by Kris Tualla
Jakob wagged his head. “I was told kings join, but knights attend.”
“That’s about all I know as well. Except, of course—” He pointed his spoon at Jakob. “We knights will be able to speak on behalf of our kings.”
“And make pakter. Pactis.”
“Pacts?” Percival guessed.
“Yes. Pacts.” Jakob circled his spoon in the air. “With other kings.”
The knight grinned across the table. “Is that how you learned English? By saying the words in Latin?”
Jakob shrugged. “I am learning. Yes.”
Percival tilted his head. “Pactis is Latin. What was the other word?”
“Pakter. It is Norsk. I always try both to see which one matches English best.”
“Brilliant.” Percival leaned forward. “Will you teach me Norsk?”
Jakob pulled back in surprise. “Why?”
Percival’s eyes twinkled. “Because you never know when it might be needed.”
Understanding flooded Jakob’s chest, and he realized that he might have found a friend in Bethington after all. “So we can talk secrets.”
Percival chuckled. “Finding and using secrets is part of our trade, is it not?”
“Yes,” Jakob admitted.
“Are Henry and your king…?”
“Christian Second.”
“Christian the Second… friends?”
Jakob nodded. “Of course. England has no problem with Denmark or Norway.”
“Then you and I are on the same side of the coin.”
Jakob chortled at Percival’s logic. “I help you make pacts for Henry, and you help me make pacts for Christian. Yes?”
“Yes.” Percival’s rosy cheeks lifted and pinched the corners of his eyes. “We watch each other’s backs, whether on the field or in the confines of the Order.”
Jakob set his spoon down and wiped his hands. Then he offered his right hand to Percival. “You swear lojalitet, fidelity, to me as brother knight?”
“Fidelity is the same in English. Lojalitet must be loyalty.”
“Loyalty,” Jakob repeated.
“Lojalitet,” Percival repeated the Norsk word and then grasped Jakob’s hand. “As a brother and knight. Second only to our kings.”
“Agreed.”
“Agreed.”
Jakob grinned. “Now I hope I like you.”
Percival’s boisterous laugh filled the tavern.
*****
The hour was late by the time Jakob and Percival walked back to the Tower. Percival had led Jakob all through the surrounding streets, insisting they stop at each of his favorite inns and taverns.
“You have to know which establishments to frequent, and which to stay away from,” the knight explained quite seriously. “I promised to take care of you, brother, and I am only fulfilling that promise.”
At the least, Jakob was not forced to eat or drink in each stop, or he would be crawling back to the Tower by this time—if he was sober enough to find it.
Percival held his ale well. The only telltale signs of his imbibing were his increasingly red cheeks and the enthusiasm in his voice. Though Percival thought it would be the perfect end to their inaugural eventide together, Jakob begged off and did not participate when two of the serving maids offered to bed them.
With a chastising comment to Jakob about certain parts of his body withering up and falling off, Percival followed one girl up the stairs.
The other girl, her disappointment clear, sat in Jakob’s lap and tried to use her hand on him as enticement.
“No.” Jakob lifted her away and set her on her feet. “But thank you.”
“Are ye one of those?” Her frustrated gaze moved to the stairs, then back to him. “Why are all the handsome men that way?”
It took Jakob a moment to process her words.
“No! I like women!” he blurted. “Just not this night.”
She gave him a skeptical look, then leaned forward so her blouse gaped open and revealed her sizable bosom. “If that is true, then I hope ye’ll come back to see me.”
Jakob grinned and took the easy way out of the situation. “I will. Soon.”
She planted a quick kiss on his lips, then walked away, her hips swinging.
Jakob sighed and wiped his mouth. If he ever bedded a woman again, it would definitely not be a whore in a tavern near the port of London. He’d seen plenty of men infected with the pox, and wanted no part of that.
That thought made him wonder about Percival. Did he frequent whores often? And if he did, was he poxed already? Or was he concerned about the possibility?
