by Kris Tualla
Dag nodded. “Once I finish his mane, I’ll braid his tail. Don’t want him landing in England looking a mess.”
Jakob ran his palm over the powerful stallion’s legs. Warrior was the only animal he was taking with him. Askel’s mount, plus a draft horse and wagon would be purchased in England, and then sold in England when they moved on. Transporting more horses and a wagon on the ship from København wasn’t worth either the cost or the labor involved.
Warrior, of course, was the exception.
A knight without his trusted horse was at a disadvantage, and Jakob was already a bit off-kilter over this odd commission. Riding through the countryside on a long-familiar mount who could practically read his mind was one less arrangement for Jakob to be concerned over.
A uniformed servant appeared at the door of the stall. “Sir Hansen?”
Jakob straightened and tilted his head to the side to see around Warrior’s muscled neck. “What is it?”
“The king wishes you to come to the throne room.”
Jakob nodded. “Tell him I’m on my way.”
“Yes, sir.” The man bowed at the waist, and retreated.
Jakob scratched behind Warrior’s ears. “We are off on a new adventure, my friend. Make me proud.”
“He will, sire. He will.” Dag’s voice thickened. “I shall miss him. He is a good boy.”
Jakob looked into the animal’s intelligent brown eyes. “That he is, Dag. That he is.”
*****
Jakob strode into the throne room, halted, and bowed to the king. “You wished to see me, your Grace?”
Christian beckoned him closer. “Yes. I understand preparations are nearly complete for your departure on the morrow?”
Jakob walked forward. “They are. I was just seeing to some last details.”
“Excellent.” Christian flashed a self-satisfied grin and pointed at a polished wooden box, inlaid with an elaborate pearl-and-shell design, which rested on the table beside him. “Tell me what you think of this.”
Jakob opened the lid. Inside was a beautifully intricate gold and silver necklace, set with rare Baltic amber. He lifted the delicate, yet surprisingly heavy jewelry from its velvet cushion.
“This is stunning. And beautifully made.” Jakob glanced at the king. “For Princess Mary, I assume?”
Christian leaned back in his seat and folded his hands. “Yes. And to impress Henry and Catherine with my most sincere, if belated, congratulations, of course.”
Jakob turned the necklace over, admiring the fine work of the intertwined precious metals. “Did Isabella have a hand in its design?”
Christian chuckled and wagged a knowing finger at his knight.
“My wife has exquisite taste, so yes, I asked her opinion. She was the one to suggest the amber.”
“Very appropriate, I believe,” Jakob said as he laid the necklace back in its cradle. “Unusual, to be sure. And a constant reminder of your Baltic kingdoms.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Christian flipped the lid closed and latched the box. “Guard it well. There is none other like it in the world.”
“I will make certain I mention that fact to King Henry, your Grace.” Jakob dipped his chin. “Rest assured, he will feel the full impact of your generosity.”
Christian’s features softened. “Thank you, Jakob. I knew I could trust you.”
Jakob tucked the box under his arm. He bowed once more, and left the throne room, this time smiling as he did.
April 20, 1518
Jakob and Askel stood on the pier in København, staring up at the towering masts of the ship. The sky above them was scudded with heavy-bottomed clouds and the wind freshened, promising both a swift and rocky journey.
Jakob heaved a steadying breath and swallowed the threat of nausea thickening his throat. No need to start that early.
“Are you well prepared, Askel?” he asked the valet by his side.
The man nodded slowly. “As much as I can be, my lord.”
“Warrior is safely aboard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the large trunks are accounted for?”
“I saw to their placement myself.”
Jakob turned to face Askel. “Did you see our quarters?”
The valet looked up at him, his lightly-freckled face paler than usual. “I did when I set the smaller trunks there. The beds look short, I’m afraid.”
Jakob snorted and faced the ship again. “I seldom find a bed long enough, if it isn’t my own. Will you sleep comfortably?”
“I believe so, my lord.” Askel shrugged. “Six feet will be enough for me to make do.”
Six feet. The prospect of trying to stretch out his injured leg on a bed nearly half-a-foot too short did not bode well for the three week voyage from København to London.
Jakob drew a deep breath. “Did you bring the opium?”
Askel’s vice was soft. “Yes, my lord.”
“Perhaps it will settle my stomach as well as ease my leg,” Jakob posited.
“If you do not take too much, sir.”
Jakob slid his glance to Askel’s. “I am certain you will tell me if I do.”
Askel paled even further; so much so that his freckled skin was practically transparent. “Yes. And I will.”
Jakob’s jaw clenched and released. His faithful valet only had his best interests at heart and always did; there was no reason to become irritated at him now. Jakob had no desire or intention of becoming a slave to the opiate.
Askel would see that he didn’t.
He clasped the younger man’s shoulder. “Shall we enjoy one last meal in Denmark before our long absence?”
Askel smiled, his relief evident. “Yes, my lord. I have been so overly occupied this morning that I’m afraid my navel and backbone have become well acquainted.”
Jakob laughed. He always enjoyed Askel’s unique manner of stating the mundane. “I shall remember that one,” he said. “Navel and backbone.”
