had visited this evening, he never remained in any establishment long enough to purchase refreshment.
“You had us worried,” he grumbled when he faced Bethington again. “Do not do this again.”
“I will not.” A small smile lifted the knight’s cheeks. “I am recovered.”
Jakob saw the satisfied look on Bergdis’ face. “Did my mother have a hand in your restoration?”
Bethington nodded and smiled fully at the seated woman. “She is the reason I am restored.”
Askel entered the room. “I came inside and heard your voice. Is there anything you need, Sir?”
Jakob used his wine glass to indicate the unlikely pair. “Can you explain what went on here?”
Askel nodded. “Sir Bethington came to speak with your mother.”
“Did you translate?”
“No.”
Jakob returned his attention to Percival, his brows pulling together. “What did she say to you?”
“I gave no idea.” Percival laughed. “But she said it with consummate wisdom and absolute perfection.”
Chapter Twelve
February 25, 1520
Avery and Jakob, with Bergdis on his arm, escaped the sleet slicing nearly sideways across London and entered the shelter of Westminster Abbey a quarter of an hour before the noon mass. Percival Bethington was in seated in the front row of the benches between the choir and the altar. Jakob and Avery joined him as other court members trickled in and filled the space behind them.
In stark contrast to a few nights ago, Percival appeared completely calm. Dressed in his Golden Fleece finery he cut a stunning figure, as did Jakob. Those members of the Tudor court who had not seen the knights dressed thusly kept casting surreptitious gazes in their direction.
Avery smiled.
My husband is the handsomer of the two.
“I think this also,” Bergdis whispered to Avery.
Avery turned to her mother-in-law. “Are you a mind reader?”
Bergdis chuckled. “My son has beauty. Yes?”
“Yes.” Avery leaned closer and whispered, “He got it from his mother.”
Anne Woodcote entered Westminster Abbey with her father and mother and walked purposefully to the front of the church.
“Good day, Sir Bethington,” she said when she reached Percival’s side. “It is a splendid day for a wedding, do you not agree?”
Percival stood and bowed to his fiancée. “This is indeed a remarkably fine day.”
Anne turned a radiant smile to Avery. “Do you not agree, Lady Avery?”
Avery’s toes were chilled to numbness because the sleet has soaked through her slippers. Even so, she grinned at the young bride.
“It could not be more perfect, Lady Anne.”
Wedding masses were the same as regular masses but with the added sacrament of marriage added in. As the congregation waded patiently through the liturgical morass, Avery noticed that Percival was having trouble sitting still.
“Nervous, my lord?” she teased.
Percy beamed at her. “Eager, my lady.”
When the moment for the marriage sacrament arrived, Percival stood and stepped into the aisle. He extended his left elbow. Anne stood as well and tucked her arm in his. The couple walked forward together.
Jakob followed and stood behind Percy on his right.
As their promises were made and their vows spoken, Avery grew teary-eyed. This was the first wedding she had attended since her own and it prompted a rush of intense emotion. The extreme measures she went to on that one fateful day which secured her future a year ago, also secured her marriage.
Thank You, Father. I am richly blessed.
Bergdis took hold of her hand and Avery turned toward her mother in law. “I am happy and you husband Jakob.”
Avery smiled at the broken English, warmed to her core by the sentiment. “I am happy, too.”
“Amen.”
Avery returned her attention to the priest. The trio in front of her all kneeled in preparation for the sacrament of communion. Avery had a moment of concern for Jakob’s leg, coming in from the cold damp day into the equally cold cathedral and kneeling on stones that never warmed up. But when it came time for them to stand he did not seem affected.
The mass ended, nearly an hour after it began, with the pronouncement that Anne Woodcote and Percival Bethington were now husband and wife and that no man could put that bond asunder.
Jakob returned to her side as the newly wedded couple made their way to the back of the church.
“It is finished.” Jakob flashed a lop-sided grin as he parroted Jesus
’ last words on the cross. “I wish him at least half of the happiness I have found with you.”
Avery tucked herself under her tall husband’s arm. “And I wish them the same.”
