A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

  People who looked at his simple, understated clothing and knew of his low birth were making a mistake by dismissing him. Cromwell was no stranger to slitting the occasional throat, as he was a former mercenary. (And, even more intimidating, a lawyer.)

  “Her friend has strayed—the young woman you helped into custody.”

  Helped into custody? Dammit. Everything just got harder. My consternation must have shown, because Cromwell was quick to add, “She was attracting rather a lot of attention and I feared for her safety, particularly as she was next to naked.” He lowered his voice. “With all respect to your companion, she seems quite out of her mind.”

  I jumped in with, “She’ll be all right once I get her back to her family. May I see her?”

  Cromwell had tilted his head to the side. “Forgive me, my lady—your accent. Might I ask where you’re from?”

  Careful. He’s been around. So don’t say France. Don’t say Italy. Don’t say Belgium. Best not to say anything, really, but that might not be an option.

  While I cast about for a convincing lie and considered faking a well-timed swoon, Thomas (the one whose arm I had, not the Thomas who was looking me over) teased, “For shame, my lord. Did your father not teach you it’s rude to put a lady on the spot?”

  This elicited a snort. “He was a blacksmith. Somehow he never broached the subject.”

  Thomas laughed, a cheerful sound that got a small smile out of Cromwell. Laughing with, not at, was a valuable social skill in any century. “This is why the lords do not care for you, Cromwell. You refuse to be ashamed of your low beginnings.”

  “That is not why they don’t care for me, Thomas, but I thank you all the same.” He turned to me and inclined his head. “I withdraw the question, my lady, and will shoe your horse to make amends.”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “For the sake of my late wife, if nothing else, because she despaired of me learning to be a gentle.”

  Oh.

  I cleared my throat. “I was sorry to hear about your family.”

  There was a beat, and then dark brows arched. “And?”

  “Er.” Was he waiting for the 16th century equivalent of a Hallmark card? What would that even be? A letter? A bard?

  “Nothing about God’s mysterious ways?” The tone was sardonic, but I didn’t sense any malice. Just weariness. “Or how women are plentiful, and children easily brought forth?”

  People say that to him? No big deal, just grow a new kid with a new wife. Problem solved. “I don’t care for platitudes. And words don’t change anything. Especially a stranger’s words. We say ‘I am sorry’ when we break a glass and when someone’s child dies. Sometimes it’s just noise, no matter what the intentions are.”

  Now both Thomases were gaping at me. This had not been a good time to expound on my ‘why saying I’m sorry is inadequate’ philosophy. Well, I had a good run. Cannot complain. Burning stake, here I come.

  “Too true,” Cromwell said, and smiled. The expression transformed him. He didn’t look like a man who would have the power of life and death over scores once Wolsey died of disgrace. He looked like a grieving family man who occasionally found something to smile about. Whose grief was still fresh enough that he was surprised each time it happened. “And far be it from me to keep you from your friend.” He glanced around, and a shorter, younger man with reddish-brown hair and a red beard was at his side in half a second. There was a brief murmured conversation that I missed because Wolsey’s bastard chose that moment to lean in and whisper, “He likes you.”

  “I am terrified,” I hissed back.

  He chuckled, as if I’d made a joke. “You? Ha.”

  “Oh, excuse me? We’ve met twice.”

  The whispering over, the young man who’d been at Cromwell’s side (I found out later it was his ward and secretary, Ralph Sadler) left as quickly as he’d appeared. Even better, Cromwell was still smiling. “My assistant is bringing her around to the west entrance, and we have found her appropriate clothing.”

  “We’ll make sure to get it back to you,” I lied.

  Cromwell waved that away, thank goodness. “She is obviously unwell, so I thought you might like to remove her from the public gaze in what little privacy I can provide.” He made a gesture encompassing the gallery filled with gossipers, a sort of ‘see what a madhouse this is?’ shrug.

