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

  Also By Kris Tualla:

  Medieval:

  Loving the Norseman

  Loving the Knight

  In the Norseman’s House

  Renaissance:

  A Nordic Knight in Henry’s Court

  A Nordic Knight of the Golden Fleece

  A Nordic Knight and his Spanish Wife

  18th Century:

  A Discreet Gentleman of Discovery

  A Discreet Gentleman of Matrimony

  A Discreet Gentleman of Consequence

  A Discreet Gentleman of Intrigue

  A Discreet Gentleman of Mystery

  and

  Leaving Norway

  Finding Sovereignty

  Regency:

  A Woman of Choice

  A Prince of Norway

  A Matter of Principle

  Contemporary:

  An Unexpected Viking

  A Restored Viking

  A Modern Viking

  *****

  For Aspiring Authors:

  A Primer for Beginning Authors

  Becoming an Authorpreneur

  A Nordic Knight

  in

  Henry’s Court

  Kris Tualla

  A Nordic Knight in Henry’s Court is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  © 2015 by Kris Tualla

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.

  ISBN-13: 978-1501047367

  ISBN-10: 1501047361

  This book is dedicated to the characters

  who spring to life in my mind,

  and tell me about their lives,

  badgering me until I get them right.

  They make me laugh,

  and they make me cry.

  And they make me fall in love

  all over again.

  Chapter One

  April 13, 1518

  København, Denmark

  “Spain? Why are you sending me to Spain?” Jakob Hansen demanded, adding a hasty, “Your highness.”

  King Christian glared at the knight, obviously marking Jakob’s unenthusiastic reaction. “The Order of the Golden Fleece. Have you heard of it?”

  Jakob shifted his stance to take weight off his aching leg. “No, your Grace. I have not.”

  “It is an elite order, made up of various sovereigns, knights, and noblemen from the whole of Europe.” The king looked down and adjusted his ermine-trimmed tunic. “I have decided to become a member.”

  When Christian met his gaze once more, Jakob gave a nod of understanding. “And you wish me to accompany you to the gathering for your safety.”

  Christian snorted his disgust. “No, you nitwit. I am sending you in my stead.”

  “In your stead?” Jakob scowled. “Is that acceptable?”

  “Of course it’s acceptable. Kings cannot be expected to abandon their thrones and their many responsibilities to meet in some stuffy cathedral for months on end.” Christian flipped a jeweled and dismissive hand. “They send their most trusted knights, of course.”

  The king’s unanticipated compliment was admittedly satisfying. Even so, it didn’t make the prospect of the months-long journey any more palatable.

  Jakob struggled to keep his irritation concealed. “When am I expected?”

  “You will leave in seven days. Along the way, I want you to visit Henry in England on my behalf. I neglected to make a fuss over the live birth of his daughter, Mary.” Christian squinted and stared at nothing. “I believe she has just passed her second birthday.”

  If he to be banished from the king’s court and sent on this unknown task, at least the prospect of visiting King Henry the Eighth should prove interesting. The young sovereign’s reputation as a skilled negotiator had reached Christian’s court, as had rumors of a far reaching treaty.

  Jakob dipped his chin in acquiescence. “And how long shall I be absent from your service, your Grace?”

  Christian’s piercing glance shot back to his. “Make no mistake, Hansen. Your will be in my service the entire time you are away. You are to strive on my behalf at all times, do you understand?”

  Jakob rocked back on his heels. “Of course, my lord.”

  Christian’s brow puckered in the way it always did when the Danish king was about to impart unpleasant news. “The Order will convene on January first, in Barcelona Cathedral.”

  “Eight months?” Jakob blurted. “I must leave next week to assume a position that is yet eight months distant?”

  “I intend for you to make Henry a strong ally while you spend time in his court.” Christian shrugged. “Charm the man. Charm the queen. Act as though Mary is the most beautiful baby ever born. Do what you must to make him a friend of Denmark.”

  “Do not forget Norway,” Jakob grumbled.

  One corner of Christian’s mouth curled. “You will never allow me to.”

  Jakob dipped his chin again, but kept his gaze fixed on his king. “We Norsemen are your loyal subjects as well, your Grace.”

  The king quirked one irritated brow. “You will travel while the weather is pleasant and stay in England as long as you must—just be certain you arrive in Barcelona well before Christmas. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Jakob shifted his weight once again; rocking back on his heels was not a wise move and now his thigh throbbed. “Am I expected to return next spring then?”

  The king’s gaze darkened. “I expect you to stay as long as is needed, and return when the task is finished.”

  Jakob’s jaw clenched. He never sat well with vague answers, and Christian was dancing all around this one. The idea that his sovereign had no idea how long Jakob would be gone grew like a black thundercloud over his already precarious mood.

  “I assume your Latin is fluent. How is your English?”