“Sheaths,” Percival answered the question later when the pair were on their way to the Tower. “I carry one with me when I go out for an evening.”
That was a relief. Jakob hated to think he might lose his new friend to a horrible and too-early death. Or worse, a long, miserable, and drawn-out form of dying.
Percival stopped and faced Jakob. “You are limping.”
Jakob didn’t reply; nor did he stop walking, forcing the other knight to hurry and keep apace with him.
“What happened?” Percival pressed.
“I was speared in a battle.”
Percival stopped again. “War?”
This time, Jakob stopped as well. He turned slowly to face Percival. “Yes. With Sweden.”
Percival approached slowly. “Denmark was at war with Sweden?”
Jakob waved a hand. “Sweden is trouble in the Baltic. Small battles at times.”
“How bad was the injury?” Percival stood in front of him now, his concern clear.
Jakob glanced away. “Cuts to bone.”
“Infection?”
Jakob nodded and faced Percival again. “I almost die.”
Percival blew a whistle through rounded lips. “I have been fortunate, thus far.”
Jakob clapped him on the shoulder. “I am glad. Or I will not have new brother.” He tipped his head in the direction of the Tower’s guard gate. “Now come. We must go to bed before sun comes up.”
May 25, 1518
Avery sat across from Catherine in the carriage, facing backward, and watched the countryside pass slowly by on their journey back to London. The rhythmic hoof beats of the horses combined with the boot steps of the footmen who ran on either side of their conveyance, creating a muted cacophony on the dirt road. The sun and clouds jousted for dominance with neither one the clear winner.
“What are you pondering so deeply?” Catherine adjusted a sleepy Mary on her lap.
Normally the girl would ride with her nurse, but Catherine was acting a bit protective today. And she claimed the distraction seemed to help with the nausea exacerbated by the swaying carriage ride.
Avery turned to Catherine, “I was thinking about our childhood together in Alcalá de Henares. When all we had to worry about was which trick to play on our tutors next.”
Catherine laughed softly. “We had our moments, didn’t we? I am quite certain that if we were boys, we would have been whipped.”
“Do you expect to ever see Madrid again?” Avery asked.
The queen’s gaze moved to the passing scenery. “I have thought about that many times over the years, of course. And I have come to the conclusion that the answer is no.”
Avery looked at the toddler in Catherine’s grasp. “What about Mary? Do you believe she will ever be able to visit her grandparents? To know her heritage?”
Catherine stroked the girl’s dark curls, more like her own brown locks than her golden-haired father’s. “I would hope so. She will likely marry a Spaniard, just as I married an Englishman.”
“You must tell her all about Spain, and Madrid, and Alcalá de Henares as she grows.” Avery leaned forward and straightened the little princess’s skirt. “And I shall as well.”
“What about you? Will you ever go back, my dearest Averia?” Catherine’s use of her Spanish name made Avery flinch.
“Averia lives no more.” She met Catherine’s
regard. “You know what she left behind. And there is only one reason for her to go back.”
Catherine’s eyes welled. “I so wish I could have helped you.”
Avery reached for the queen’s hand. “You were a shockingly young widow, betrothed to your dead husband’s brother. I never expected you to come to my aid.”
The queen pulled her hand away and dabbed her eyes with a linen kerchief. “Still, I have regretted my silence during those years more than you could know.”
“There was not anything you could have done, Cathy. The die was cast. I never blamed you.” Avery slid across the cabin to sit beside her friend. “Quite the opposite in fact. I bless you every day in my prayers for calling me to your side the very moment you became Queen of England.”
“Yet in doing so, I have condemned you to a life without companionship.” Catherine gave Avery an apologetic look. “Life has not been quite fair to either of us, has it?”
Avery scoffed. “I would not say that. You have a husband who loves you, a beautiful daughter on your lap, and another child on the way. And—you are the queen of a powerful nation, soon to become even more powerful.”
Catherine blushed. “You shame me, Avery. Because every word you say is true.”