  “Thank you,” I replied, and I’d never meant those two words more. “And now I’m forced to admit that at least half the things I’ve heard about you might be false.”

  “And might not,” he replied, earning a snort from Thomas. “It was a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

  Friendly. Efficient. Helpful. Not unattractive. I might kiss Thomas Cromwell. “You, too.”

  With that, Cromwell took his leave, doubtless scurrying off to his next intrigue. I let my breath out in a gasp hard enough to make me sway on my feet a little. “I did not expect that.”

  “He has a terrible reputation,” Thomas acknowledged, steadying me with a shy hand. “One based on fear, not familiarity. Anyone who has spent more than an hour at Austin Friars would see how kind he is. Even now, after …”

  “Well, it was a pleasant surprise.” By now I realized we had been doing the Sorkin walk-and-talk, because we’d gotten to the end of the gallery and were just a few feet away from where the court had settled in to dine. I had a good view of the king and queen as we worked our way past, and despite our urgency I almost stopped.

  I hadn’t noticed before; I’d been focused on avoiding attention and mentally cheering on the queen. But now I had the chance to take a hard look and was shocked by the changes in both of them in nine years. She looked twenty years older than she had at the Field of the Cloth of Bullshit, and Henry looked twenty pounds heavier. The king’s enmity and impatience was plain for anyone to see—when he wasn’t stuffing his maw he was openly glaring at her—as was her pain and pride as she stared at her plate.

  I wanted to tell her to cheer up, which would have been as useful as telling Cromwell the Lord worked in mysterious ways when He casually murdered most of the Cromwell family with The Sweat. I wanted to tell her it would all be worth it in the end, but that would have been a lie, too.

  And I wanted to tell her that she had plenty of people on her side, but in the end, she was her own best advocate, the one person who never wavered or faltered or second-guessed herself. She was the queen, Henry’s wife, Mary’s mother, Isabella’s daughter, Charles’ aunt. Those things were always going to be true. And nothing anyone said could un-do any of it.

  Though her shitbird spouse would cleave the country in half trying.

  Speaking of the Royal Shitbird, he had been so busy sulking he wasn’t paying attention to what he was eating, because he dropped his knife, which hit the gold plate with a clatter, and clutched his throat.

  All right. Nothing to sweat over … in fact, a perfect time to flee. We were almost out. The dentist was nigh. I had no desire to push my luck more than I had.

  Okay, yes, Henry was turning red(der), and couldn’t make a sound, and he was pounding one fist on the table so hard the cups were dancing, but Henry VIII doesn’t—didn’t—die in 1529.

  So it was time to go.

  Even though he was turning purple.

  He wouldn’t die for years.

  His eyes were rolling back.

  But, again: he wouldn’t die until his son—who hasn’t been born yet—was nine. A long time from now.

  He doesn’t even have the strength to pound the table …

  “Dear God,” Thomas breathed, which was an accurate read of the room. No one seemed to know what to do. Touching the king without permission was against the law, and everyone knew how paranoid this monarch was getting. No one wanted to reach for him and be accused of poisoning the royal gullet. No one wanted to pound the royal backfat and risk
being charged with assault, either. Then there was the man’s ego—even if you saved him, he might be embarrassed to have received help in public, and make the savior pay for it.

  Even the queen could only sit, clutching a rosary and—guessing by her moving lips—praying. For him to be saved, poor noble idiot.

  If he goes down, that’s it.

  He won’t. He isn’t supposed to die today.

  Well, he is dying.

  “Dammit!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Move. Move.” I shoved my way past too many courtiers and was at Henry’s side in seconds. I seized him by the lapels and respectfully shouted into his florid face, “Up! Up!” He heaved himself to his feet as best he could and I clawed at his doublet—the thing was stiff and padded and there wasn’t a chance in Hell of getting my arms around Henry and all his layers. I got the thing open, somehow wrestled it off him, got him turned around, and hoped

  “Guards!”

