by Kris Tualla
Jakob’s predisposition made him throw his arms wide and brace himself between the walls of the cab. Even so, his shoulder hit the wood-and-leather side. The upward door flew open, and the driver’s horrified face appeared.
“Are you injured, your Highness?”
Do not speak. Brandon’s warning stopped his first impulse. Jakob shook his head decisively, and waved his hands in front of his face.
“Shall I help you out, your Grace?”
“No. Fix it,” he risked, imitating Henry’s accent and shooing the man away.
Though clearly not comfortable with those orders, the driver disappeared from sight. As the door clicked shut, Jakob became aware of the myriad of shouts—both of distress and instruction—as the carriage was jerked and propped back to a level position.
Through the open windows, he saw that the crowd was being kept at a safe distance by the cadre of men escorting the man they believed to be their king. Jakob knew that replacing the broken wheel would require quite a bit of time, and wondered what he should do next.
What would Henry do?
Jakob lowered the brim of Henry’s hat, smiled a little, and gave an acknowledging wave to the gathering of concerned Londoners. The relief and joy he saw on the people’s faces moved him in surprising ways. These people rightly believed that they had witnessed an accident involving their handsome and popular King Henry the Eighth. Their consternation was real, and Jakob’s gesture of gratitude was possibly the most exciting thing that ever happened to them.
Was it really such a bad thing to let them believe they had encountered their king?
The lives of the common folk were hard. Constantly striving for food, shelter, or clothing. Always threatened by disease and injury. The lack of hygiene—and oft-accompanying fleas and lice—was unpleasant in the extreme.
It certainly wore Jakob down when he spent extended time on campaigns for his king. He was accustomed to the comfort of washing, even in his childhood. Though Hansen Hall in Arendal was always being updated, his ancestor Rydar had large copper bathing tubs made nearly two hundred years ago—big enough for the tall Hansen men—and they were still in regular use.
Considering all those conditions, perhaps giving Henry’s subjects a bit of happiness could be seen as a sort of gift; a chance to rise above their circumstances and forget their worries, if only for a moment.
Jakob gave another wave, nodded, and smiled again. Many of those lining the cobbled street grinned broadly and waved back. Maybe this deception was not so bad after all.
As long as Avery never found him out.
*****
The carriage returned to collect Henry, delayed by less than a quarter of an hour. Henry climbed back into the carriage, grinning broadly. His cheeks were flushed, and his hair tousled. When he leaned forward and slapped Jakob’s knee, a whiff of flowery perfume tickled Jakob’s nose.
“Well, Hansen? How was it for you, being king?”
Jakob chuckled as the carriage began to move forward. “We had a bit of excitement, your Grace.”
Henry leaned back, his jovial mood doused. “What occurred?”
“The carriage lost a wheel.”
The king straightened. “Where you injured?”
Jakob shook his head. “No, your Grace. It happened during a slow turn.”
“Did anyone—”
“No. I stayed inside, and spoke to no one.” Jakob figured that the little fib was unimportant, and would help to calm Henry’s distress.
“So no one—”
“No.” Jakob allowed a crooked smile. “I waved. People were happy. And relieved that I—you—were not harmed.”
Henry fell back against his seat. “Well done, Hansen. I knew I picked the right man.”
Jakob wondered how many other look-alikes Henry had to choose from, but let the comment pass. He gave a little shrug.
“It was uncomfortable, is true. But if all that was required of a king is to ride in a carriage, waving and smiling, I would not enjoy the position.”
“Nor would I!” Henry scoffed. “This is why I do so many other things.”
Jakob was surprised that the incident was dismissed so quickly, but he shifted his attention as well. “Like tennis?”
“Tennis, yes. And shooting, wrestling, casting the barre.” Henry tapped a finger against his temple. “I exercise daily to keep both my mind active and my body fit.”
Jakob frowned. “What is casting the barre?”