Avery patted Catherine’s hand. “I do not begrudge you one single thing. I love you, Cathy. You are my dearest friend and always will be.”
The queen sighed. “I only want you to be happy as well.”
“I am content,” Avery countered. “And for a woman of my age, that in itself is a blessing.”
Catherine gazed down at her sleeping toddler. “Do you regret not having children?”
Avery felt a familiar pang, though it had lessened gradually over the years. “Not as much anymore. I plan to dote heavily on your offspring for the rest of my life.”
Catherine smiled. “And I shall let you. Spoil them rotten, please.”
The carriage slowed to a stop beside a field. Avery watched a small tent being hastily erected several yards from the road. A servant came to the coach and opened the door.
He bowed low. “Your comfort stop is prepared, your Grace.”
“Thank you.” Catherine eased away from Mary and laid her gloved hand in another servant’s proffered one. He assisted the pregnant queen’s descent from the carriage.
Avery rested in the cab while Catherine relieved herself, and then took her own turn. When she finished, she saw the royal nurse carrying Mary to a different carriage.
Catherine awaited her return, sitting on one of two small folding seats beside the road. When Avery joined her, a servant handed her a goblet of cool, watered wine. Another servant set a tray of pastries on a little hassock in front of them.
Avery and Catherine enjoyed the fresh air respite from the rocking journey for about half an hour before a threatening sky, the clouds having triumphed over the sun, sent down a few heavy drops of warning.
The women reclaimed their seats in the conveyance, and rode in silence for a while. Avery always thought the landscape was more interesting when the weather was misbehaving a bit, and she watched the shift of color in the clouds. Blues and grays were tinged with oranges and pinks by the lowering sun. The various greens of the fields darkened with the slowly fading light, but the yellows there seemed to glow.
Catherine’s voice interrupted Avery’s reverie. “Do you suppose Hansen and Bethington are getting on?”
Catherine’s question brought to the front of Avery’s mind the very subject which had been dancing around the edges of her thoughts ever since the Nordic knight departed Windsor Castle with Henry. She was not particularly happy about that.
Avery cut her gaze to the queen’s. “Why would I care?”
Catherine shrugged. “You must admit he’s interesting.”
“He may be interesting, but that has nothing to do with me.” Avery leaned forward. “He is now partnered with a man who has doggedly pursued me for the past year. Certainly you see how such a situation prevents me from contemplating fornication with the Norseman!”
Catherine gave an embarrassed laugh. “Such base language from you, once again.” She wagged a finger at Avery. “At least he makes you passionate about something!”
Avery batted away the offending finger. “What makes you think he would even be interested?”
“I have eyes, and you have a mirror.” Catherine smiled softly. “You are a very beautiful woman, Avery. You could make him interested.”
Avery shook her head. “To what end? I have never trifled with any man’s attentions in my life, and I do not intend to begin now. Please, let it go.”
Catherine’s brows pulled together. “If not Hansen, nor Percival Bethington, will you consider anyone else?”
Avery lifted one irritated brow. “Well the Duke of Suffolk is quite handsome.”
“Charles Brandon?” Catherine had the decency to be shocked.
“Yes, Charles Brandon,” Avery teased without mirth. “He has an easy smile. He’s friendly, youthful, confident. And he trims his beard regularly. I like that.”
Catherine slumped in her seat. “I had no idea…”
“Of course you had no idea. Because I’m lying.” Avery folded her arms. “How could I be serious? The man is already on his third wife!”
“Avery, honestly.” Catherine glared at her. “I am trying to have a serious discussion with you.”
“As am I, your Grace.”
“Do not do that, Lady Avery.”
Avery loosened her arms and leaned forward. “Then please do not press me on this, Cathy, I beg of you. I am not looking for a husband for my old age. But if I ever do decide to dally with anyone, the extent of which might very well put my eternal salvation at risk, I know I shall do so with your blessing.”
