by Kris Tualla
“Henry was always strong and athletic, but Arthur was much less so. For him to succumb to illness at so young an age, while certainly tragic, was not entirely surprising.” Brandon wagged his head. “There is a strand of weakness in the Tudor line, I fear.”
“Henry is twenty-seven now?” Jakob figured the numbers in his head; that meant the Duke of Suffolk was thirty-four, two years older than he.
“Yes. He and Queen Catherine have been married for nine years, once he was crowned his father’s successor.”
“You are advisor and friend?”
Brandon’s smile softened. “As much as one can be the friend of a king, I suppose. He still listens to me, at any rate.”
“I do not wish to be in your place,” Jakob admitted. “I am only a servant to my king.”
Brandon laughed out loud.
*****
Windsor Castle stood at the apex of a slope, which dropped off sharply along its northern edge. The castle and fortress were surrounded by a massive stone wall. Shards of flint had been set into the mortar to dissuade the intrepid and foolish alike from attempting to scale it. The southwest entrance to the castle was about a quarter mile from the Thames.
The grounds inside the walls were dominated by a pale oval tower at the peak of the hill—built of stone similar to the White Tower—and now tinged orange with the sunset. Jakob counted five levels of various heights, judging by the windows.
“How tall?” he asked.
Brandon snorted. “Two hundred steps. Give or take.”
The straggling group stopped in the large grassy courtyard, where scores of groomsmen and servants rushed to their assistance. Brandon explained to a uniformed guard why they had come, and the man hurried off to inform the king’s household.
“Come with me. Your man will be brought to you once you are settled.” Brandon headed toward the tower with stretching strides.
Jakob handed Warrior to a groom, whose appreciative gaze and touch showed that the man knew what sort of horse he was dealing with. He flashed Jakob a gap-toothed grin and said something Jakob didn’t understand.
Jakob merely nodded, before he turned and followed Brandon. He kept apace with the duke in spite of the exacerbated limp caused by spending the last twelve hours in a saddle.
Brandon noticed. “You are limping?”
“Old injury,” Jakob admitted. “I sit long time today.”
The duke gave an understanding nod. “How did it happen?”
“Jousting. My lance breaks.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“I am—accustomed?—to this,” Jakob attempted. His choice of the English word must have been correct because Brandon moved on.
“I expect supper will be served within the hour, before your man can dress you.” The duke’s gaze swept over Jakob’s apparel. Though dusty from the road, his brocade tunic and dark gray hose clearly displayed Christian’s wealth. “With some brushing off, you will do.”
Jakob felt his cheeks warming. “Perhaps I wait and meet king tomorrow?”
Brandon’s light blue eyes sparkled suddenly and his grin pinched their corners. “Oh, no. I do not care to wait for this.” He clapped a hand on Jakob’s shoulder. “You look fine, Hansen. Trust me.”
Jakob pressed his lips together and lifted his cheeks in what he hoped would pass for a smile. He didn’t trust the duke for a moment.
Chapter Three
Askel stepped back and squinted at the results of his efforts. “You look presentable, I think. Let me comb some scent into your hair before you go.”
Jakob sighed. “Nothing too flowery.”
“Nothing you own is flowery,” Askel scoffed as he opened a small satchel. “Do you imagine that I went behind your back and procured some foppish French finery?”
Jakob watched his valet uncork and sniff two containers before sending one back into hiding. Jakob hated to admit it, but he was nervous about meeting King Henry. Brandon’s odd reaction upon meeting him yesterday, combined with the duke’s eagerness to escort Jakob here, and his unwillingness to postpone the encounter with the king, were mistrustful. What game was the man about?
Askel thrust the vial under Jakob’s nose. “Will this be satisfactory?”
Jakob inhaled the clean scent, reminiscent of cedar and cloves, and nodded. “Yes. I like that one.”
He waited while Askel combed the scented water through his shoulder-length hair, and then tied it back with a leather thong.
“I wish there was time to shave you,” the valet fussed.