Henry laughed. “I am surprised you do not know. I would have thought such activity would be quite popular were you come from.”
Jakob found that to an interesting comment. “Why?”
“It is a feat of strength which involves throwing a heavy object.” Henry leaned forward again, his expression animated. “The handle is usually made of oak or some other hard wood, about this thick.” He circled his thumb and forefinger. “In rural places, a stone is affixed to the end, either strapped on—or perhaps the stone is drilled through.”
Understanding dawned. “Like a hammer.”
“Exactly. In fact, I have had the royal barres made with cast iron heads, which I designed myself.” Henry appeared quite pleased at that.
“Now I understand why you think I should know.” Jakob grinned. “We have thrown Thor’s hammer in Norway since the gods reigned, your Grace.”
“As I suspected.” Henry’s eyes narrowed. “We should compete again.”
Jakob’s mood sank. He suspected his singular defeat of the king in their game of tennis might have prompted the unexpected challenge. He scrambled for a way to deflect the idea.
“I cannot wrestle, my lord,” he apologized. “The pain in my leg prevents me from doing so, I am afraid.”
While a wash of relief flitted through Henry’s expression, the king continued to press the idea. “I am already familiar with your skills at the hunt. Casting the barre might prove interesting, don’t you think?”
Jakob sighed. “Yes, your Grace.”
Henry clapped his hands together. “Then we shall do so soon.”
Jakob changed the subject again, hoping Henry would let go of that unsavory bone. “Did our arrangement this afternoon transpire as you hoped, my lord?”
Henry grunted a little. “It did. Yes.”
“And so I will ride in the carriage again?” Jakob wondered if he might bring a book to read the next time. Surely there were interesting volumes somewhere in the Tower.
The king shook his head. “We shall have you appear in a variety of circumstances, so as not to draw suspicion.”
Jakob straightened in his seat. “What sort of circumstances?”
Henry’s brow puckered in thought. “I shall discuss different ideas with Suffolk. Brandon is quite clever. But perhaps a small hunting expedition on the edge of the city will be next.”
“I shall ride your horse?” The thought of not riding Warrior made Jakob a little apprehensive. His stallion knew his signals and responded quickly. Guiding Henry’s horse would require more pressure from his leg, and tire him that much more quickly.
Henry nodded slowly. “Well, you couldn’t ride that destrier of yours. He is much too noticeable.”
Jakob tried to keep his concerns from his tone. “I understand.”
“I’m glad, Hansen.” Henry folded his arms over his chest. “I do believe this will be an excellent arrangement.”
“As long as you do not leave the queen’s side too often,” Jakob risked warning the king. “If she is… mistenkte? Suspectum?”
“Suspecting?” Henry offered, his head tilting.
“Suspecting, yes.” Jakob forged onward, hoping he had not yet offended the capricious sovereign. “If she is suspecting, she might have you followed.”
Henry didn’t speak, but rubbed a finger along his lower lip.
Jakob bowed his head. “Of course, this is your decision, your Grace. I shall do as you ask.”
“You make a valid point, Hansen. I shall take it under consideration.�
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“Thank you, your majesty.”
The carriage swayed to a stop and Henry slid forward in his seat, preparing to disembark.
Jakob held up a hand. “May I say one more thing?”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”
“Speaking of stink, your Grace…”
“What?” Henry growled.
Jakob let his gaze fall respectfully to the carriage floor. “You will want to wash away Miss Blount’s perfume before you meet the queen.”
The cab door was pulled open by an unseen servant, but for a moment the king didn’t move. Jakob waited, eyes down and breath held, until the conveyance was jostled by Henry’s launching himself from the cab into the tented space.
“Come with me, your highness.” Brandon’s smooth tone made Jakob look up again.
Charles’ eyes glinted with curiosity. “I have seen to all of your comforts, and they are prepared in your chamber.”
Jakob stepped out of the cab and, with his shoulders squared and eyes focused forward, strode confidently toward the circular stone staircase.