  Jakob pulled his attention to the sudden question. “It will be passable, I am certain.” He shrugged. “Languages have always come easily to me. With a little practice, I shall be able to communicate.”

  Christian nodded and his demeanor eased. “It seems I have selected the right man for this task.”

  Jakob blew a cautious sigh of disappointment. “Am I to spend my days as a diplomat now? No longer an active defender of the throne?”

  Christian pointed an accusing finger in Jakob’s direction. “Clearly, your leg pains you now, even more than before.”

  Jakob felt his cheeks heating. He glanced away briefly in the face of that uncomfortable truth, and then returned his determined consideration to Christian.

  The king leaned forward, his stare intense. “Besides that, you are the only man I trust. These are my orders, Hansen. Do you think to disobey me?”

  “No, your Grace, I am sworn to serve you. As always, I am pleased to do so.” Jakob bowed, hiding his disappointed expression from his king.

  *****

  Jakob strode into his chambers with such ferocity that Askel, his younger valet, jumped to his feet, his chair clattering backwards.

  “M-my lord?” he stammered, his eyes wide and worried. “How may I serve you?”

  Jakob began to tug at the but
tons on his tunic. “Help me out of this damned thing, and then fetch me hot water and towels.”

  Askel’s nimble fingers loosened the fastenings much more rapidly than Jakob’s irritation-fueled attempts. “Is it your leg, my lord? Do you wish for me to get the medicine?”

  Just a mention of the opiate calmed Jakob’s mood. “No. It’s too early in the day, yet. I shall use the heat for now.”

  “Very well, sir.” Askel helped Jakob out of the heavily embroidered velvet tunic. “Will you sit by the fire?”

  Jakob shook his head. “The afternoon is pleasant. I shall sit by the window and allow the sun to sooth my hackles.”

  Askel’s curious glance would go unsatisfied for the moment. Jakob watched the lanky red-head fold the tunic over a chair.

  “How long have you been with me now?” he asked, though he knew the answer well. Askel entered his service soon after the fire.

  “Seven years. It was just before my twenty-first birthday.”

  Jakob stroked his smoothly shaven chin. “And how have you found the experience? Be honest.”

  Askel straightened and faced him. “You have always been fair, my lord.”

  “Do you wish to continue in my service?”

  The younger man’s face flushed brighter than his hair. “Have I not done well for you?”

  “You have done very well, Askel,” Jakob assured him. “But the king has asked me to take on a rather burdensome task, one which requires me to leave Denmark for the next year of my life.”

  Askel frowned. “Are you wondering if I am able to assist you?”

  “No.” Jakob hesitated; the question he was about to speak was an unusual one for any servant to be asked. “I am wondering if you would still be willing to assist me, under the circumstances.”

  Confusion stripped away Askel’s normal decorum. He strode across the chamber to reach Jakob’s sunny spot by the window and stared down at the seated knight. “Are you giving me the choice to leave?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Where would I go?”

  Jakob shrugged. “That is up to you.”

  Askel scuttled his fingers through his hair, making it flare like a copper flame. “After all I have learned in your service, I do not wish to go back home.”

  “And I do not wish for you to do so. I trust you. You know what I need, and you serve me well.”

  Askel met Jakob’s gaze. “Then I should like to stay, my lord. I do not care what the task is, or how long it lasts. Becoming your valet has proved a better opportunity than I ever expected might come my way.”

  Jakob smiled. “Your father’s debts did well for you.” As did mine, as it turned out.

  Askel nodded shyly. “Yes, my lord. Who would have expected that?”

  Jakob extended his hand. “It is done then.”

  After a moment’s pause, Askel shook it firmly. “I shall not let you down, sir.”

  Jakob nodded solemnly. “I am certain of that. Now get my hot compresses, will you?”

  As the younger man strode toward the door in his quest for the hot water and towels, Jakob called out to him one last time. “Have you ever been on a ship?”

  *****

  Jakob lay on his mattress that night, searching in vain for sleep. It wasn’t only his aching thigh that kept him awake—a condition exacerbated by his unwillingness to take opium too frequently for relief—but his curiosity about his near future. Traveling to England and then on to Spain were intriguing prospects indeed, despite the long weeks he would spend on various ships to get there.

  Though he had spent his life living on the water’s edge, Jakob was never an easy sailor. At age seventeen, his first ship’s voyage carried him from his home in Arendal, Norway, to København, Denmark. He puked over the railing at least twice a day for the entire ten days, though evacuating his stomach never eased his gut, nor made him feel less miserable.

  Jakob groaned and rolled onto his belly, pressing his leg against the warm spot on the mattress. The tar-like opium tablets rested in a corked pot on a nearby table, their temptation slithering across the dim and dusky room.

  On the one hand, they promised relief, sleep, and vivid dreams.

  On the other, they held a dark power of seduction, suggesting that he go into that pleasant state much more often than was wise.

