A Nordic Knight of the Golden Fleece: Jakob & Avery: Book 2 (The Hansen Series - Jakob & Avery)

by Kris Tualla

  Denys nodded and nudged Askel’s arm.

  Askel nodded as well, though his expression was far less confident.

  The majordomo clapped his hands and barked a name, prompting the hurried appearance of a footman whose purpose was apparently to claim the knights’ personal assistants and get them settled into the servants’ quarters. After brief introductions, the valets followed the footman through one of the opened doors on the ground level.

  Señor Esparza faced Jakob and Percival with the first smile he had yet deigned to bestow. “Please follow me, my lords.”

  He led the men up a beautiful painted-tile staircase, which curved to the second story of the building. A wrought-iron-and-pilaster railed balcony overlooked all four sides of the courtyard, and was littered with doorways leading to the public rooms of the palazzo: various drawing and sitting rooms, a library, a spacious ballroom, and a dining room large enough to accommodate four dozen guests.

  Jakob paused to make a quick assessment of the best way to protect the inhabitants of the home. Though there was no imminent danger that he could determine at the moment, he and Bethington were strangers in a very strange land. Caution and preparation were indispensable tools for any knight.

  Satisfied, he returned his attention to Señor Esparza’s tour of his new abode, wondering all the while when he would have the opportunity for a private chat with the Englishman.

  *****

  The third floor, which held the private apartments, was accessible by a wide interior staircase off an enclosed hallway which ran behind the public rooms—presumably for use by servants, and by residents or guests in inclement weather.

  Jakob’s rooms on the third floor were very spacious and comfortable. Shuttered windows, which looked over the street on one side, and the courtyard on the other, offered sea breezes a chance to scuttle through. Though the day was quite cool—and the clouds thickening—Jakob opened them wide, needing the freshening air to help clear his mind.

  As he did so, Askel arrived with the luggage. The younger man stepped around Jakob as he unpacked the satchels from the mules, as well the packets he and Jakob kept strapped behind their saddles.

  “Where do you want your armor, my lord?”

  Jakob turned away from the window. “Did you see her?”

  Askel blinked, chainmail spilling heavily over his arms. “The Lady Avery?”

  “It was her—was it not?” Jakob stepped toward him. “Tell me I was not mistaken.”

  Askel’s arms sagged and the mail chinged softly. “The widow bore a striking likeness, to be sure.”

  Jakob looked down at Askel’s burden, realizing what the man had asked him. “The armor? I do not care. Put things wherever you believe they should be put.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Askel dumped the chainmail back into the waiting chest. “Might you give me a hand, my lord?”

  Together, Jakob and Askel shoved the chest of armor into a corner too dark for any sort of useful industry.

  Jakob could not postpone his conversation any longer; he felt questions gnawing on him in the manner of a hungry dog with a marrow bone. “I am going to speak with Sir Percival.”

  The valet nodded and wiped his brow, though the room was of a comfortably cool temperature. “Yes, my lord.”

  Jakob paused at the door. “I do not know the customs for meals here. Might you and Denys ferret that out before the supper bell?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Jakob left Askel to his tasks and strode down the hall, making two turns before reaching Bethington’s apartment on the opposite side of the square structure. Percival’s rooms had the same configuration of windows as his own; clearly the assignment of quarters was intentional for the knights’ comfort.

  Jakob looked out the window which faced the courtyard. He could see Askel across the courtyard through the open shutters. “I suppose that if I have a message for you, I might send it across on an arrow.”

  Percival chuckled. “Give a shout of warning first, if you will.” He walked to the window. “I assume that is your chamber?”

  “Yes.” Jakob leaned out and looked down at the balcony extending outward one floor below. “The drop is about sixteen feet onto hard tile.”

  “I would not recommend it.” Percival grinned broadly. “Unless her husband is holding a breech-loader at close range, of course.”

  The Englishman’s jovial personality—which Jakob had found annoying at first—soon showed an amusing and quick wit.