Jakob offered his free arm to his mother. “Now we have the wedding luncheon, and then we prepare for the Valentine’s Ball.”
Avery laughed. “Are you ready?”
“As ever I shall be,” Jakob groaned.
§ § §
Henry the Eighth was well known for his lavish parties, usually accompanied by performances of his original songs and poetry, and often involving some sort of trick.
The last trick Jakob experienced was when Henry and he dressed identically and Jakob was instructed to pretend to be the king whenever he was approached. That was the night Avery discovered Jakob’s deal with the human devil that Henry so often proved to be.
Jakob did not expect any sort of similar trickery tonight since his choice of costume was his alone. He opted for a simple red velvet tunic which he could easily wear again, serviceable gray hose, and tall black boots. As a nod to the theme, his pleated-sleeved shirt flashed glimpses of red inside the pleats—secret love, as he called it—and he wore a half-mask in the shape of an upside-down heart.
Avery did not let him see her costume and was dressing in Catherine’s chamber tonight. All she would tell him was that it was Catherine’s suggestion, and the queen had a heavy hand in its design.
“I hope you find it as clever as Catherine does,” Avery told him as she was preparing to join the queen after the wedding luncheon. “And even if you don’t, please lie to her.”
Jakob had to admit his curiosity was piqued.
Bergdis was invited to the Ball along with him and Avery and, to Jakob’s great surprise, she accepted.
“I want to experience this extravagant evening,” she told her son. “When else will I have this chance?”
Four or five times a year, if you remain with us.
“Then you must enjoy yourself, Mamma.” Jakob kissed his mother’s forehead. “You deserve every frivolous bit of enjoyment which comes your way.”
When Bergdis declared herself dressed and coifed as finely as she could be, Jakob escorted her to the Tower and the ballroom. At one end of the large space was a tiered balcony where attendees were able to escape the crush of the crowd and still keep an eye on the festivities. That was where Jakob safely deposited his mother.
“I shall attend to you regularly, Mamma,” he promised. “When you wish to return home, simply wave and I will fetch you.”
“Thank you.” Bergdis’ gaze was moving over the gathering revelers, all in colorful costume. “This spectacle is breathtaking, Jakob. I could not imagine such a display.”
He smiled. It was true that words failed in the description of the pageantry that defined King Henry’s lifestyle. “Would you care for refreshment, Mamma?”
Bergdis shook her head. “Not as yet.”
Jakob waved a hand toward the back of the balcony. “Servants will come up here periodically, so feel free to ask for anything you desire.”
“Thank you, Jakob.”
Jakob kissed his mother’s hand and made his way back down to the floor, wondering as he did when Queen Catherine would make her appearance and he could finally see what sort of costume she had cooked up for her chief lady-in-waiting.
§ § §
Anne Woodcote could only be described as radiant perfection. Her dusky pink silk gown complemented her coloring perfectly. Percival Bethington was a very lucky man.
“Lady Anne, you look stunning,” Avery effused as they waited for Catherine to enter the ballroom. “And congratulations on your marriage. Your husband is a man of exceptional character.”
Anne laughed in a pretty, musical trill. “If by your words you mean that he is a character, you are quite correct, Lady Avery.” Her expression softened and she continued, “But he is my character at last.”
The Queen appeared in the startling gown she chose intentionally to declare her particular situation. Avery tried to gently suggest that provoking the king might not be the best plan, but Catherine was adamant.
“I want Henry to both understand my pain, and realize that he is the cause of it.”
Catherine paused in the private hallway leading into the public space and her costumed court gathered behind her. She nodded at the servants standing beside the doors, ready to pull them open and admit their sovereign into the ballroom.
“Let us join the festivities.”
The doors opened and Catherine swept into the ball, head held high. A hushed gasp slithered through the crowd.
Catherine’s beautifully tailored and embellished gown was made entirely of black, from the ruffled silk underskirts, to the black-on-black pattern of the brocade, and to the black lace at her throat and wrists.
She even borrowed Avery’s black Spanish lace fan.
The stunning expanse of fitted black elegance was only broken by a scarlet sash. Pleated and pinned to Catherine’s left shoulder, the fabric opened as it crossed her torso and rested in its full breadth on her right hip.
