A Nordic Knight in Henry's Court: Jakob & Avery: Book 1 (The Hansen Series - Jakob & Avery)

by Kris Tualla

  Jakob glanced at Bethington for a clue as to how to respond. He had not heard Denmark named, and wondered if Christian would be asked to sign—and what it meant if he was not.

  Percival remained upright, his silent attention on the king.

  “Furthermore,” Henry continued. “All of those who sign agree to come to one another’s aid, if any of them should find themselves under attack from an enemy, known or foreign.”

  Percival dipped his head. “That is excellent news, your Grace.”

  Henry smiled softly and shifted his expectant gaze to Jakob.

  Jakob decided to take a chance. “And Christian of Denmark will sign as well?”

  The king’s expression dimmed. Bethington sucked a soft breath. Brandon and Wolsey exchanged a dark look before the cardinal responded.

  “We hold no animosity toward our Scandinavian brothers, of course.” Wolsey’s tone dripped with superior condescension. “But this treaty is in response to the Ottoman’s encroachment into the Balkans—and Denmark is quite far removed from that Muslim empire’s unholy reach.”

  Jakob experienced a moment of gratitude that Charles Brandon had addressed him by his Nordic surname alone, and not by his Christian name. He didn’t wish to defend his Biblical name to the high-ranking priest, thereby risking high-ranking offense.

  “It is also my understanding that Denmark and Sweden are at odds at the moment,” the cardinal continued. “All of the other signatories are currently at peace. That would be a requirement. We do not wish to engage in any pre-existing disputes.”

  Jakob bowed, and paused briefly in the bent position to corral his irritation at the implied concern over King Christian’s ability to manage his country’s affairs. “I understand, your Eminence.”

  Wolsey’s eyes narrowed. “Has Christian paid any heed to that heretic priest, Luther, out of Germany?”

  Jakob blinked at the twist of conversation. “Not that I know, your Eminence.”

  “Your countries share a border,” he pressed. “Is there anything that I, as your Holy Catholic father, should be made aware of?”

  If he wasn’t irritated before, the cardinal’s pompous attitude made it hard for Jakob to remain civil. Was this the hellish diplomatic role he was now consigned to? How he longed for a good physical fight, his leg be damned.

  “No. Denmark belongs to the Catholic church.” So far.

  Wolsey stepped back and made the sign of the cross. “Bless you, my son. And bless Denmark.”

  “And Norway.”

  The cardinal’s brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

  Jakob spread his hands, palms open. “Christian Second is also king of Norway.”

  Wolsey’s brow smoothed once again, but the lines around his mouth deepened. “Of course.”

  After a long, evaluative stare at Jakob, he turned and faced Henry. “If you have no more need of me, your Grace, I shall retire to my devotions.”

  “Thank you, your Eminence.” Henry’s lips curved in what appeared to be a genuine smile. “I am quite pleased.”

  Jakob looked at Percival, wondering if they were expected to leave as well. But no one spoke or moved until the door closed behind the cardinal.

  Henry clapped his hands together. “Now, gentlemen, let’s discuss how this treaty affects the both of you, as well as the task ahead of you.”

  Charles Brandon gestured toward a silent servant, and two chairs were placed in front of the king. The duke took a seat on Henry’s right.

  Henry pointed to the chairs. “Please sit, Sir Bethington. And you, Sir Hansen. Give your leg a rest.”

  Jakob eased himself into the chair, leaning into its semicircular back and stretching his legs out in front of him. He hated to admit what a relief it was not to be standing still any longer.

  “The Order of the Golden Fleece is intended to be a forum where alliances and agreements are to be forged,” Henry explained. “It was very important that this treaty be written and signed before the Order convenes.”

  Jakob nodded. “So no other allianser is made.”

  “Alliances,” Percival murmured. Jakob repeated the word.

  “Precisely.” Henry leaned forward. “And as the friendship between England, Denmark—and Norway—is being solidified, both by King Christian’s generous gift to Princess Mary, and your extended presence here on his behalf, I hope we can count on your support in any disputes which might arise.”