Catherine’s demeanor softened. “I am sorry, Avery. You are right.”
“I truly am content at this time,” she began. “And if I find the Nordic knight interesting after all, I would like to be free to befriend him, without everyone speculating behind our backs as to how many times a night we might be swiving.”
Catherine nodded. “You make a valid point and, as your friend, I will honor it. Under one condition.”
Avery frowned. “What condition?”
Catherine’s gaze was intense. “If you do, at some point in the next few months, decide to take a dip in the Nordic lake, will you tell me?”
Avery couldn’t help but laugh, as impossible as that situation was. “I am afraid I will find those waters very cold indeed.”
Catherine shrugged. “Be warned: I believe you might be surprised.”
“Well, my queen. I can promise you this…” Avery laid a palm over her heart. “If I do decide to venture into the unknown, I will keep you fully informed of my journey’s progress.”
“And I…” Catherine mimicked Avery’s gesture of promise. “Will keep everything you tell me in the strictest confidence.”
Chapter Seven
May 26, 1518
“That’s Cardinal Wolsey, the Archbishop of York,” Bethington murmured, tilting his head in that man’s direction. “Some say he’s more powerful than the king.”
Jakob shifted his weight and resumed his relaxed warrior’s stance. He considered the lavishly dressed priest approaching Henry. Jakob and the English knight had been summoned to one of the king’s private meeting rooms over an hour ago, though no explanation had yet been given for the need of their presence.
Wolsey handed the king a rolled document.
Henry unrolled the parchment, his gaze sliding to its bottom. He smiled.
“Our esteemed father, Pope Leo, has signed our treaty.” Henry turned toward the Duke of Suffolk. “King Charles of Spain and Emperor Maximillian of the Holy Roman Empire will certainly follow his lead.”
Brandon nodded. “I shall have their ambassadors summoned to the Tower immediately.”
“Very good.” Henry returned his attention to the document. “Charles will sign for Burgundy and the Neth
erlands as well. And while I do not expect France to balk, let’s wait and summon them after the others have signed.”
Brandon gave him a crooked grin. “That is an excellent suggestion, your Grace.”
Henry chuckled as he handed the treaty back to the cardinal. “There is no more powerful incentive for the proud or stubborn, than to see that everyone around you has made an agreement.”
While the cardinal rerolled the treaty and slid a wax-sealed ribbon around it, Jakob leaned toward Bethington.
“What is treaty—the treaty?” he corrected himself.
The knight gave a small shake of his head, his eyes fixed on King Henry. “I don’t know.”
Henry spoke quietly to Brandon. The duke’s gaze moved to Jakob and Bethington still standing near the doorway of the spacious room. He lifted one hand and beckoned them forward.
“Sir Bethington. Sir Hansen. Please approach.”
Jakob allowed Percival to lead the way. When the English knight knelt in front of Cardinal Wolsey and kissed his massive ring, Jakob mimicked the action. When Jakob stood, he saw the same shocked expression on the cardinal’s face which he had met at every new English introduction thus far.
“Remarkable…” Wolsey breathed, his eyes wide.
Percival turned and bowed to Henry, so Jakob hurried to do the same. He straightened after Bethington did, and the two men stood side by side, facing the young king, and waiting for Henry to speak.
The sovereign looked extremely pleased with himself. “Have either of you any idea what you have just witnessed?”
Percival spoke for them both. “No, your Grace.”
Henry gestured toward Wolsey. “At my suggestion, his Eminence, Cardinal Wolsey, has designed the most impressive agreement.”
Jakob noticed a flicker of irritation pass over Wolsey’s expression, but it was gone as quickly as it manifested. Perhaps the source of the suggestion was not quite as the king had stated. Jakob bit his tongue to keep his amused reaction in check.
“The Treaty of London, as we have named it—” Henry’s gaze flicked to Wolsey’s and back. “Is a pact between the most powerful of the European nations. Those who sign it are agreeing not to mount any attack on the others.”