“Are you proposing, Cromwell? Because I can assure you, I am taken.”
“—his jokes bring the king’s attention to problems His Majesty may occasionally … ah … overlook.”
“Or ignore,” Will said cheerfully. “Or forget about. Or never care about in the first place.” When I just blinked at him, he added, “No fear; I have a fool’s prerogative.”
Yes, yes, whatever. It was great that he and Cromwell were pals, but I had business to attend to. “I—could I see her, please? My friend?” See her. Grab her. Hustle her the hell away from Windsor and into the welcoming, polluted arms of the 21st century, all without drawing notice or, worse, suspicion.
“She’s in rehearsal,” was the bewildering answer. “But aside from that—”
“His Majesty comes: the king!”
Dammit!
Chapter Twenty-Three
And thence he came, Henry Tudor, Fattest of his Name, clip-clopping into the courtyard with a retinue of gaily dressed men and women, plus or minus a dozen guards. Except in 1532 he wasn’t the obese monster immortalized forever in grease paint by Hans Holbein.
Everyone in the courtyard stopped what they were doing and bowed or curtsyed, but he barely noticed as he swung down from his big black horse. (Charger? Steed? I don’t know from horses. It was big. And it was black. All over!) All his attention was on the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman he was helping down from a slightly less gigantic horse (hers was white). They both turned and saw me at the same moment, because I was the only one who didn’t know how to bow/curtsy, and thus stuck out like a time-traveling dumbass.
His eyes widened; hers narrowed. His mouth fell open in a pleased smile; her eyebrows arched. “Why, ‘tis the holy fool here with us again!” He rushed over, which I decided to take as a good sign, pulling the woman who could only be Anne Boleyn along with him.
“King Henry,” I replied. To her: “My lady.”
“Not for long,” was the instant reply. “Tomorrow I’ll be Marquis de Pembroke.” She pronounced it just like that, with a French inflection, though she was pure English, then gave Henry’s arm a squeeze.
And wasn’t that interesting? Announcing to a stranger she just met that she was up for a promotion. And not just any promotion. A promotion to peerage. And not just eventually. Tomorrow. Oh no, there was nobody overcompensating for any insecurity in this courtyard.
“My love, this—”
Nope, she wasn’t having it. “You do not bow to your king?”
“You interrupt yours?” She opened her mouth and to head off a possible command to have my head off, I added, “He’s not my king.”
This time, her eyebrows climbed so high they tried to disappear into her hairline. Meanwhile, people all over the courtyard had come up from their genuflecting and were working hard to give the impression of people who couldn’t hear a thing while sidling closer and listening harder. “No? Queer. Your accent is … unusual.” Which was ironic coming from the Englishwoman affecting a French patois. “But surely you learned simple courtesy wherever you hailed from, is it not so? To show respect to—to whomever it is you respect?”
“No, future Marquis de Pembroke.” Stick with the truth until you had to lie, my new old motto. I should make that the family crest. “We don’t have kings. Or queens. Nobody bows or curtsies. We just shake hands.”
“Shake them? Together?”
Oh, come on! She was yanking my chain, right? She had to know what I was talking about; America didn’t invent the handshake. No way America invented the handshake. “Uh …”
Several people broke into giggles, Henry included. “See, sweetheart? I told you she was different,” he said to the woman he would legally murder in four years. “They have all sorts of odd and interesting customs—and thanks be to God, else I might not be here!”
No question: saving Henry’s life was, in retrospect, a good idea.
“But I must speak with you,” he said, the bright smile fading. “Privately.” Anne squeezed his arm again—she must have a grip like a sloth to penetrate that thick jacket—and he added, “Just the three of us.”
“But—” Stop. Shut up. Bad idea to play the ‘angels don’t want me to linger’ card again so soon. Besides, I knew what he wanted to talk about. And it was interesting that he was fine with the future Marquis de Pembroke hearing about it. That could be useful in future trips. “—of course,” I finished. “I am at your service, King Henry, and yours, future Marquis de Pembroke.”