  Jakob recognized the Latin root, disputatio. “If dispute rises, and oppløsning? solutio?”

  Both Bethington and Brandon spoke in unison. “Solution.”

  Henry’s eyes twinkled. He rubbed a heavily-ringed hand over his mouth, barely hiding his amusement.

  “Solution.” Jakob smiled, filing away yet another English word. “If solution is not bad for Christian the Second, then yes. I support England and King Henry the Eight.”

  “Well done, Hansen,” Henry approved. “Thank you.”

  Jakob bowed in his seat.

  The king’s gaze moved to Percival and back. “How are you getting on with Sir Bethington thus far?”

  Jakob shifted his expression to one of concern. “I am afraid I cannot drink so much as he.”

  A laugh exploded from Henry, his mirth filling the room. “Don’t fret, Hansen. I have not yet found another man who can!”

  Percival’s good natured grin split his ruddy cheeks. One meaty hand landed on Jakob’s shoulder. “Practice, my lord. Practice.”

  The door opened behind them, and Brandon quickly rose to his feet. Because Percival stood, Jakob followed their example. He wondered if he was permitted to turn around and see who had entered. He would be allowed to do so in Christian’s court, but since Percival remained facing forward, Jakob did as well.

  Henry stood, beaming. “My queen, I am so pleased to see you.” He reached out both hands. “When did you arrive?”

  “Late yesterday, my lord.” Catherine walked into Jakob’s view and grasped Henry’s hands. “I’m afraid I was exhausted and took to my bed straight away.”

  Henry lifted his wife’s hands to his lips and kissed them both soundly. “Your health is my foremost concern. Yours, and the babe’s. I would rather you forgo my presence than further exhaust yourself trying to please me any other way.”

  Jakob desired to turn around and look and see if Lady Avery had accompanied Queen Catherine to this meeting, but he didn’t dare.

  Percival clearly held no such reservations. “Good day, Lady Avery. You look as lovely as always.”

  Jakob did turn around at that. Bethington was right—Avery was stunning in her gold and burgundy brocade gown. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face by a French hood of burgundy velvet seeded with pearls.

  Her nearly-black eyes cut to Percival’s with an odd glint, and then immediately moved back to the king. “I made certain that she ate a healthy supper before retiring, your Grace.”

  Henry smiled at her. “Thank you, Lady Avery. I know I may always count on you to do what is best for my beloved wife.”

  Avery gave a little curtsy, her eyes staunchly focused forward.

  Jakob took the moment to scrutinize Avery. She had a trim and erect figure which, even at her age, showed no signs of childbearing. Her skin was clear and unmarked, with only the fine lines around her eyes betraying the maturity which drew Jakob to her.

  That made her beautiful in a very satisfying way, he thought.

  Avery turned to look at him, and he realized he was expected to speak.

  He faced Henry, his cheeks warming. “I apologize. Please say again.”

  The king glanced at Avery and then gave him a knowing smile. “I asked, have you ever played tennis?”

  *****

  “And now you have met the Ice Maiden,” Bethington said as the two knights made their way upstairs to their chambers to prepare for the tennis matches.

  “Ice maiden?” Jakob had not been listening to Percival; he was wondering what sort of clothing one wore to play tennis—what
ever that meant. Did he need his chainmail? Or perhaps just his leathers.

  “The esteemed Lady Avery Albergar of Toledo. Childhood friend of Queen Catherine of Aragon. And…” Percival glanced around, apparently to be certain he could not be heard. “The only woman to successfully rebuff every nobleman at court.”

  Jakob snorted. “Even you?”

  “Yes—can you believe that?” Percival threw his arms wide, backhanding Jakob in the chest. “Look at me! And I’m a big man throughout, if you get my meaning. So I persevere.”

  He pulled his beefy arms close and wagged one finger in the air. “I know I can make her quite happy, if only she will allow me to try.”

  Jakob realized that no one had mentioned a Lord Albergar of Toledo in his presence. “Is she married?”