Before he reached the steps, his pulse stuttered when he heard the driver tell the Duke of Suffolk, “The wheel was sawed through.”
Jakob forced himself not to look back, not to draw Brandon’s attention. And yet he had no recourse but to wonder if someone was deliberately trying to harm Henry.
And if so, what did that mean to him?
Chapter Twelve
Avery sat with Catherine in the queen’s outer chamber, gazing out the window. From this high up in the Tower, only the tops of London’s multitude of steep slate roofs and innumerable clay chimneys were visible under the pale blue and cloudless sky.
“I do hope Henry’s ride through the city goes well.” Catherine selected a slice of orange from a nearby tray.
“I’ve never known him to proclaim anything personally before,” Avery observed. “What makes this treaty so special?”
Catherine gave a languid wave. “He says that because the Order of the Golden Fleece is meeting in January, he wants to be certain that his friends and foes alike know how influential a king he is.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” Avery laid her ignored needlework in her lap. “If the citizens of London react with noticeable enthusiasm, the various ambassadors will be certain to let their sovereigns know.”
“I believe it was rather clever of him to think of it.” Catherine’s soft smile showed her affection for her younger husband. “Dare I say how happy I am, that I am queen with the second son?”
Avery laughed. “Be careful who you say that to, or someone might think you played a hand in Arthur’s early demise.”
Catherine made a face. “We were never alone long enough for me to have done anything to him. And I was only fifteen—what did I know of anything?”
“Even so, it is good that there were so many witnesses to his frail health before the wedding, and his illness afterwards.” Avery stared, unseeing, at her embroidery. “But in the end, it truly was Henry who was better suited to you.”
“Avery.” Catherine’s voice was but a whisper.
Avery shook her head. “Please don’t say anything, Cathy. I always experience your joys as if they were my own.”
“It is not fair.”
Avery raised her eyes to her friend’s. “Life is not fair. We both know that. But Heaven is my eternal hope. My blessed Father will not forsake me.”
Catherine frowned. “You are too young to speak of dying.”
“And I am too young to die.” Avery tilted her face toward Catherine. “But life is merely a blink, and Heaven is forever. Why should I not anticipate that happy future?”
The door to the queen’s chamber burst open. Henry strode in, his eyes bright and his cheeks ruddy.
“Ah my queen, here you are!” He closed the gap between them and knelt on one knee in front of her chair. “You look ravishing as ever, my love.”
Catherine laughed. “I trust your outing was successful, then, judging by your jovial mood?”
Henry pretended to be struck to his core by her words. “Can my mood not be raised to the rooftops simply by the proximity of your unmatched beauty?”
His exaggerated expression of sorrowful shock made Avery hide a smile behind her needlework’s canvas. The king could be quite the actor when he put his efforts in that direction.
Catherine laid a hand on Henry’s dampened head. “Forgive my thoughtlessness and rise, Sir Henry. Tell me of your triumph.”
Henry slid seamlessly into a chair, grinning as he did. “The people of England love me, so it seems. And my enemies shall hear of their affection and respect, and cower before me.”
“I wasn’t aware that King Francis had signed the treaty,” Avery said softly.
Henry gave an impatient swipe through the air in front of him. “I decided not to wait for France, but to force her hand.”
Catherine gazed brightly at her husband. “Once Francis hears of your triumphs, I’m sure his ambassador will be knocking at the Tower gate.”
“Thank you, my darling.” Henry grabbed her hand and kissed it. “And you are feeling well today?”
“Absolutely perfect.” Catherine blushed. “I imagine I can feel the child quickening already.”
Henry waved a finger at her. “It must not be your imagination. This boy will be strong. I know it.”
“May God make it so.” Catherine’s hand fell to her barely-bulging abdomen.
Avery watched her friend’s throat ripple as she swallowed. She wished there was something—anything—that she could do to assure Catherine another healthy birth.