“It represents my wounded heart,” she explained to Avery when she designed it. “And the depths of my despair.
The last part of her display was her intricate lace mask—solid black with a red ruby teardrop below each eyehole.
Henry, who was already in the ballroom, glared angrily at his queen. His costume, by shocking contrast, was that of Cupid, the Roman god of love, complete with feathered wings and bow.
Avery watched Henry, wondering if he would make a larger ruckus than Catherine had by her choice of apparel. Judging by the quiet crowd everyone in attendance was wondering the same thing.
Henry drew a deep breath, forced a strained smile, and bowed to Catherine. When he straightened, she gave him a polite curtsy.
He walked toward her with his back stiff and his chin high. He took her hand, held it above her head, and addressed the crowd.
“While I have chosen to embrace romantic love on this occasion, as we celebrate the happy marriage of Sir Percival Bethington to the beautiful Lady Anne Woodcote, my wife has chosen a different path. Please do not allow her appearance to dampen your mood.”
Avery sucked her breath and held it. Henry’s public chastisement of Catherine was unexpected and unprecedented and she wondered if her friend would turn tail and run in the face of it.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the Queen smiled at her king. In contrast to her husband’s, Catherine’s smile was not in the least bit strained.
“Why would my depiction of the vibrant passions of love in the darkness of a beautiful night dampen anyone’s mood?” she challenged.
Avery gasped again. Catherine obviously expected Henry to say something unpleasant to her about her costume and had conjured her rebuttal in advance.
Snickers of appreciation scattered around the room.
“I will drink to that!” someone called out. Avery hoped Henry did not recognize the voice, or the man would be permanently banished before sunrise.
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “How could I have mistaken such an obvious purpose, as I am so well acquainted with the passions of the night.”
Catherine’s cheeks flushed violently and Avery could only imagine the retorts Catherine could throw at the king.
Please, my friend, keep your head.
The Queen dipped her chin. “Yes, dear husband. As my many confinements have irrefutably proven.”
As the jabs went back and forth between them, Avery felt like she was watching one of Henry’s tennis matches. Only this time, the king was most definitely bested.
Catherine grinned happily and addressed the revelers before Henry could utter another word. “Let us all toast to the love and passion of our celebrated newlyweds!”
Chapter Thirteen
Jakob made his way toward his wife, stunned by the exchange that had just taken place. On this night he was again relieved that he served Queen Cathe
rine and not the volatile Henry.
When he reached her, Jakob took Avery’s elbow. She turned around to face him, her expression displaying her shock.
“I do not know what to say…” she murmured.
Jakob pulled her away from Catherine. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked loud enough to be heard by anyone nearby who might be listening.
Avery was quiet as he escorted her to a table laden with every variety of meats and cheeses that Jakob could think of. “Tell me about your very interesting costume.”
Avery coughed a laugh, clearly relieved to change the subject of their conversation. “I am a ship.”
Jakob stepped back and took a careful look. “Explain, please.”
“These wide pleats…” Avery ran her hands along the broad folds of brown watered silk which curved outward from a central point at her waist and continued around to the back of her wide skirt. “Are the boards which make up the ship.”
Jakob chuckled. “Yes. I can see that now.”
“My bodice is intended to mimic the apparel of a ship’s captain.” Avery held out her arms; white linen drooped in billowy folds that were gathered at her wrists. “And my sleeves, of course, are the sails.”
Jakob began filling their plates. “And how does this represent love?”
“Sailing the seas of love, or some such sentiment.”
Avery turned around. On the back of her bodice was a red heart outlined in seed pearls. She looked back at him over her shoulder and grinned.
“The heart was an afterthought. Catherine was so enamored of the idea of dressing me like one of my ships, she forgot the overall theme.”
“Hansen!”
Jakob turned toward the familiar and robust voice. “Bethington—too late to back out now, my friend.”
The big knights clasped each other’s forearms and shook them affectionately.
“I shall never,” Percival said, crossing his heart with his free hand. “I become more convinced by the minute that I am happily caught and tamed.”