  “What is she—”

  “Please, somebody has to—”

  I wasn’t about to get jabbed in the kidney with someone’s partisan. I could hear people shouting but all my focus was on Hank the Tank.

  I got my arms around him, made the universal symbol for hitchhiking, and jabbed my thumb, hard, to put pressure on his diaphragm.

  Nothing.

  I did it again, harder, with both fists, like I was trying to lift him up. I had a decent adrenaline high by then, because it worked—I managed to lever the king off his feet. Unfortunately, as I was now off balance, I couldn’t stay on my feet and we (timberrrrr!) crashed to the floor.

  It made no sense, but the shock when we hit dislodged the turkey leg or foot-long baguette or whatever he’d been inhaling. A wad of food shot straight up and out of his mouth and I heard it hit the floor with a wet thud.

  I tried to take a breath while wriggling, pinned beneath him like a butterfly to a board, but I couldn’t move and suddenly it was night, which made no sense, and I was falling asleep, which made less sense. It was too early to sleep. I wasn’t even tired.

  I think

  I might be

  in trouble …

  Chapter Fifteen

  Just a quick sidebar: five hundred years from now, I.T.C.H. impressed upon me four unbreakable rules:

  1)Do not draw attention to yourself.

  2)Leave nothing behind.

  3)Tell no one in the past about the future.

  4)No, really, do not draw attention to yourself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Ah! She has come back to us, praise God.”

  I cracked an eye open and observed Henry Tudor, whose color was significantly better than it had been a few seconds ago. Still, big trouble. Remember when I said Thomas Cromwell was the second worst person I could have run into? The first worst was holding my hand and beaming down at me.

  “I—must have—” Been squashed like a bug. Been flattened like a pancake. “Swooned?”

  “Small wonder in your terror for my life!”

  Yes, that was definitely it.

  “Do you think you could rise?”

  That from Thomas, who was down on one knee across from Henry Tudor. His expression was pinched with anxiety, his eyes very wide.

  “I—of course.” I demonstrated, sitting up like Frankenstein’s monster coming to life on the slab, and heard a chorus of relieved sighs. Lovely. I had the full attention of the room. I.T.C.H. was going to be pissed. (Angry. Not drunk.) And that was assuming I talked my way out of this and made it back. “Don’t fuss. Everything’s fine.”

  “Lass, I can barely understand you.” Which was fair. I had discovered that people in the 16th century spoke recognizable English for the most part—context helped more than anything—though the usage and pronunciation would give any time traveler pause. But the more I heard it, the easier it was understood. I hoped the reverse was true. “Did you perhaps hit your head?”

  “Your Grace, forgive my interruption … Lady Joan is a friend, but not from here.” Which was both an overstatement (we’ve met twice, Thomas) and an understatement. (Cross the ocean, then cross the continent to the halfway point and wait five hundred years. That’s where I’m from.)

  “That explains the dreadful gown and hair,” someone tittered, and I wish I.T.C.H would have warned me that the 16th century was a lot like high school. And how dare anyone disparage my ill-fitting wig?

  “Her accent is charming, but takes getting used to.”

  “Most charming,” Henry agreed warmly. “How did you do it, my lady? Dislodge the obstruction?” He let go of my hand and prodded at his stomach. “Oh, we shall be sore tonight! I’ve taken hits in the ring that were less painful.” The court tittered dutifully while I focused on not rolling my eyes. “And you’ve torn a button from my jacket. But worth it and more, don’t you agree, Catherine?”

  For the first time, I realized the queen was holding back most of the lookey-loos, who were craning to see around her. One woman in particular, a tall brunette who looked entirely too smug—probably the bitchy wig disparager—was doing her best to get an eyeful. Queen Catherine let them have one more admonishing glare, then came and ponderously knelt beside the king and Wolsey’s bastard.

  Wolsey! I looked around but couldn’t see him, thank goodness. The cardinal had likely decided after the queen’s speech that it was a good time to get scarce, which was more than fine since the last thing I wanted to do was get Thomas into trouble.

