A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

  “Yes. Which was your advice.”

  “And then you brought her back to the willow.”

  “Also your advice.”

  “Yes, one of our theories is that a tear in the—never mind.” Which should have been irritating, but really was more a time saver than anything else. I wasn’t going to get it. They knew I wasn’t going to get it. “And then you saw the transport window?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Dr. Inning couldn’t see it.”

  “Should I just read my report out loud to you? Would that be easier?” No response, and I reminded myself the sour-breathed geeks were exhausted. “That’s correct, the dentist couldn’t see it. I haven’t had a chance to think about what that means—if it even means anything, that’s your department—I just pulled her through. We got here just in time for us to not be noticed by any of you.” Hmm. I clearly had some unresolved issues about that. Something else to think about later.

  “And you did a great job!” This from the ever-enthusiastic Warren, who was like a nerdy Labrador. “When we finally solve this, I’d love to take you out for coffee.”

  “Not here, though.”

  “Ah. No.” Warren barely restrained a shudder. “Not here.”

  “Somewhere wonderful. High tea at Patisserie Valerie wonderful.” At his expression, I laughed. “I know. It’s like going to New York and wanting to see the Statue of Liberty. You see it all the time, so it’s not special to you. But that’s what I want.”

  “Fair enough.” He made a grand gesture like a pageant winner acknowledging the crowd. “All the tea shall be yours!”

  “Warren.”

  Whoa. The boss was not a fan of fraternizing in the workplace. “I didn’t mean right this minute,” I clarified. Although I wouldn’t have said no. And I might have asked that he shower first. “Obviously.”

  “Yeah,” Warren agreed. “Sorry, Ian.”

  “Hmph.” Dr. Grumpypants sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Thank you again for your help, Ms. Howe. We’ll all be going over your report in detail. And Dr. Innings’. As many times as we need to.”

  “You probably didn’t intend for that to sound like a threat, but it sounded like a threat.”

  “It wasn’t a threat.” He sighed. “Is there anything else you can tell us at this time, lass?”

  Aw. He looked and talked like someone’s exhausted uncle. Not mine—I never had any. As to his question …

  Funny you should ask. I might have tweaked one of the rules. Some of the rules. Most of the rules. And by ‘tweaked’, I mean ‘disregarded’.

  “I think that’s everything!” Argh. Tone down the bright-eyed enthusiasm.

  “Are you certain? Anything happen that you didn’t expect?”

  “Aside from the ‘whoa, why am I in the 16th century?’ angle? Well, Cromwell was a lot nicer than his rep suggested.” And Henry Tudor almost choked to death but for my timely and shouty intervention, breaking rules one and four. And I predicted the failure of the Field of the Cloth of Gold to Wolsey’s bastard years before it happened, breaking rules one and three. And I was planning on breaking rule number two when the opportunity presented itself, but that was more out of self-preservation than any desire to wreak havoc on I.T.C.H. and/or the timeline.

  I know what you’re thinking: I was making a classic boneheaded move, one we’ve seen in a thousand movies and TV shows, one doomed to come back and bite the heroine on the ass. And that’s not inaccurate. But keeping some things to myself was worth the risk, especially given our unsatisfactory meeting. All our unsatisfactory meetings, in fact.

  Believe it or not, I had given this some thought. Say I told them. Say I laid it all out. I’d already broken most of the rules. I was planning to break the last one on my very next trip. But never mind, say I’d come clean. I’d coughed up the whole truth and nothing but. At best, I.T.C.H. wouldn’t send me back again, knowing I’d go rogue all over the Tudor Court, and that was problematic, because I had to go back.

  Well. I didn’t have to, but I would. They hadn’t fixed the problem. They had no idea what was wrong or how long it would go on. The only preventive measure they had taken was to keep an eye on the news and any missing person reports. So it was a safe bet that more Losties were inevitable. And as absurd as it sounds, only I, Joan Howe, orphaned part-time medical transcriptionist, could save them. Probably.