  “Not to worry.” Jakob’s lips twisted. “Her husband is dead.”

  Percival motioned for Jakob to return to the outer room, leaving Denys alone to echo Askel’s assigned tasks.

  The Englishman lifted a decanter. “Claret?”

  Jakob had no idea how Percival procured the beverage, but was grateful for his ingenuity. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Bethington handed Jakob a full cup, and the men settled into two upholstered chairs amidst the detritus of the Englishman’s still-scattered possessions.

  Percival raised his glass. “First, to our new adventure. And our very comfortable surroundings.”

  Jakob could not argue with that—the house was large, beautifully appointed, and well-staffed. He nodded, and then took a healthy gulp of his wine, pausing a moment to appreciate the skill of the vintner.

  “And second…” Percival pinned Jakob’s gaze. “To discovering the mystery of the Ice Maiden.”

  Jakob snorted and drained his cup, then held his glass out in front of him, his unspoken request understood by his companion.

  Percival pushed himself to stand and brought the decanter to Jakob, who promptly refilled his own glass, and then set the decanter on the floor beside him.

  With a huff of appreciation, Percy returned to his own seat. “Let the discovery begin, then. We shall compare facts. What do you know about the lady—for certain, that is?”

  “For certain?” The question stung like lemon juice on a deep cut. “Nothing, as it appears.”

  Bethington’s gaze shifted to the window. “You do know her name.”

  “She is called Señora Averia Galaviz de Mendoza, Vizcondesa de Catalonya.” Jakob wagged his head. “She never was the Lady Avery Albergar of Toledo.”

  “She has known Catherine all her life—I can attest to that.” Percival sipped his wine. “So the queen was aware of the deception.”

  Jakob stared at the other knight. “And what was the point of such trickery?”

  “That depends on the circumstances.” Percy’s green eyes met his. “Why would a noble woman wish to hide her identity?”

  “Why would a noble woman wish to hide?” Jakob countered. “If she walks the street openly, she is not hiding because of the commission of any sort of crime.”

  Bethington’s brows pulled together. “Avery is not the sort of woman to commit a crime. She is far too pious.”

  Jakob dipped his chin. “Agreed. Perhaps there was something connected to her first husband.”

  Percival nearly dropped his cup. “She was married before?”

  That was surprising. “Did you not know?”

  “No one at court knew!” Percival set his wine down before he spilled it, his hand twitching with surprise. “Everyone assumed she was a spinster.”

  Jakob fell back in his chair. The idea that such a beautiful and refined noblewoman had never been married to anyone was incomprehensible to him. He was certainly not surprised when she told him—she was thirty-four years old, after all, and not in any way naïve.

  “So why would a woman change her name to hide the fact she was married?” he probed.

  “Well, if it was not a crime, the next thing that comes to mind is debt.” Percy rubbed his chin. “Perhaps she did so to protect her own income.”

  “Her husband ran up so many accounts before he died, that she would have been left destitute?” Jakob narrowed his eyes. “So she escapes to the safety—and anonymity—of the Tudor court, with her finances intact.”

  “That is v
ery possible,” Bethington confirmed.

  Jakob took another gulp of his wine, pondering the plausible likelihood of that scenario. “She most likely never lived in Toledo.”

  Percy lifted his wine glass and watched it to assure that hand was steady once again. “That would my guess.”

  Jakob slapped a palm against his forehead. “My Lord—I only now realized!”

  Bethington startled and turned rounded eyes to Jakob. “What?”

  “Albergar.”

  “Yes?”

  “The word is Spanish for ‘harbor’ or ‘shelter’…” Jakob pinned Percy’s gaze. “To offer refuge.”

  The Englishman coughed a laugh. “The clue was there all along, was it not? Only no one put it together.”

  “No. They did not.” Jakob finished his wine and refilled his glass once again.

  “And so our best guess is that the Lady Avery—I still want to call her that,” he interjected apologetically.