This time they both smiled, which was a relief. “You must remain through the investiture at least,” Ann Boleyn told me. She had picked up Henry’s habit of making requests that weren’t requests. “So I can have the pleasure of hearing you call me by my proper title.”
“You want me to drop the future,” I guessed.
“Yes, exactly.”
Oh, Anne, you poor idiot. Don’t get me started on the future. Especially yours.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Henry (or Anne) led us through the castle, where I had a blurred impression of large rooms, stone vaulting, fireplaces big enough to roast a Prius in, tapestries, stained glass windows, servants rushing up to Henry and Anne with goblets of wine and then scrambling out of the way, and lots of gold and silver gleaming everywhere. Anne must have noticed me trying and failing not to stare like a yokel, because she giggled—and it was a nice one, it gave the impression she was genuinely amused. “Your first visit to Windsor, Lady Joan?”
“Yes …” Had I killed the joke yet? Only one way to find out. “… future Marquis de Pembroke.”
Another giggle. “We shall have to give you the royal tour.”
“I have every confidence you have better things to do with your time.” Besides, I didn’t need it. Although I’d never been, my mother had studied Windsor, the Tower of London, Westminster, etc., ad nauseum. Windsor was extra special to her, because Henry VIII was (would be?) interred here. Which meant Anne had just volunteered Henry to give me a tour of his tomb. Which is why I was the one giggling now. That, or nerves. Or both. Probably both.
Henry slammed the doors shut—I assumed this smaller, more intimate but still luxuriously furnished room was his privy chamber—and turned to me, put a hand on his chest as if he was going to start singing an aria (please don’t let him sing an aria), and said, “My lady, I have kept the secret you entrusted to me all this time; I have never spoken of it, not to my confessor, not even to the Lady Anne, whom I love more than my own heart and soul.”
(Side note: at least half of that declarative sentence was a total lie.)
“But as you are here now, do I have your leave to share your vision?”
I briefly toyed with the idea of refusing, then regained my sanity. “Of course.”
I expected him to launch into a flowery speech, but all he did was turn to Anne and say, with no fuss and no drama, “She predicted Wolsey’s death.”
Anne blinked at that, then replied, “Why, my lord king, many people knew the Cardinal was—”
“She predicted it to the month.” Anne seemed startled, but I wasn’t sure if it was because the king had cut her off or if she thought I had superpowers. “As well as the circumstances, and the cause, and where he died, and why. And she did so a year and a half before it happened.”
“Oh,” was all the next queen of England had to say.
“And then she charged me not to tell anyone without her leave, a promise I kept.”
“My lord king keeps all his promises,” was the automatic reply, and for a horrible few seconds I thought I was going to laugh again. But Anne Boleyn fixed me with her black gaze and that dried up any impulse to laugh. Henry’s regard made me feel as if I was the only person in the room. Anne’s made me feel like a bug on a microscope slide. An interesting bug, but still, just a bug. Easily ignored, or squashed. “So it is true. One of my ladies told me, but I did not
believe. You have the Sight.”
I shook my head at once. “I don’t know what I have, Lady Anne. I just do what the angels tell me.”
“Your presence here today is no coincidence,” she declared. “Do you not see it, my lord king? Today of all days? You had to send the Duke of Suffolk away, and good riddance I say, but the Lord has provided you a holy fool who sees true at the moment when we must show the legitimacy of our claim.”
“Is it so, sweetheart?” Rhetorical, because I could see at once that Henry loved—loved—the idea of God sending him his own personal holy fool in the nick of what-have-you. She knew how to play him, no question. “It does seem providential. What are the odds that you would simply choose to visit at such a time?”
Damn good question. Not that I ever chose, per se, but Henry was on to something. Every jump landed me in chaos central. I had never showed up on a random Tuesday when everything was business as usual. Every time I came, it was during times of upheaval and unprecedented events. No one had ever seen anything like the treaty at Calais—but there I was. Ditto Queen Catherine’s testimony at Blackfriars—but I was there for that, too. And now, the day before a king ennobles a commoner he’ll toss his Catholic wife to marry—here I was again.