  And they were keeping things from me. Not just the science; I couldn’t shake the impression there was something going on here they weren’t telling me about. And I couldn’t ask about it without setting off alarm bells.

  So I didn’t tell them. Instead, I started planning on how I’d break rule number four because I’m a flouter of regulations and a scofflaw, too.

  “No, not that I can think of.” I stood. “But if I think of something, I’ll call right away.”

  “Please,” Dr. Holt said fervently, giving me a handshake that made my hand throb, since it was still sore from the dentist’s death-grip. Men built like fire hydrants were always so strong. Probably something to do with their low center of gravity. “And thank you again, lass.”

  “That’s okay,” I told Warren, who’d also gotten to his feet. “I know the way out.”

  “Sure? Okay. See ya next time,” he said. “And high tea, very soon.”

  “Okay. Try to get a nap or something, I’m starting to worry you might die.”

  They both laughed, which was sad since I hadn’t been joking. “We’ll talk soon,” Warren promised. “And I hope it’s to tell you that all’s well.”

  Well, we’d see about that. Either way, I planned to be ready.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Nnnnnfff.”

  “Really very terribly sorry.”

  “Hnnnff?”

  “We’ve sent a car for you.”

  “R’fills are free …”

  “Again, terribly sorry about this.”

  “M’steak was overdone …”

  “Joan.”

  “Warren?” I sat up and shook my head to clear the sleep out of my brain. “What time is it?” Oh. Wait. The thing I was talking on could also tell time. I held my cell away from my face and squinted. “Three a.m.? Dammit!”

  “Yeah, sorry to say there’s been another one. The car’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Just enough time to dress, brush, and question every life decision I have ever made. Got it.” Warren laughed like I’d been joking and hung up.

  As it happened, I only needed eleven minutes, which left time to leave a note. A paper note, stuck to the fridge. (We were old old school.) But Dear Lisa was as far as I got.

  What could I say? Dear Lisa: My new job is a time traveler who scoops up people who fall through a gate created by people who don’t understand how it works and I get a five figure check every time I jump but please don’t tell anyone because I signed a non-disclosure agreement with a bunch of mysterious think tank/tech techs the violation of which could mean imprisonment. Also I’ll pick up milk on my way home.

  No. Too wordy and Lisa didn’t care if we were out of milk. Besides, I was starting to wonder about the validity of those non-dis agreements. If I.T.C.H. hadn’t called me on them yet, when would they? What were they waiting for? Or was it worse than that—they weren’t waiting because they didn’t know what I had done?

  In the end, I went with Running errands, will pick up milk. And tried not to think about what would happen if I died over there. Back there. Whatever. Lisa would never know, because I.T.C.H. was unlikely to admit their involvement. From her perspective, I would have simply vanished one night, and my body never turned up. Or, if it did turn up, no one would connect a 500-year-old skeleton with a missing 21st century ex-pat.

  But there was nothing I could do about that now. So I went off to handle a crisis I could do somethin
g about.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Back to the willow tree.

  A willow tree, not the willow tree. Because I wasn’t on the outskirts of London. Not unless Windsor Castle had moved twenty miles west. I was in a small grove of trees just off the main path, which led to the bridge that led to the palace. From here, the world’s largest and oldest occupied castle kept watch over the town.

  So the willow tree outside London wasn’t any kind of anchor point. Or, if it was, it was only an anchor point for London. Or it was just a tree. Or I was reading too much into the presence of trees, which were literally everywhere in the 16th century. And there was always the possibility that I’d gotten into the absinthe again and none of this was happening.

  I couldn’t wait for I.T.C.H. to get the gates under control; there had to be a more efficient way to rescue Losties. A way to track them, or at least me. But I couldn’t worry about that now. I had to track down Amy Donovan, American tourist and TGIFridays manager who had vanished so completely, her family told the authorities she might as well have been abducted by aliens.

  (They wish.)