  “Widowed. So it is not a question of either virginity or adultery.” Percival heaved a long sigh. “She makes me lose sleep at night.”

  “For how long? Ten minutes?” Jakob chortled.

  “Seven. Sometimes five.” Percival caught Jakob’s gaze, his eyes pinched with amusement. “She is very beautiful, after all.”

  Jakob stopped at the door to his apartment and deliberately changed the subject. “What do I wear for play tennis?”

  Percival scratched his ear. “A shirt. Knee breeches and hose. Light boots. But wear a tunic coming and going.”

  That was surprising. “What is tennis?”

  “You use a racquet to hit a ball over a net, which is about this high.” Percival hit his upper thigh with the edge of his hand. “Your opponent hits it back.”

  Jakob made a face. “What is p—the point?”

  Percival laughed. “Hit the ball hard enough that your opponent cannot hit it back. It’s fun. And tiring. You will see.” He elbowed Jakob’s arm. “And ladies come to watch.”

  Ladies, indeed, had come to watch. The space surrounding the court’s four walls was open on the second level. The royal court sat in tall chairs overlooking the packed-clay court, so they had a clear view of the game.

  Lady Avery sat next to Catherine. She looked away every time Jakob’s gaze was pulled in her direction by his inexorable fascination with the Ice Maiden—as he now thought of her. But she could not look away if she was not looking at him to begin with, he noted with satisfaction.

  Unless she was looking at Bethington.

  Was she looking at Bethington?

  Jakob considered the jovial man, bouncing on the bench beside him, and cheering for the king. By his own admission, the English knight was trying his best to woo Lady Avery. Perhaps her ice was melting.

  Why that idea irked him was not something Jakob wished to consider. He tried, instead, to pay attention to the game, figuring out which angles were the hardest to return. He wanted to be prepared when his turn came.

  Henry was an excellent player. He did not appear to be hampered by the hunting mishap twelve days ago, and quickly defeated his first opponent. Catherine threw him a kiss, which he accepted with a salute, before he walked through the door at one end of the high-walled court. Two new players emerged from the door and began a second round of the odd game.

  “Does the king always win?” Jakob asked Percival.

  He shrugged. “Yes. But he’s an exceptional player with a lot of opportunity to practice.”

  “What if he loses?”

  Percival looked past Jakob’s shoulder and grinned. “Another excellent game, your Grace.”

  Sweating and wiping his face with a linen towel, Henry dropped onto the bench next to Jakob. The waiting players lined up on benches at one end of the court, close to the staircase leading down to the enclosed court.

  “I will play you next, Hansen.” Henry motioned to a servant for a glass of ale. “We shall see how quickly you learn.”

  “May I see this racquet?” Jakob asked.

  “Of course.” Henry handed him the interesting implement.

  The frame of the racquet was a bent piece of wood shaped like a long-handled frying pan. In the rounded part, narrow gut was strung through holes in the wood, both horizontally and vertically, to create a grid. The racquet’s handle was wrapped in leather.

  “What is the ball made from?” Jakob asked as he examined the implement.

  Henry was watching the game being played below. “Mine are made of putty and hair.”

  Jakob looked at Percival. “Putty?”

  “Chalk and linseed oil,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  Jakob understood chalk and oil. And he knew what that combination created—a dense type of malleable substance which held its shape. The hair would bind the putty together.

  Jakob handed the racquet back to Henry. “Good.”

  The match in play lasted less than half of an hour, yet both men were panting heavily when one finally out-scored the other and the game ended.

  Henry jumped to his feet. “Are you ready, Sir Hansen?”

  Jakob stood and removed his tunic, laying it over the bench. “Yes, I am, your Grace.”

  Once on the court, Jakob was given a racquet. He hefted it like he would a small sword, testing it for weight and balance.

  Henry laid the ball in his hand. “You may hit first. You are my guest, after all.”

  Jacob tossed the ball about a foot in the air and then caught it while he waited for Henry to take his spot on the opposite side of the net.