Jakob ran a hand over the day’s stubble. “I am not concerned. Besides, Charles Brandon won’t have time to shave either, and his beard is darker than mine.”
Askel grunted his disapproval. For a boy with no formal training, the valet had acquired some strong opinions about acceptable standards over the years.
When Jakob stepped outside the door of the large and ornate chamber in which he had been housed, a liveried servant appeared at his elbow. “Allow me to show you the way, my lord.”
“Thank you.”
Jakob followed, stretching his right leg as he did, and trying not to let the limp impede his stride. He wanted to appear strong and capable when he was presented to King Henry, feeling the need to offset whatever mischief the Duke of Suffolk anticipated.
The servant led Jakob down the two broad flights of stairs which he had climbed earlier to reach his room; but this time his guide turned away from the entrance, stopping at a large doorway. He whispered to the herald before turning his attention back to Jakob.
“Here you are, my lord. You will be escorted into the king’s presence in just a moment, as he is presently occupied.”
“Thank you.” Jakob assumed his comfortable knight’s stance and gazed around the long and narrow room. The wood-paneled walls were the height of two stories, and in the square blocks of the paneling hung brightly painted coats of arms.
“This is where the Order of the Garter is bestowed in a grand feast each year,” the herald explained, obviously marking Jakob’s curious gaze. “The Order meets here periodically as well.”
“Order of the Garter?” Jakob queried.
“Yes. Dedicated to service and chivalry.”
Jakob frowned. “What means ‘chivalry’?”
The herald blinked, clearly taken aback.
Jakob waved one hand as he casually explained. “I come from Christian of Denmark. My English is learning.”
“Oh!” The man relaxed. “Chivalry refers to virtues such as honor, discipline, protection of the weak. Do you understand?”
“Yes, thank you.” Jakob smiled down at the shorter man. “Is very helpful.”
The herald glanced toward the front of the room. “It appears the king is now prepared for you.”
As if some significant pronouncement had been made—one which Jakob did not hear—the occupants of the crowd turned toward him as one. Their unpredictably surprised expressions reflected Charles Brandon’s initial reaction to seeing him.
Jakob made his way forward through the gawking crowd, his jaw clenched and his gaze determinedly fixed on the front of the room. Henry’s attention was turned to the side and he was chatting with Brandon; the duke was obviously distracting the king while Jakob made his approach.
“Ah, here he is your Grace.” Brandon’s grin split his face. “I present to your Majesty, Sir Jakob Petter Hansen, Knight to King Christian the Second of Denmark and Norway.”
Henry turned to meet Jakob’s. The small, polite smile on the king’s handsome face froze, and then faded.
“Good God,” he breathed.
Jakob bent low in his most courtly bow, facing the floor and refusing to grimace when his leg objected. “Your Grace.”
Henry slid off his chair and stood in front of Jakob.
Jakob held his position, staring at the king’s cuffed leather boots. A prickle of sweat stung his skin and his heart pounded at what he had just seen. Surely Henry saw it as well; his exclamation must
prove it.
“Stand up,” the king ordered.
Jakob straightened slowly, until he stood nearly nose-to-nose with the young and powerful king of England. He had Henry by a couple of inches, the same as Charles Brandon, but otherwise…
“Do you see what I see, Hansen?” Henry demanded.
Jakob stared at the king’s reddish golden hair, broad brow, high cheekbones, and deep blue eyes—all familiar in shape and coloring to what he observed in his own mirror every day. He swallowed, though his mouth had gone dry, and he clenched his fists to stop them from trembling.
“Yes, your Grace.”
Henry circled him now, perusing his frame as if he were a horse under consideration for purchase. Jakob had the uneasy feeling that the comparison described his position at the moment with unsettling accuracy.
“Good God,” Henry said again. “It’s uncanny.”
Even their builds were similar, both men standing over six feet with muscled bodies sculpted by vigorous activity.
Charles Brandon stepped forward, now. His glee was unmistakable. “He could be your twin, your Grace. I thought it the first moment he appeared.”