  Jakob nodded; he would never call her anything else.

  Percy continued, “The Lady Avery was hiding under an adopted identity in Catherine’s service, because of some unsavory circumstance in her past.”

  “And the queen knew it.” Jakob pointed at Bethington with his filled glass. “And Catherine supported her in that endeavor, because the lady was innocent.” I hope.

  “At least she was a victim, if not entirely inculpable herself,” Percy qualified. “And if her troubles were financial in nature, perhaps she married this time purely for wealth.”

  Jakob made an agreeable gesture, then returned to his wine. The question buzzing in his head was: what would he do now?

  “She did not see us today, I do not believe.” Bethington’s mouth quirked. “If she had, I do believe she would have reacted in some noticeable way.”

  “No. Her thoughts were otherwise occupied.” Jakob sucked a breath, punched by another obvious realization. “She knows well, however, that we will be residing in Barcelona for the duration of the Order.”

  Percy pulled his own gasp. “Do you believe she fears us finding her out?”

  Absolutely.

  And she will run again, as soon as she is able.

  Jakob emptied his glass and stood. “I am going to enquire as to her current residence.”

  Bethington stared up at him. “What will you do then?”

  Jakob straightened his travel-weary tunic. “For now, I will find the house, and see what sorts of occurrences are taking place there.”

  The Englishman watched him carefully.

  “And then on the morrow I shall pay the lady a visit, and find out for myself what sort of ruse she might be hiding behind now—and why.”

  *****

  The address of the newly-deceased Count Mendoza’s palazzo was easily discovered. The regal home was located very nearby, in a slightly more elegant section of the same general neighborhood as their leased house. Jakob, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low and his golden hair tucked out of sight, strolled past the house, hoping to surreptitiously discover whatever he could from a safe distance.

  The gates to the courtyard were open. Well-dressed noblemen and noblewomen entered and departed in a steady stream of mourners, presumably offering their condolences over a rich buffet, which Jakob could smell from the street. By common tradition, the somber reception would continue all evening. His belly rumbled the reminder that he had not yet eaten.

  Jakob was sorely tempted to walk in straightaway and observe the look on Avery’s face when he did so; but he resolutely shoved the lure aside. He had a better plan in mind.

  On the morrow, he would bathe, shave, and don his finest tunic. Riding into her courtyard on Warrior—unnecessary for the distance, but very necessary for the appropriate impact—he would demand to see the Lady Averia Galaviz de Mendoza. And he would not leave until he did so.

  Jakob remained on the street until darkness made the faces of the guests incomprehensible. Then he sauntered back to his new home, and his own supper.

  Chapter Three

  November 20, 1518

  Avery suffered through three exceptionally horrible days. Considering the unpleasantness of which these last four months had been comprised, the unflattering designation was indeed impressive.

  Thankfully this one was nearing its end.

  She rubbed her forehead, trying to ease the invisible iron band squeezing her skull and making it harder by the minute for her to remain coherent, much less gracious, to the stream of visitors offering condolences with one hand, and asking for payment or favors with the other.

  Though the possibility had niggled in the back of her mind—how could it not, once she saw Paolo’s condition?—she truly had no idea how bad her financial situation had become until this very week, when her husband’s death was mere days away, and his accountant and lawyer appeared at her door.

  During the nine years she spent hiding in the Tudor court as chief lady-in-waiting for Queen Catherine, Avery knew she would someday be summoned to return to Barcelona and deal with her husband’s death.

  Since Paolo had no heirs, she expected the process to be a simple one—and one which left her as a titled lady of means, able to fully claim independence for herself; independence which she had enjoyed in part at Catherine’s court in London.

  The nights she dressed as a man and snuck out of the Tower to gather information on Catherine’s behalf were exhilarating. To be freed from all constraints was a heady experience. Avery hoped Paolo’s wealth would free her permanently.

  That hope was dimming, and quickly, in the situation which was making itself depressingly clear.