It could have been a coincidence, but I made a mental note to tell I.T.C.H. anyway.
“So you must have something for us,” Anne finished. “Your angels must have sent you for a specific purpose.”
“Indeed!” From Henry, enthusiastic as a teacher getting excited about a three-day weekend. “Else why would you be here?”
I know this will be tough for you to grasp, but this actually has nothing to do with either of you egotistical nitwits. Would it be satisfying to say? Yes indeed. Did I want to be beaten to death by Henry’s guards? I did not.
So because I couldn’t see any way around it, and at this stage of the game it really was a foregone conclusion, I broke the rule again: “You will be queen, future Marquis de Pembroke.”
You poor thing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I talk too much.
Except when I don’t talk enough. Seems like I’ve spent years trying to find the middle ground. Which is why I was suffering a tour of Windsor as conducted by Henry VIII: I couldn’t think of how to get out of it, and I didn’t want to press my luck. And I had Amy to think of.
Anne had left us; one of her ladies—the brunette jerk who’d made fun of my hair at Blackfriars, appropriately dressed in poison green—came to fetch her away for a nap or a snack or whatever Anne needed to do at that particular moment.
Incredibly, Henry seemed to have no idea what to do with himself during her nap or snack, because the tour was Anne’s suggestion. One he jumped on at once. You’d think he had better things to do, but you’d be wrong.
“Of course, sweetheart! And I will see you at dinner. You are staying,” he said to me; it wasn’t a question.
“Through Sunday,” I said with what I hoped was credible enthusiasm. Unless I could figure out a way out of it without jeopardizing my safety or Amy’s life. But sure. Put me down for a spot at the table tomorrow. I’ll have the vegetarian alternative. You guys do gluten-free, right?
So: Windsor Castle. Built by William the Conqueror (he needed a new hobby after the conquest), improved by Henry II (replaced wood with stone, built the King’s Gate, shored up the foundation), improved further by Henry III (strengthened the defenses by rebuilding and put in a new gatehouse, then added the Curfew, Salisbury, and Garter towers), and extended by Edward III (built the Norman Gate, rebuilt much of the existing structure).
The place was mostly ignored during the Wars of the Roses, until Edward IV built St. George’s Chapel to encourage pilgrimages (because between winning battles, Edward IV was apparently the kingdom’s director of tourism). Richard III didn’t have time to wreck anything or build anything, which brought us to Henry’s father, Henry VII, who finished the roof of St. George’s Chapel, rebuilt the Great Kitchen, and built a new tower.
Henry’s contribution? “Behold, Lady Joan!” This, with a grand gesture, like he was showing me buried treasure.
He put in a tennis court.
I made impressed sounds with my mouth (“Oooh!”), and more sounds (“Unh?”) when he showed me the wooden terrace that made his life easier and gave him a lovely view of the River Thames, but radically weakened the castle’s defenses. Jesus wept.
“One of my favorites!” he announced, looking out over the Windsor gardens, “now that I have had the time to study and make the appropriate alterations.”
“Wonderful!” For once, my enthusiasm was genuine, as it meant the tour was over. Your son will hate this place, BTW. Oh, and die young. But again, because it bears repeating: Edward will hate this place and then die before he has kids. “Thank you for showing me around.”
He stopped walking, so I did, too. We were on one of the terraces overlooking the grounds, and there were people behind us in the room, but we had the illusion of privacy. He lowered his voice and said, “I know the true reason you are here.”
“You do?”
“You are a bringer of peace from chaos.”
Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.
“And so I must ask you to bring your message to she who was never my wife.”
“Catherine of Aragon?”
He smiled, probably because I hadn’t slipped up and said, “The rightful Queen of England you dumped so you can grind on someone younger and cuter?”