  I started walking briskly through Windsor Great Park, looking straight ahead and giving off what I hoped were ‘I know where I’m going and even if I don’t I am a very important person on pressing business’ vibes.

  There was no botanically beautiful Long Walk in the 16th century; the garden just led straight to the castle. If I was in the 16th century. Everyone’s clothes looked much the way they had in 1529, which was encouraging, as was the fact that was another warm, sunny day. Which reminded me—not only was there no way to find out the year until the gate closed behind me, there was no way to know what the weather would be like. What if I jumped into a blizzard next time?

  (Yes, “next time”. I was resigned to more leaps.)

  I was also anxious to find out how much time had passed; I’d gone nine days between jumps, and nine years had passed. This time less than 24 hours had passed; what year had I plopped into?

  No time like the present to find out. And by now I was at one of the entrances. There were lots of people going to and fro, including soldiers, but no one was being stopped or asked for a secret password. I figured they were the 16th century’s version of metal detectors: they know the majority of people who go in don’t pose any threat. Or would they be the 16th century version of the TSA? I hoped not. A pat-down would be disastrous.

  I swept past the guards, nose in the air, working so hard to appear unconcerned I was actually sweating, but at least I was pulling it off, because the last thing I needed was—

  “Ow!”

  —to draw attention to myself.

  “A thousand apologies, my lady!”

  “No, it was my fault,” I said in my new seductive-yet-nasal voice, because ouch! I rubbed my nose and was relieved there wasn’t any blood.

  “Not at all, the fault lies entirely wi—oh! Lady Joan.”

  Dammit! “Hello again, Master Cromwell.” All right, not great, but it could have been worse. Right?

  “A thousand apologies!”

  Accept his apology and run away? Or stay put and see if I could put him to use? He liked it when I was blunt before.

  “I should hope so,” I said, still sexily nasal. “If you weren’t determined to lurk, you wouldn’t have run into me. You would’ve seen me coming.”

  Cromwell grinned. “But I learn so much when I lurk. And, of course, I run into fascinating visitors, quite literally in this case. How nice to see you again; it has been years.”

  It has? Really? Eureka: time to put Cromwell’s legendary memory to good use and stay on his good side. “Surely it hasn’t been that long,” I said with what I hoped was convincing (nasal) simpering.

  “Alas, it has.”

  “No, no, can’t have been.” Simper. Bat eyelashes. Bat-bat-bat.

  Cromwell was already shaking his head. “My lady, I last saw you on the 21st of June in 1529—”

  “It feels like yesterday!” Sorry, Cromwell. Time traveler humor.

  “—and here you are three years later, on the 30th of August. For which I am sure we are all fortunate.” That last seemed more of a sop to my ego than anything else. But at least I knew when I was, and could figure out what was going on at this stage of the King’s Great Crapfest. “May I ask your business here today?”

  “I’m looking for a friend.”

  “Yes, I thought as much.”

  “Uh, why? Why would you think as much?” Someone would have told me if Time-travelin’ Lostie Wrangler was written on my forehead, right?

  “My late master’s son, Thomas,” he replied simply. “He said you have a gift for showing up when those who must be pitied need help. And given the regrettable state of the world, that we were sure to see you again.”

  “Well, that was …” Presumptuous. Clever. And most of all … “Accurate.” Then I realized the import of his words. “I’m sorry about your patron. Cardinal Wolsey.” Poor Thomas. Not this one. The other Thomas. Wait, Cardinal Wolsey’s first name was Thomas, too. Why was everyone named Catherine and Thomas? This is 7th grade with four Sophias and three Lucases all over again.

  Cromwell’s smile had faded. “The finest master a man could have, no matter what they said about him. I have him to thank for my place here … despite what the Boleyns say.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Tough luck about Wolsey, but the rest of it was lining up with what Cromwell had said: Wolsey was dead, so it was after the winter of 1530. Anne wasn’t queen yet, so it was before the spring of 1533. “And it might not be politic to say so, but the king will regret his loss.”