With another chuckle, Jakob and Askel turned toward the line of pubs and inns facing the dock, and went in search of a hearty last supper.
Chapter Two
May 11, 1518
London, England
Jakob gripped the railing of the ship, thanking God yet again for the calm waters of the Thames River. For the last full day, they had sailed west on the broad waterway, past English forests and fields, on their inland journey from the North Sea to the docks of London.
He counted it a victory that he only took opium every second day while in rougher waters, and not at all yesterday or today. Though he admittedly longed for the substance now, he was determined to be the master of his discomfort and not fall prey to the weakness of need.
Askel appeared at his side. “Is that London?”
Jakob considered the distant stone structures that rose above the wood-and-plaster façades near the river. “Yes, I would expect so.”
As the ship slid along the winding path of the Thames, the panorama grew in stature, dominated by a tall, square fortress made of limestone. Flat-topped barbicans fortified the four corners of the square building, three of them square, and one round.
“That must be the famed White Tower,” Jakob murmured. “I suppose that is where we will begin to search out Henry.”
Askel frowned. “Is he expecting us?”
Jakob shook his head. “We are on board the only ship which might have carried a missive from King Christian.”
“Hmm.” Askel squinted toward the city. “I hope he likes surprises.”
Jakob chuckled. “I come bearing expensive gifts. That should soothe him.”
Their vessel tucked itself into a space at the crowded dock near the Tower at approximately two hours past midday. Jakob yearned for the feel of unmoving ground beneath his feet, and quickly assigned the task of corralling their many trunks and crates to Askel.
“I shall find a stable for Warrior, and an inn for us,” he explained as he strode toward the plank being lowered to the woo
den dock below. “Once we are assured of a night’s lodging, we will begin our search for Henry.”
As soon as Jakob stepped from the wooden dock onto the solid soil of England, he had to restrain himself from falling to the ground and kissing it. He hated sailing and was leery of the journey to Barcelona.
Though he was well aware that England was surrounded by water, the distance to France was short. Perhaps there was a way to travel the rest of the way on land.
Unloading the ship would require the rest of the day. Jakob walked along the river, taking the sort of long strides which were impossible on their boat’s cargo-crowded deck. He stretched and tested his thigh, which had tightened over the last several days, and concentrated on not limping.
His immediate discomfort eased with the exercise, and Jakob was able to listen to the words spoken by the various sorts of people along the populated riverside.
Several words he heard made sense to him, either because they sounded like their Latin roots, or they resembled the also-Germanic Danish. The connecting words might be intuited, as sentence structure seemed the same as Danish and Norsk.
“I shall speak England words,” he said softly in that language, and grinned. “Not hard.”
Jakob walked around the White Tower, catching the stench of its moat on a breeze, and searching for a respectable-looking inn with a stable. He found one on the Tower’s north side, on a hill overlooking the fortress, less than a quarter of a mile from the ship’s mooring.
After securing two rooms for himself and his valet, plus a large stall for Warrior—in a halting mix of English and Latin—Jakob paid for their lodging with silver coins. Then he headed back toward the dock to see how Askel was faring with the disembarkation.
May 12, 1518
“Today we shall discover the whereabouts of King Henry.” Jakob bit into a chunk of gravy-dipped bread, then spoke while he chewed. “I shall visit the White Tower, present my letter of introduction, and enquire if he is present.”
Askel stopped chewing to ask, “And if he is not?”
Jakob lifted one shoulder. “They should be able to direct us to his current residence.”
Askel’s expression shifted as the valet’s thoughts changed direction. “Will you dress in the velvet, then?”
“Yes. And I want a shave.” Jakob sopped the beef gravy with another crust of bread. “While I am about it, I want you to secure yourself a proper mount. I will give you coins before I leave.”
“Yes, my lord.” Askel gave a small nod of acknowledgement. “Shall I procure a wagon and draught horse as well?”
Jakob paused in mid-bite to consider the question. “No, let’s wait and see how far we will need to travel, first.” He lifted an elbow toward the White Tower and flashed a crooked grin. “We may only need to go down the hill.”
Askel wrinkled his nose. “If so, I hope the fortress smells better behind its wall.”
*****
Jakob found himself hoping exactly the same thing as he stood in the White Tower’s solid stone guard’s enclosure and presented his letter from King Christian. How the warder endured the stench of the fetid moat was beyond him.
“Is King Henry here?” Jakob asked as he tucked the letter back inside his velvet tunic.
The uniformed man shook his head. “No, my lord.”
That was disappointing. “Where I find him?”
The guard waved a hand toward a cluster of similarly clad yeomen. “I shall have ye announced to the duke. He can tell ye what ye need to know.”
Jakob bounced a small nod. “My thanks.”
The path through the Tower’s interior was not a straight one. When Jakob followed his guide to the second level he was taken to a spacious chamber with large windows. A crowd of petitioners—noble and peasant alike—waited to speak with the tastefully dressed gentleman draped casually in a raised chair at the opposite end of the room.
Jakob waited, his booted feet planted at shoulders’ width and hands clasped respectfully behind his back, while the guard informed the duke of his presence.