  On the way, the king stopped and addressed the court members watching from above.

  “Catherine, my queen, please note that I am on the left side of the court, from your perspective. I don’t wish for you to become confused and cheer for the wrong man.”

  Laughter echoed off the court walls, as Henry’s jest regarding the similarities in the two opponents’ appearance was shown full appreciation by the lords and ladies watching.

  Jakob saw Avery try not to look at him, and something in his perverse nature prompted him to step up and address the gathering as well, forcing her attention. He glanced at Henry when he did so.

  The king’s amusement was tempered by Jakob’s presumptive act—if the king’s expression was to be read correctly.

  Jakob pressed forward anyway. A knight never eschewed a legitimate challenge, and that was how the Lady Avery was beginning to be categorized in his mind.

  He waved one arm expansively. “And if the man limps after the game, it is most likely me.”

  This round of appreciative laughter was, thankfully, not as loud as Henry’s response. Jakob did note that several women were laughing into handkerchiefs, and he bowed to their discretion.

  Avery watched him with an inscrutable expression. Yet her brow was smooth, and the edges of her eyes were crinkled.

  Jakob wondered if women ever offered their favor in tennis, as they did at a jousting match.

  Henry cleared his throat.

  Jakob whirled on his heel and strode to his spot. He dropped the ball with his left hand and swung the racquet with his right. The ball barely skimmed over the top of the net. After it bounced once, Henry sent it back in his direction with a powerful smack.

  The game had begun.

  *****

  “And then?” Askel prodded. He sniffed Jakob’s sweat-soaked shirt and made a face. “I’ll wash this on the morrow. Give me your hose as well.”

  Jakob obliged. “And then, Henry and I played three games of this tennis.”

  “Did you let him win all of them?”

  “I did not let him win any of them.” Jacob handed his valet the dirty leggings. “He won twice, and fairly.”

  Askel flashed a lopsided grin. “And the game which you won was the second one.”

  Jakob paused in his washing. “How did you know?”

  “Because there were three games.” Askel shrugged and dropped the offending garment into a basket to be carried down to the Tower’s laundry. “Two victories would have sufficed to end the competition.”

  Jakob grinned. Askel was right.

  Jakob held up the leggings to make his point. “And w
hen a man sweats this much, he has exerted himself beyond mere sport.”

  Askel tossed the garments aside and poured fresh hot water into the basin. “You, my lord, were out for blood.”

  “As was he, to be fair.” Jakob dipped his cloth, squeezed out the excess water, and began to scrub his legs. “Henry may have lived a pampered life, but the man is strong and agile—and he has great stamina.”

  Askel set the pitcher down. “How much younger is he than you? I forget.”

  “Only five years.” Jakob, however, was feeling each one of them at the moment.

  Perhaps he should have eased his efforts during the last game; but for a trained knight, doing so proved to be a nearly impossible task, accustomed as he was to fighting until he won—or collapsed.

  “Five years and a broken leg,” Askel chided. “I’ll have the opium ready after the victory supper.”

  As Jakob dressed for the formal meal, a variety of unexpected muscles throughout his frame grew increasingly stiff. Walking without limping was going to be impossible tonight.

  At least he had made a public joke of it; he could always pretend to be exaggerating the old injury merely for the court’s entertainment.

  Walking down the stairs for supper, however, proved to be an ordeal for his cramping thighs. When he met up with Bethington, his new friend groaned.

  “Remind me not to ever play tennis again. I am going to have to drink two whole skins of wine tonight in order to be able to sleep.”

  Jakob merely smiled.

  Askel’s promise of opium might be a very good plan after all.

  Chapter Eight

  Avery stood at Catherine’s side, glancing toward the doorway every minute or so. She was watching for Sir Hansen, and didn’t try to disguise that fact in her mind. The man had been magnificent today.

  No one in the English court had ever bested Henry in a game of tennis. Whether their losses were intentional, in an attempt to raise Henry’s mood and gain his favor, or whether the king was truly the better athlete could not always be determined by mere observation and speculation.