Henry stood and kissed his wife’s forehead. “I must go now, and make plans for a competition in casting the barre.”
“A competition?” Catherine smiled and clapped her hands lightly. “That sounds quite entertaining.”
“And I recently discovered that in Norway, they call it throwing Thor’s hammer.” Henry walked toward the door. “I shall be interested to see how Hansen manages the challenge.”
Catherine’s gaze slid to the side and met Avery’s. “As are we, my lord.”
Avery rolled her eyes and turned her attention to her embroidery.
There was no way she wanted to let Catherine see how much the challenge intrigued her. Or to guess how her heart sped up at the idea of watching Jakob display his athletic abilities once more.
I wonder if he’ll win.
June 4, 1518
Avery sat next to Catherine under a colorful canvas awning sporting stripes in the Tudor colors of red, blue, and gold. The afternoon had cooled a bit when a haze of gauzy clouds tempered the sun, and Henry declared it the perfect occasion for a round of casting the barre.
Two hours later, the court was settled in a field on the outskirts of London at an estate called York Place, one which Henry was particularly fond of visiting.
“In truth, I believe my husband actually covets it,” Catherine had confided to her once, with a sly smile. “Perhaps one day it will be ours.”
The gathered nobility enjoyed cooled, watered wine along with sweetmeat pastries, and watched a dozen men—including the ever-attentive Percival Bethington—prepare to toss the heavy, hammer-like implements.
Avery tried not to stare at Jakob, but that was a hard task to achieve. The Nordic knight was the tallest man on the field, if only by an inch or two. In spite of the sporadic limp, he moved with an elegance so smooth, it could be set to music.
“Do you suppose he dances?”
Avery’s head swiveled to face Catherine, wondering for an instant if her friend could read minds. “Who?”
“Sir Hansen, of course.” The queen smiled knowingly. “You have not taken your eyes off him.”
Avery flipped her wrist, dismissing Catherine’s words. “He and I have agreed to be friends. We have also agreed that nothing more will be expected from our necessarily brief acquaintance.”
“Hmm.” The corners of Catherine’s e
yes pinched and her brow smoothed with her smile. “We shall see.”
Avery turned her attention back toward the field. Now that Catherine noticed the recipient of her attentions, there was no reason to pretend she was looking elsewhere.
Jakob picked up several of the barres by their wooden handles and hefted them in his hand. He was obviously looking for one with good balance; even Avery could discern that. He stepped away from the group of men and swung a few of them, and then tossed a few more, until a satisfied grin lifted his cheeks.
Henry strode toward the open-sided tent, carrying the Tudor-rose embellished barre he had selected. He stopped in front of Catherine, set the barre down, and removed his tunic and vest, which he laid on the seat beside hers.
As he rolled up his sleeves, he grinned at his wife. “Will you give me your favor today, my queen?”
Catherine laughed delightedly. “Of course, my king.”
She searched her clothing until she found a gold lace handkerchief. When she held it up triumphantly, Henry lifted the barre and extended the handle toward her.
“Tie it tightly, my love, so it rides the full length of the journey.”
“And such an impressive journey it shall be, of that I am quite certain,” Catherine assured her husband. “There you are, my love.”
Avery watched the sweet interplay and did not notice Jakob’s approach. His deep voice was so close that she jumped.
“May I have your favor, Lady Avery?”
Though Henry’s smile dimmed, Catherine looked as pleased as a weasel in a chicken coop. “Give him your handkerchief as well, Avery.”
Avery stuck her hand inside her skirt and withdrew the suggested item. “Here you are, Sir Hansen.”
His blue eyes twinkled. “Will you not you tie it on?”
With a sigh, Avery did as he requested. “I shall also tie it tightly, my lord. Who knows, but Thor himself may urge your hammer to victory.”
Henry’s mouth tightened at the jest. Jakob didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps, to care.