  “Indeed, yes,” Catherine said. Her smile took five years off her face, which was just sad. Even though his death would have simplified matters, she couldn’t ill-wish him. “With your permission, my lord king, I thought the lady could rest in my chambers.”

  “I can’t!” I cried before I could think better of it. “I have to—” Leap through a slash in time to head for the 21st century and charge my phone. No, no. “My friend. The crazy one. I mean, the one touched in the head. I have to take her home. I gave my word.” Also: $$$$$! Wait, technically that would be £££££. “I’m sorry but I have to go.” I was sorry, by the way, but more because I was forced to defy them than actual sorrow at taking my leave. Because if they weren’t inclined to let me go, I was bound to be a lot sorrier.

  The monarchs watched me carefully while I garbled nonsense. “I think,” Henry began, “she declares she must leave us. And what a shame it is. But perhaps we should meet your friend. Does she require a physician?”

  Thomas must have read some of my panic, because he broke in with, “The lady Joan has holy visions.”

  I do?

  “She does?”

  “I believe angels guide her actions,” he said, so earnest it was adorable. “We met at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, many years back, and I thought she was dazzled by the sun—”

  No, just mourning the loss of my Coke.

  “—but she was having a vision. She predicted that England and France would be back at war within three years, and that the Holy Roman Emperor would break his engagement to Her Highness the Princess Mary.”

  “That is astonishing!” Henry exclaimed, and the queen crossed herself.

  “So if she believes the angels want her to bring her friend home as soon as possible …” Thomas trailed off, doubtless because he didn’t want to tell a king with absolute power what to do. Especially this king. Also, Thomas Wynter was a card-carrying genius.

  “Oh, of course, of course.” The king was still smiling at me, his pleasant expression perfectly visible through the reddish beard, and his small blue eyes were merry. “Far be it from me to thwart the will of the angels”

  Ha! Let’s hear you say that three years from now.

  “But could you tell me how you managed to do—whatever it was that you did? I confess to much curiosity about your method.”

  Well, I definitely didn’t use a technique invented by
Henry Heimlich in the 1970s. If that’s what you were wondering.

  “I—” I realized that thanks to Thomas’ off-the-cuff excuse, I had the perfect out. “I don’t know what I did. The angels told me you had to live.”

  “Of course.” His Royal Ego nodded.

  “They—they guided me. And the next thing I knew, I was on the floor and you were holding my hand.”

  I was half afraid Henry would laugh, then declare me a witch and find a random blacksmith to strangle me, Cromwell perhaps, then bury me at a crossroad. But far from laughing, he seemed awed and even grateful. “I shall thank your angels in my prayers, Lady Joan,” he promised. “And you as well.”

  “As will we all,” the queen added.

  “Perhaps not all.” I couldn’t see the source, but I was guessing it was the bitchy brunette who wig-shamed me. Could it be Anne Boleyn? I was dying to get a better look.

  Don’t you think you’ve pushed your luck enough?

  “When you have done their bidding, you will return to court.” And though the king’s tone was warm, it wasn’t a request. “We would hear more about your gift and your home.”

  “I will return to tell you all about it,” I lied.

  Wait. What if it wasn’t a lie? What if the king and I crossed paths again? Here was an unprecedented opportunity to foster good will for the future. Too bad it meant breaking an I.T.C.H. rule (again).

  But I.T.C.H. wasn’t here. None of them were here, and it sounded as if none of them would ever be. It was my neck in the noose, every time.

  So then. Just in case.

  “Your Majesty, before I leave to do their bidding, the angels want me to tell you a secret.” I looked around the small crowd. “Just you. Could we please …?”

  The Tudor’s beady blue eyes widened and he helped me to my feet, then led me to a small alcove a good ten feet away from anyone else.

  This is a genius move. Or the move that gets me killed. Either way, get on with it. I leaned in, took a breath, was pleasantly surprised to find the king didn’t stink, and whispered in his ear.