by Kris Tualla
“And you wear my clothes?” Jakob scoffed at the preposterous idea. “To look like a Nordic knight?”
“Yes.”
Jakob’s jaw dropped in disbelief. These men must be under the influence of a very bad moon to come up with such an ill-fated scheme.
“I—I cannot think of the words…” he stammered.
“Do not worry about being discovered,” Brandon soothed. “You will both change clothes in secret before you leave, and regain your own garments after you return to the Tower.”
For a moment, Jakob wondered if he was in an opium dream. “I will not be believed…”
Brandon spread his hand wide, palms up. “You will never come close enough to any of the peasants for them to suspect a thing. This I can promise you.”
Jakob gave a warning frown. “I do not speak.”
“Never.” Henry shook his head. “That would give the game away.”
Another jarring objection sprung to Jakob’s mind. “Miss Blount will know?”
Henry looked questioningly at Brandon. “Bessie will certainly hear about my impossible appearances. I expect she will eventually figure out that some man is masquerading as me.”
“But she will not know who.” The duke’s brow furrowed like a newly plowed field. “Even so, your Grace, I suppose you will need to offer her some sort of incentive to keep the game a secret.”
“What does she want?” Jakob blurted.
Henry startled visibly. “Bessie?
His expression turned pensive, and he rubbed his lower lip again. “I shall promise her…” Henry paused, then turned his regard to Charles Brandon, eyes twinkling mischievously.
“I shall promise her that as long as the imposter—or even his mere existence—is never discovered or revealed, I shall publicly claim any bastard of mine that she might bear.” He clapped his hands and grinned at the duke. “That promise should assure her silence!”
Brandon paled and Jakob saw his hand tremble slightly, but the duke nodded. “Very good, your Grace.”
“This is more than games,” Jakob interrupted, concerned for his own situation. “I am to impersonate a king. That is treason, yes?”
“Normally yes—but not with that king’s permission,” Brandon observed. “That is a very important consideration.”
Jakob leaned forward in his chair and pointed at the duke. “I want permission in writing, or I will not agree. I need this if I am discovered.”
The other two men exchanged a look.
“Dare we?” Brandon asked.
Henry considered Jakob, his eyes narrowing as if to convey a silent threat. “Are you as trustworthy as you claim?”
Jakob drew a breath, suddenly feeling disconnected from his body. He must have lost his mind. Rather than continue this discussion, a sane man would regain his feet immediately and bolt from the room.
Instead, he answered, “Yes. I am.”
Henry stared at him as if to plumb the very depths of his soul.
Jakob made his decision then, startling as it was. He daren’t refuse. There was only one viable path open to him, a single path which would place the King of England in his debt, a least until his commission was completed and he was nearly back at home in Denmark.
Or Norway, came the unbidden possibility. Perhaps he would return to his family’s home in Arendal.
Jakob tucked that disconcerting thought away. It must wait for consideration until he was finished with Spain, and not before. Then he threw up both hands in surrender.
“If you both sign a paper saying that you ask for me to go in your place—and in exchange you give me comfortable passage from London to Barcelona and back—then I agree.”
Henry shifted his regard to Brandon. His eyes narrowed. “What do you think?”
Charles Brandon’s next words surprised Jakob. “I don’t believe you will find a man with more integrity in all of England. Possibly all of Europe.”
“So I should write the letter?” Henry confirmed.
“Yes.” Brandon scuttled his fingers through his loose, dark hair. “If you expect Sir Hansen to take on this responsibility, and complete it in a believable manner from now until the time comes that he must leave for Spain, then it is my opinion that his request is not only justified, but such a document will assure his full cooperation.”
“Is that true, Hansen?” Henry’s gaze was steely blue.
“Yes, your Grace. My word to you as gentleman.” Jakob dipped his chin and took a chance. “And your word to me, as gentleman as well.”
Henry frowned. “Do you suppose us equals?”
“Not in our places, your Grace. Your birth gives more responsibility.” Jakob lifted his chin. “But as friend helping friend, my promise and your promise are same.”
Brandon’s mouth worked, stifling a grin. “He makes a point, your Grace.”
“I help you, and you help me.” Jakob stuck out his right arm. “We write words later. We shake hands now.”
Henry hesitated, staring at Jakob’s proffered limb.
Jakob tilted his head slightly. “Is how we do this in Norway.”
Henry cocked one golden brow. “Not in Denmark?”
Jakob smiled at the jest. “At times.”
Henry grasped Jakob above the wrist, and Jakob took hold of the king’s forearm. They gave one brief shake.
Brandon stood. “I shall procure the parchment and ink.”
As the duke crossed the room, Jakob spoke again. “I will have wine now. In a very big cup.”
Chapter Ten
Askel stared at Jakob as if he had just opened his mouth and a litter of newborn kittens spilled out.
“This scheme is impossible. It will never succeed!” The valet grabbed the sides of his head with clawed hands and paced around the ornately furnished chamber in erratic circles. “And you will be discovered, and then you will be hung for impersonating a king, and then I shall have to return to Denmark, and tell King Christian what happened to you, and then I will no longer have a position, or an income…”
He stopped still and pointed angrily at Jakob. “No! I won’t go back. I’ll stay here. I’ll learn English, and find work somewhere in England, but far from London. I can still drive a plow, you know.”