  “Bringing the grand total of mourners to … two.” Cromwell produced a thin smile. “But you did not come here to console me on my master’s loss. You don’t care for platitudes. And words don’t change anything. Especially a stranger’s words.”

  Okay. Creepy to hear him parrot my exact words back to me. “Wise words, Master Cromwell. Whoever told you that was so, so wise. Oh, stop laughing. And Thomas was

  right, someone here needs my help. Her name is Amy Donovan, and she’s a little shorter than me …” I touched my shoulder, demonstrating. “She’ll be confused and scared; she won’t know where she is, like the dent—like my other friend. Amy has blonde hair and brown eyes and was last seen at the—” I stopped. Probably best not to finish that sentence.

  Cromwell shook his head. “I am sorry, Lady Joan, but I know of no one who—”

  “Master Cromwell?”

  He turned and we both saw the slender, dark-haired man approach. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties and had what my mother would have politely described as a “heroic” nose, as well as a sharp widow’s peak. He was dressed in what appeared to be a pile of colorful silks: gold for his legs, blue for his jerkin, and a brown hat which he doffed when he saw me and then dropped back on at an angle.

  “Ah!” Cromwell smiled in real pleasure. “Good morning, Will.”

  “I shall be the one to decide if the morning is good or not, you impudent son of an oaf.” This spoken with about as much venom as “nice to see you again, love your jacket”.

  Cromwell laughed, and I was reminded of what Thomas had said of the man with such a fearsome reputation: anyone who’d spent more than an hour at his home would see how friendly and low-key he was. It was almost enough to make me forget about all the people he would help Henry kill. And if I was ever tempted to do so, I needed to keep in mind that he’d met me once, very briefly, years ago, and remembered exactly what I said and the circumstances under which I said it.

  Cromwell turned to me. “If it is not already patently obvious, my lady, this is the king’s fool. Will, this is the lady Joan Howe, new-come to court.”

  He sketched me a shallow bow while I tried to think. The king’s fool. I didn’t know much about him—my mother was never very int
erested in the people around the Tudors, just the Tudors themselves, and read and watched accordingly. All I knew was that he served Henry for most of his reign, and didn’t retire after the king’s death, though I couldn’t remember when he did retire, or the circumstances. He was one of the few people Henry had never turned on, which is why he lived to retire Will, the king’s fool, Will … argh! I knew this. Will Winter? Will Springs?

  “Sommers!” I yelped.

  “Eh?”

  “My lady?”

  “Your name,” I explained. Why was I still bad at this? “Will Sommers. Is what I meant.”

  “Your reputation precedes you, old hound,” Cromwell teased.

  “You’re the last one to chide anyone for their reputation.” (Zing!) Then, to me: “I believe you are the only woman who has been that enthusiastic to see me, and I count my dear mother among that lot. Your friend came close, though—I assume that is why you have come to call?”

  “I—yes.”

  “You have the same accent,” he explained. “When I heard your speech, I was curious.”

  First, we don’t have the same accent—Amy was from Boston and dropped her Rs all over the place, while I’d never left the Midwest. Except to go to England. And time travel to France. Second … “Is she all right? My friend? She’s … ill.”

  “How odd. She seems in good health to me. Exceptionally robust,” he added, and then laughed, but I didn’t get the joke. “I found her to be delightful. She has joined our troupe—temporarily, of course. Quite enthusiastic about all the goings-on and not afraid to show it; I think His Majesty will enjoy her.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that.

  “And—even better—she was kind enough to pledge to remain until after the investiture, so we shall enjoy her company through Sunday.”

  I definitely didn’t like the sound of that.

  “See, then, how handy Will is? Whereas I failed you, he steps in to help. And not for the first time.”

  Will waved that away, but Cromwell wasn’t having it. Pretending Will Sommers wasn’t three feet away and hearing every word, he added, “Will is invaluable to me. Aside from being a good man and loyal servant to His Majesty—”