Icy blue eyes lifted and met Jakob’s across the room. The duke’s curious gaze skimmed above the heads of the room’s much shorter occupants, and a flicker of surprise passed over his visage.
He lifted a hand and beckoned Jakob forward. Jakob approached and gave a small bow from the waist.
“My name is Jakob Petter Hansen. I am knight of King Christian Two of Denmark and Norway.” He handed the duke his missive. “My letter of introduce.”
The light blue eyes narrowed. “Do you speak English?”
“Little bit.” Jakob shrugged. “I learn.”
The duke turned his attention to the English words on the page. “You are looking for King Henry, yes?”
“Yes.”
“You have brought a gift for Princess Mary?”
“Yes.”
The pale eyes met Jakob’s once more. Something in the duke’s expression made Jakob wary. “And you are going on to Barcelona as Christian’s representative at the Order.”
Jakob hesitated as he puzzled out the duke’s words. “Yes.”
The duke stood and stepped down from the small platform to hand the letter back to Jakob. He was a tall man as well, over six feet, but still two or three inches shorter than Jakob. He moved with an easy athletic grace.
“I am Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and Henry’s advisor. He will be sending a representative as well.” Charles’ head tilted. “You have not met the king as yet?”
Jakob assumed a more relaxed stance. “No, your Grace. You tell me where he is?”
An evaluative gaze swept over Jakob. “Yes. He’s at Windsor Castle, enjoying the spring weather with the queen and princess.”
Jakob dipped his chin. “My thanks. I will go.”
He backed away and turned to leave, when the duke spoke again. “I shall take you.”
Jakob faced Brandon once more. “Why? Is close?”
The duke shook his head. “Thirty miles.”
Jakob looked around the room of supplicants. Several glared at him, presumably for being moved to the front of the line. He waved one hand in their direction. “You have much to do. I go. Is good.”
Charles Brandon’s mouth curved in a crooked smile. “It would be my pleasure, Hansen. I relish the chance to be present when you meet the king.”
Jakob didn’t understand every word, but Brandon’s meaning was clear. For some reason, the duke found the prospect of his face-to-face meeting with Henry the Eighth quite amusing.
“Your Grace—”
Brandon put up a hand to stop him. “We will begin the journey tomorrow at seven bells. Expect to remain at Windsor Castle for several days.”
Jakob decided that whatever Brandon’s motive was for escorting him to meet Henry did not matter. Having the duke as his guide was bound to smooth his way.
“Yes, your Grace. My thanks again.”
Brandon extended his arm. Surprised, Jakob clasped the duke’s hand. Brandon’s handshake was firm and congenial.
“I look forward to getting to know you,” Brandon said. “I am quite curious about the Baltic countries.”
“I hope my English grows and I can say well,” Jakob replied.
“Until tomorrow, then.”
With that, the Duke of Suffolk whirled on his heel and regained his seat. Jakob was effectively dismissed.
*****
“Several days, he says?” Askel muttered. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the display of trunks, satchels, and crates littering the floor of Jakob’s spacious room. “Will you need your armor and leathers?”
Jakob shrugged. “I have no idea what to expect. We shall leave that behind now, and send for it if the need arises.” He blew a long sigh; the thought of jousting against the king was not a pleasant one. “Though Henry likes sport, if I do not have my armor I cannot be challenged to fight him.”
Askel flashed a sly grin. “And perhaps the delay will dissuade him from fulfilling any challen
ges.”
Jakob chuckled. “That suggestion is well made.”
“We will take all your finery, then,” the valet stated. “You are bound to be in the company of King Henry or the Duke of Suffolk for most of your stay.”
“Jousting of a different sort, eh?” Jakob snorted. “We shall see if I am cut out for diplomatic service after all.”
May 13, 1518
Their west-bound procession was impressive. The line of horses and wagons stretched for at least a quarter mile, and consisted of servants, guards, and supplies. Jakob rode alongside Charles Brandon, behind a phalanx of royal guards.
Brandon gestured toward the protective contingent as their day-long journey commenced. “We are not in real danger, of course. Henry is favored now that Mary is thriving and the queen is with child again.”
“Is to impress?” Jakob posited. “Show power?”
Brandon nodded. “Exactly.”
Jakob slid his gaze to the duke’s. “When will prince be born?”
Brandon chuckled. “May God hear you, Hansen. Late in November.”
The pair rode in silence as Jakob examined the landscape. The softly rolling hills and heavy woods reminded him of Sweden. Denmark was flatter; Norway much more impressive. The farther they were removed from London on this cool and foggy morning, the more fresh and clear the air grew.
“How much do you know about our King Henry?” Brandon asked of a sudden.
“Very little.” Jakob stared at the road ahead and waited to see what sort of information the duke might offer up; asking outright was rude and his motive for doing so might be misconstrued. He was merely curious at this stage; the politics of royalty were not his strongpoint.
“I met Henry when I was about seventeen and studying with his older brother, Arthur. He was but ten, but he had a keen mind so we learned together.” Brandon cleared his throat. “Arthur was destined to be king, so Henry and I—well—we had more freedom.”
That made Jakob smile. He glanced at the duke, who was smiling as well.