Askel’s arms fell limp at his sides and his shoulders sagged. “But then I will never see my family again. And I shall have to write to your father—and lie about what happened, of course. The truth would kill him. If he’s not already dead.”
Jakob stood in the center of the storm of hysteria, arms folded stoically across his chest, and waited. Askel had not yet voiced a single concern that had not traipsed heavily through his own thoughts.
“Henry put the agreement in writing,” he offered. “In the event that someone figures out the scheme.”
Askel let out a quiet wail and fell to his knees. “There is written evidence? Your guilt cannot be questioned?”
“Evidence with a king’s signature, remember,” Jakob stated firmly, bolstering his own confidence. “We shook hands on the agreement, and the Duke of Suffolk witnessed everything.”
Askel remained a slumped heap on the floor and wagged his head. “We are doomed, my lord.”
“We are not doomed.” Jakob sat heavily in a chair. “But we must be both wise and careful.”
“Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but I believe those particular vessels sailed from port an hour ago.” Askel lumbered to his feet and stood in front of Jakob. “What do you propose to do now?”
Jakob untied his hair and ran a hand through it. “I believe frequency will be a key. How often does a king generally visit his concubine?”
Askel snorted. “Daily?”
Jakob shook his head. “Not if he has to leave his castle to do so. Henry is too busy. And I haven’t marked his absences thus far.”
“Thus far, sir, he hasn’t had a masquerade which allows him to move unseen.” Askel crossed to the wooden servants’ chair by the fireplace and plopped heavily onto its seat. His
expression had not yet eased.
“Once a week, at the least. Most likely twice,” Jakob posited. He wondered if it was possible for him to add those limits to the written agreement. “I believe three times a week would prove too risky.”
“There is always the one week a month when he won’t visit her at all.” Askel was clearly looking for hopeful elements in what he clearly considered a dooming disaster.
Jakob nodded slowly. “I wonder how much notice he will give me—will the days and times be scheduled, or will his servant come summon me without warning?”
Askel leaned forward. “If that proves to be the case, then it might behoove you to make yourself scarce at times, my lord.”
“I agree. I shall spend more time with Bethington outside of the Tower. We can hunt, practice with weapons, that sort of thing.”
Jakob stroked his bearded jaw as he considered various possibilities, the coarse whiskers resting unconcerned against his skin. “Not often enough to raise Henry’s suspicions, though. Only if he proves too eager.”
“Very good, my lord.” Askel relaxed a little.
A sharp knock at the door made both men jump. Askel moved to open the portal while Jakob affected a casual pose in the chair. Jakob could not see who was outside the door, and there was no conversation for him to overhear. Askel should learn some English, he decided. How else could the valet converse with the other servants in the Tower?
The valet stepped back from the doorway his arms laden with rich garments. Whoever brought them closed the door, unseen. Askel’s eyes were round as platters.
Jakob stood and crossed the room. “What is this?”
One hand appeared at the bottom of the pile. “He gave me this note.”
Jakob grasped the folded and sealed missive. “Take care of these, Askel, and I will read the answer to this mystery aloud.”
As the valet moved toward the bed, and dumped his armload on top of it, Jakob broke the seal and unfolded the paper. He translated the English into Norsk as he read.
Sir Hansen, I have taken the liberty to have these, the king’s garments, delivered to you, in order that your talented valet may clean and prepare them as we discussed. The king very much appreciates your efforts on his part, and hopes to return the favor.
Suffolk
Askel’s brow wrinkled. “What does that mean, clean and prepare them? And how does he know if I’m talented?”
Jakob tossed the note into the small fire. “The note was written in sort of a code, Askel, in the event it was intercepted. These are to be my costumes when I play the role of King Henry the Eighth.”
“Were they his clothes?” Askel lifted one short velvet tunic and sniffed it. His nose wrinkled. “They were somebody’s clothes, I can say that much.”
Jakob chuckled. “That is what the duke meant by clean and prepare, I would hazard to guess.”
Askel’s lips pressed in a thin line as he spread the opulent garments across the bed. “These are not the style you wear,” he observed. “I wonder how they will look on you.”
In truth, Jakob didn’t own any of the short, heavily pleated pantaloons of which Henry was so fond. And Jakob’s tunics extended to his hips; they weren’t cut off at the waist like the king’s.
He sighed. “I suppose we shall see.”
Askel looked over his shoulder. “What does he mean by returning the favor?”
“If I am to go out in public dressed like Henry, then he is to go out to meet Miss Blount dressed in my clothes,” Jakob explained.
Once again, Askel was visibly horrified. Jakob wondered what he might do to prevent the younger man from experiencing some sort of apoplexic attack before the day was finished.
“You have to give him your clothes? But my lord—you don’t have but five tunics!” Askel blew a breath through loose lips. “What will I do to dress you and show your status the way I should?”