  To compound her discomfiture, her elder brother arrived the day before Paolo died, come to ostensibly support her through this difficult time. Though Avery initially greeted him with gratitude, once she explained where she had been for nine years and why, his pointed questions about her finances betrayed a deeper and more insidious motive.

  While Reynaldo had inherited the Galaviz fortune and estate, he also married a woman with extravagant tastes. Carlotta Engracia Federico was an exceptionally beautifully woman, and she knew it.

  Avery believed that Carlotta agreed to marry Reynaldo mainly because he never truly believed she could love him. Men are easier to control if they are desperate. And they give expensive gifts—lots of them.

  “If he was sincerely concerned for my welfare, he would have left that grasping hornet at home in Segovia,” Avery muttered.

  Avery could not wait until Carlotta discovered what a horrid mess dear Paolo left behind, and wondered how quickly her sister-in-law would leave Barcelona once she did. Chances were also quite good that Reynaldo would head up the exodus.

  Avery made a spitting sound, and then crossed herself. I’ll not be praying you out of purgatory, husband.

  “My lady?” Paolo’s—now Avery’s—majordomo, Esteban, stood in the doorway, hands clasped respectfully across his waist. A darkly handsome man, he had been with the Mendoza family for the past fifteen years.

  Avery massaged her throbbing temples. “Yes?”

  “There is one more… gentleman… who wishes to speak to you.”

  She noted the hesitation in Esteban’s declaration. “What is his name?”

  Esteban shook his head. “He refuses to give it.”

  Avery waved an exhausted hand. “Please tell him to leave. And then serve my supper in my chambers.”

  The majordomo shifted uncomfortably. “I have asked him to leave. Repeatedly. And yet he remains.”

  Avery frowned. “How long has he been here?”

  “Since the ninth hour this morning.”

  “He has been waiting these past eight hours?” Avery shook her head, hoping to rattle a clear thought to the forefront. “How is his demeanor?”

  “Polite. Patient,” Esteban begrudgingly admitted. “And, staunchly determined.”

  “Determined?” Avery heaved a heavy sigh. The pounding in her head was growing worse, and now her stomach was beginning to protest
as well. “What shall I do, Esteban?”

  The man’s black brows pulled together. “If you do not see him today, he promises to return on the morrow, I am afraid.”

  “Oh, very well then.” Avery waved a limp hand toward her empty chalice. “Might you pour me some wine before you escort him in?”

  “Is it your head, my lady?” Esteban moved to fill the cup.

  “Head, neck, stomach, back. I feel as if I have been severely beaten and left for dead.” Avery accepted the cup and took a healthy draught of the sweetened red wine, flavored with slices of fruit. She felt it warm and sooth her belly, though the pain in her head banged on.

  “Bring in our mysterious man,” she instructed Esteban. “But do stay with me until I dismiss you, in the event he is neither as polite nor patient as he seems.”

  The majordomo bowed. “Very good, my lady.”

  *****

  Jakob sat alone in the hall, the last remainder of the day’s many visitors. One sympathetic caller after another had arrived and been promptly escorted into the drawing room for an audience with the newly widowed Vizcondesa Averia Galaviz de Mendoza—while he sat and waited.

  He was not surprised by this, since he refused to give either his name or the nature of his business with the vizcondesa. Jakob was afraid that if Avery knew it was he who waited to see her, she would have him thrown out of the house.

  That situation which would have necessitated brute force and, determined as he might be, he did not wish to make any sort of unpleasant public scene.

  She might have guessed it was he in any case. But until he saw her, he would not leave willingly.

  The majordomo appeared in front of him. “The Vizcondesa will see you now.”

  Jakob rose to his feet, his right thigh gone painfully stiff and strongly objecting to the movement. He straightened and refused to rub the aching limb. “Thank you.”

  After a staunched flicker of surprise at the Norseman’s height, the majordomo’s regard of Jakob intensified. “I am to remain with her for her protection, at her request.”