The king’s eye narrowed. “His visage is similar, I would say.”
“Not as handsome as your own, of course,” Brandon qualified.
Jakob bit his tongue to keep from laughing nervously at the ingratiating compliment. Insulting his royal host was bad form.
Though Henry caught the humor in the duke’s comment, he obviously believed it as well. One side of his mouth curled in appreciation. “We cannot all be so blessed, Charles.”
Brandon dipped his chin a little. “No, your Grace.”
A rumble towards the entrance of the room pulled the king’s attention past Jakob’s left shoulder. “It appears the queen has arrived.” His gaze cut back to Jakob’s. “Do not move Hansen. Remain as you are.”
Jakob obeyed, forcing himself to take the outwardly relaxed stance which eased his leg.
On the contrary, he was anything but relaxed at the moment, stunned as much as the English gathering around him by his physical likeness to their king. Jakob kept his chin high and his face forward, as commanded, idly examining the carved ornamentation on the casual throne in front of him. He drew intentionally slow breaths, and wondered what sort of trouble his striking similarity to Henry might portend.
He knew what the king was about at the moment. Henry wanted his queen to be surprised—as he was—by the resemblance between her husband and this unknown knight from Denmark.
Assuming, of course, that she saw the similitude as well.
“I am so glad to see you are feeling well this eventide, my queen,” Henry said to his wife behind Jakob’s back. “Come closer. There is someone I want you to meet.”
Brandon indicated that Jakob should turn around. He did so, slowly.
Henry was beaming. “May I present Jakob Hansen, Knight to King Christian of Denmark?”
Jakob faced Catherine of Aragon, Queen of England, and Henry’s wife. Though several years older than Henry, she was, nonetheless, a very attractive woman.
Her brown eyes widened and her startled gaze shifted to her husband’s. “My King? Do you have another brother of whose existence I was not previously made aware?”
Jakob bowed to Catherine, physically taking himself out of the awkward conversation. He remained in that stance, just as he had when he met Henry, waiting for some clue as to what he should do next.
“No, my love. Rise, Hansen.” The king’s voice was tinged with amusement. “Tell my wife from whence you sprung.”
Jakob straightened and faced Henry. “My English is little. You ask my family?”
Henry nodded and folded his arms across his expensively ornate and well-fitted tunic. “Yes. Where were you born?”
“Arendal, Norway, your Grace.”
“Your father?”
“Petter Hansen.”
Henry’s lips quirked as his regard bounced from Jakob to Catherine and back. “And your mother. Was she ever at court?”
Jakob coughed a sudden laugh. Though beautiful and educated, his mother never traveled farther than Christiania. Neither she nor his father had ever met any sovereign, much less attend any king’s court. The agreement with King John for the forgiveness of his father’s debts, and the assignment of a Hansen son to his service, were done by correspondence through highly-placed intermediaries at Akershus Castle in Christiania.
Jakob cleared his throat to swallow his inappropriate mirth. “No, your Grace.”
Henry waved a hand. “There, you see my love? It is but a capricious quirk of nature.”
Catherine pushed past her initial surprise and turned a composed face toward Jakob, though the color in her cheeks remained heightened. “Welcome to Windsor Castle. I hope you were made comfortable.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Jakob smiled a little. “I bring gift for Princess Mary from King Christian Two.”
The queen’s features eased and she smiled in return. “Thank you, Sir Hansen. I shall receive it on the morrow.”
Jakob’s attention was caught be the arrival of another woman, who stepped to Catherine’s side and whispered in her ear.
“Thank you,” the queen murmured, then directed the woman’s attention toward Jakob. “Lady Avery, may I present Sir Jakob Hansen, emissary from King Christian of Denmark?”
“And Norway,” Jakob added before he thought better of it.
The woman turned to face him and Jakob tumbled into the unfathomable depth of her thickly lashed eyes. He had never seen eyes so dark; even her pupils were hidden there. For a moment, he forgot to breathe.