“I will have to order new garments, I suppose.” Though he hated being fitted and fussed over, there was no way around this. “You must send my two less ornate tunics. But keep the brocade, the blue velvet with the pearls, and—of course—my hunting tunic.”
Askel nodded his reluctant yet resigned agreement, and moved to the cupboard that held Jakob’s wardrobe. “If you were making a visit to your mistress, you would dress nicely, but not in your best.”
“Precisely.”
The valet lifted the tunics in question from the shelves, giving them a critical examination. “And you have worn these both many a time since we arrived. People who see them should recognize the fabric and the style, and believe the man to be you.”
Jakob nodded. “That is the king’s expectation.”
“Hmph.” Askel folded the clothes, along with one pair of the longer pants which Jakob wore, and turned to face him again. “What about hose?”
“The king shall wear his own hose and undergarments, as shall I,” Jakob declared.
Askel bent down to reach a lower shelf. “Boots?”
That one stumped him. “I’m certain he has a pair of common boots.”
“And what if he does not?” the valet prodded.
Jakob frowned, unwilling to be pushed into buying new boots for himself in addition to the tunics. “Do you suppose our feet are even the same size?”
Askel jammed his fists onto his hips. “Boots which do not fit can pain a man. I say, let him wear his own.”
“I agree. And if the king does not, we will address that situation when it arises.” Jakob scuttled his hands through his hair again. “I suppose we should go to the tailor today.”
“I’m feeling a bit wobbly.” Askel rubbed his belly. “Might we eat something first?”
*****
Avery walked along a road overlooking the Thames River and relished the freshening breezes. Her handmaiden, Elisa, walked slightly behind her, but the two women did not converse. Avery preferred it that way. It gave her a chance to ponder the information which Lizzy had passed to her.
She had given the rumor quite a bit of thought and came to the conclusion that, unless Henry encountered another similar sort of mishap, she would not alarm Catherine unnecessarily. A drunken groom with second-hand information was not a reliable source. But the whisper would increase her diligence in examining any possible dangers to the king.
On the converse side of that situation, even in the busy streets of London Avery did not feel the need for a guard. She was well known as the queen’s closest friend. To harm Avery was to harm Catherine, and Queen Catherine was beloved by those Henry ruled over. The people of England had seen Catherine suffer through enough pain and loss to believe that the queen truly understood their own struggles.
When the church bells rang four times, Avery was pleased to note that two hours of her afternoon still beckoned, before she must return to the Tower and prepare for supper and the evening’s activities. The mild spring weather and sparsely-clouded sky soothed her soul and eased her mind.
At moments like this, she didn’t regret her life’s path after all.
Though her childish dreams had been cruelly diverted, she was not suffering in the way that those who crossed her wandering path on this afternoon might be. Avery never had to wonder from where she might procure her next meal or where she would lay her head at night. Throughout her entire life, she lived in a solid home, owned warm and beautiful clothing, and had servants to see to her every need.
Well, almost every.
As if that risqué thought had summoned the devil himself, Sir Hansen was approaching.
Still three dozen yards distant, Avery had no trouble spotting his coppery-golden head bobbing above the crowd. Furthermore, lest she think the king had taken leave of his senses and now strolled among the populace, the asymmetrical sway of Hansen’s limping stride solidified the knight’s identity.
Avery stopped walking, wondering what she should do.
On the one hand she didn’t care to engage with the Norseman. Unbidden, he passed far too often through he
r thoughts of late. And in spite of her declarations of denial to Catherine, the idea of taking this fleeting knight as a lover niggled nightly at her dreams, leaving her vaguely unsettled when the sun arose.
Yet those were the very same irritating reasons she considered catching his attention here and now.
Avery decided to allow God—or perhaps the fates—to choose for her. She doubted her Heavenly Father would assist her in trysting with Sir Hansen, but He could certainly prevent such a thing if He wished to.
Curious, she remained still and waited to see what might transpire.
“Is anything amiss, my lady?” Elisa asked in a soft voice which trickled over Avery’s right shoulder.
Avery raised one jeweled hand to shush the girl, but she didn’t turn around. Her eyes were fixed on Hansen. “No. I’m fine. Thank you.”
The knight closed half the distance between them before the crowd parted in front of her. When he noticed her, he locked his surprise-widened eyes on hers, his stride steady. A small smile lifted a corner of his mouth and his dipped his chin slightly in greeting.
Avery smiled softly, and dipped her chin as well. She assumed the unfamiliar man walking beside Sir Hansen was his servant, based not only on his attire, but the fact that the man had never appeared in any of the royal rooms.
She was about to resume her stroll in Hansen’s direction when he pivoted to his right and followed his man into a shop.
Now what?
Frustrated, Avery wanted to discover what sort of shop the men had entered—and if it was appropriate to do so, follow them inside. Without allowing herself to consider the ramifications of such actions, she straightened and strode forward.
The patter of wood-soled feet behind her betrayed Elisa’s rush to keep up.
She paused in front of the well-built shop which sported an unusual number of windows overlooking the river below. The result was such a brightly lit interior that Avery could see Sir Hansen inside, standing amidst bolts of fabric. She looked up at the sign above the door.
“A tailor?” she murmured. “How odd.”