  With a grunt of frustration, Jakob turned on his back and considered giving up on sleep for now. He could abandon his bed for his desk, and write a letter to his family at Hansen Hall in Arendal, telling them about his upcoming journey.

  That idea prompted the same reaction in Jakob that always accompanied the creation of his unanswered missives: what did his family think of him after these fifteen years of separation?

  His father, a businessman always on the edge of either great wealth or equally great disaster, got himself into a bit of trouble when Jakob was in his teen years. An epically failed venture, combined with borrowed funds, prompted an agreement with King John, the previous king of Norway and Denmark. The agreement forgave the debt in exchange for the lifetime service of one Hansen son.

  As second born, Jakob was expected to go into the priesthood, in spite of his intransigent temperament. He begged to be the one sent to København—exchanging places with his younger brother Saxby—declaiming that he wasn’t at all suited for church life and would be a disaster as a priest.

  Though the gentle-minded Saxby was in staunch agreement with Jakob’s suggestion, the familial argument lasted over a month—until the frustrated Jakob packed up his belongings and left in the middle of an autumn night without his father’s permission. He boarded a trade ship before dawn, arriving at København Castle in Denmark with a forged letter of commitment.

  Granted, part of his physical misery on the voyage was probably founded in his blatant defiance of his father’s decision. Added to that, was the uncertainty of whether he would ever see his family again. What seemed like a noble gesture in the light of day, felt like pure foolishness in the dark hold of a swaying ship.

  But the die had been cast. And Jakob was not about to go crawling back, tail tucked between his legs.

  Once he arrived in København, Jakob successfully entered the service of King John. John assigned Jakob to the service of his eldest son, Christian. At twenty-one years, the prince was only four years older than Jakob; but he already swung his power with a mighty hand. Even so, the young men formed a bond. And as Jakob’s skills grew, so did Christian’s respect for his knight.

  Only when the king’s letter releasing his father from the debt arrived at Hansen Hall could his family know for certain what had transpired. By then, it was too late to go back on their apparent word.

  Jakob sat up in bed and swung his feet to the floor.

  His life as a knight had been, for the most part, a very good one; other than the tragedies which scarred him, of course. He found deep satisfaction in his service to the royal family. And he certainly lived well, never wanting for anything.

  “Either I get up and write the letter, or I take the medicine,” he said to the silent room. “Which shall it be?”

  The corked pot beckoned.

  Jakob closed his eyes and pulled a long, deep, sigh. Some nights, his leg hurt more than others. With tonight’s mild spring breeze freshening his chamber, the pain was not so bad as in the winter’s damp darkness.

  “The letter, then.”

  He rose to his feet and walked naked across the room toward his broad desk. He lit the oil lamp before settling himself on the heavy wooden chair. After sharpening a quill, he opened the pot of India ink and faced a blank sheet of paper.

  Dear Father, he wrote. Greetings from your son, Jakob, in service to our King…

  April 19, 1518

  “Askel, have you polished my armor?” Jakob surveyed the crates, trunks, and satchels crowding the floor of his chamber.

  “Yes, my lord.” The valet pointed at a trunk. “All of your armor, leathers, and chainmail are in there.”

  Jakob nodd
ed. “Good. I hear Henry is quite the sportsman, and presses his guests into displays of prowess against himself.”

  Askel was clearly horrified by the idea. “Against a king?”

  Jakob snorted. “He’s young yet, only twenty-seven. Five years younger than me.”

  “Must you let him win?”

  “I suppose that would be wise.” Jakob rasped a palm over his stubbled chin. “I believe we shall forgo shaving on the ship. The motion of the waves is constant and unpredictable—and I’ve grown fond of my neck.”

  Askel’s features twisted uncertainly. “Is ship travel that rough?”

  “It can be.” Jakob held up a linen towel. “Pack plenty of these, in the event either of us has trouble with our bellies.”

  The valet pulled the towel from his grip. “Yes, my lord.”

  Jakob brushed his hands together. “I’m going to the stable and see to Warrior’s final preparations.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Jakob left his chamber and ran quickly down the stone steps to the ground floor of København Castle. It was still morning and his leg, though somewhat stiff as always, wasn’t aching yet.

  As he stepped into the courtyard, the sun washed over him, imparting an unexpected sense of well-being. For the first time since receiving the commission from Christian, Jakob felt as if he might successfully endure his new diplomatic role.

  He would certainly make the most of his new and unfamiliar surroundings, and the challenges of mastering both English and Spanish would keep his mind occupied—that in itself would be a blessing.

  Warrior stood patiently in his stall while being groomed. When the big, dark brown Friesian saw Jakob, he nickered and tossed his head, frustrating his attendant’s efforts at braiding the destrier’s long mane.

  “Sorry, Dag,” Jakob apologized to the groom. He entered the stall and offered a little green apple to the horse. “Is he nearly ready?”