Catherine’s expression hardened a bit. “This is Lady Avery Albergar of Toledo, a member of my court, and my dearest friend.”
Lady Avery dipped her chin while her gaze flitted to Henry and back, as though waiting for an indication as to how she should react to the men’s resemblance.
“Quite astonishing, is it not?” Henry smirked. “From a distance, he could pass in my place.”
“Only from a distance, your Grace,” Lady Avery murmured.
Jakob recognized her deference as well, and made a note to practice the same sort of diplomacy while he remained in Henry’s court. He mustn’t forget himself; he was as yet an untested stranger here.
Lady Avery fixed her extraordinary eyes on Jakob’s. “Welcome to court, my lord.”
Jakob knew he should speak, but all the English words he knew had flown from his mind, knocked aside by Lady Avery’s unique and astonishing beauty.
So he said the first thing that came to his tongue. “Tilgi meg, men engelsken min er borte.”
Dark brows which sheltered those thickly-lashed eyes pulled together in confusion, rippling the creamy skin of her brow. Jakob shook his head and waved a dismissive hand, purchasing time to corral and master his thoughts.
“I am sorry. My English is gone,” he offered.
Lady Avery’s brow smoothed once again and she gave him a kind smile, deepening the lines which spread outward from the corners of her eyes. “English is not my native language either, sir. I understand your momentary confusion. Please, do not be embarrassed.”
As she spoke the longer sentence, Jakob noticed a marked difference in her accent. Her words were rounder, smoother; less guttural than the Germanic languages, and less clipped than the English he heard around him.
He stood taller. “Thank you.”
“Jakob?” Lady Avery’s smile faded and her head tipped to one side, though her gaze never wavered. “Is that not a Jewish name?”
The question so surprised him, that he was once again at a loss for words—English or Norsk. His eyes moved to Catherine, Henry, and Brandon, searching for any reaction to Lady Avery’s question. Finding nothing but sober interest, he returned his regard to Lady Avery.
“Is a Bible name. My mother goes to church and likes the name. My father is Petter. Also, Bible name.” Jakob lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “They b
elieve I am to be priest.”
Lady Avery’s surprised scrutiny washed over him. “If you will forgive me for saying so, you do not look like a priest.”
Jakob wasn’t certain if the lady meant that to be a compliment or insult. It didn’t matter; his answer was the same either way. One corner of his mouth lifted.
“And I do not live like priest.”
Lady Avery’s shock at his blunt answer was clear. She sucked a breath through rounded lips and her brows lowered. Jakob feared he might have gone too far, but Henry’s delighted laughter forestalled any chastisement she might have thrown at him.
The King of England clapped Jakob on the shoulder. “I like you Hansen. On the morrow you shall go hunting with us.”
Jakob turned away from Lady Avery. “Thank you, your Grace. I will enjoy hunting.”
Brandon gave him a broad grin. “And I shall enjoy it as well.”
Henry offered his arm to Catherine. “You must be faint with hunger, my love. Let’s go in to supper.”
Catherine took her husband’s arm, and Lady Avery accepted the Duke of Suffolk’s proffered elbow. As the two highest-ranking couples in the room, they led the way toward the dining room, leaving Jakob to fend for himself.
May 14, 1518
The day dawned somewhere behind a bank of low, gray clouds. Jakob didn’t believe they portended anything but a light mist, a condition he understood England’s weather was known for.
He sat astride Warrior, armed with a bow and his quiver, his knife strapped to his belt. The hunting party was large—about two dozen—so Jakob doubted Henry would even notice him.
Nor Charles Brandon, for that matter. The two tall men rode side-by-side and conversed while the dogs were sent out in search of game.
Meeting Henry yester eve proved quite surprising. When Jakob told Askel about the astounding similarities in their looks, the valet was skeptical.
“I will have to see it myself, I think.” Askel straightened the shoulders of Jakob’s hunting tunic. “Not everyone looks like they think they do.”