“Exactly so. She is at The More, and quite comfortably, I might add.” This in a tone of some petulance. For a man who prided himself on subtle craftiness, he had an easy face to read. She has a nice roof over her head, he was thinking. Plenty to eat, wonderful clothes, plenty of servants. Just what was the woman’s problem? “I have sent her there. She obeys … in most things.”
Oh, did she draw the line at meekly standing by and letting you name her a whore and her daughter a bastard? Weird!
“I fear,” he continued, staring down at the gardens, “that she means war.”
There was a long silence, and to my horror I realized he was waiting for me to demur. Or say something comforting. Or something bitchy. “Well, a woman scorned,” was all I could come up with.
Henry shook his head. “I am speaking of literal war. She is rallying troops. She broods. She plots. But I need proof, I cannot have her thrown into the Tower on supposition alone; I would have a rebellion on my hands.”
He wasn’t staring grimly at his gardens anymore. He was staring grimly at me. “You … want me …”
“I need proof.”
“… to spy on … Catherine of Aragon?” Yes, it definitely sounded as insane out loud as it did in my head. “Find proof so you can arrest her? Catherine of Aragon? You want to put Catherine of Aragon in the Tower?” Was I saying ‘Catherine of Aragon’ too much? It felt like I was saying ‘Catherine of Aragon’ too much.
“Or if there is no proof to be found, talk to her. Tell her we know of her plots, tell her how you are divinely guided, by her God and her king. Tell her waging war will not help her cause.”
I was too flabbergasted to come up with anything, so I just stood there.
“That is why you are here,” he replied simply, so smug and certain that the angels had sent me to keep his wayward wife in line and God help me, I actually thought about booting him off the terrace. It would screw the timeline and result in my protracted death by torture, but it could be worth it just to see the look on his face as he went down.
And speaking of screwing the timeline, that wasn’t right. None of this was right. Queen Catherine didn’t—doesn’t—do that. She never mustered troops, she never even discussed bringing an army to retain her place and put Princess Mary on the throne. In fact, she repeatedly refused the suggestion and trust me, she was tempted. By her ambassador, Edward or Edmund Chapuys (I could
never remember), and her nephew, Emperor Charles, he of the gigantic jaw and genius I.Q. By her people, many of whom would have taken up arms against Henry. Not so much because they hated him (that would come later), but because they hated her: Anne Boleyn.
So I had to stay through the investiture, rescue Amy from Will Sommers’ clutches, and pay a visit to the Queen of England to talk a woman smarter and more educated than I was out of war, knowing she had every justification to kick Henry’s ass all over the battlefield because she was in the right.
I must have looked vaguely horrified, because Henry Tudor chose that moment to take my hand and lean in and dammit. Pinned by his gaze, now I wanted him to be pleased with me. Fuck you, Henry Tudor, and fuck your charisma. “I know it seems daunting,” he said with almost painful earnestness, “but your angels will guide and protect you. You are doing God’s will. And you won’t be alone.”
“You’re coming with me?” There was simply no way to keep the horrified tone out of my voice. No way.
“No, of course not.” He sniffed at the very effrontery of the question, because he was a massive dickhead. “I have had my fill of that woman and her stubborn stupidity.” Oh. Right. I’d forgotten: by now, Henry would only send lackeys to try to “reason with” (bully) the Queen. The Duke of Suffolk. The Duke of Norfolk. Cardinal Campeggio. A medical transcriptionist from Wisconsin.
Be fair, I reminded myself. Your last jumps were easy, relatively speaking. I.T.C.H. isn’t coughing up £££££for you to chit-chat with Cromwell and enjoy an uneventful trip back. Except when they are.
“Of course I’ll go,” I said, and was annoyed to see that Henry Tudor was pleased, but not surprised. “But I have no idea what the angels will tell me to do or say.”
He literally shrugged that off; his big stiff jacket moved up and down as he replied, “The angels desire to see Anne on the throne of England. Why else would they have sent you to save me? And serve me? To warn me about Wolsey’s betrayal and well-deserved death? And so I know they will guide you rightly in this. I have utter confidence in them.” Big, charming Tudor grin. “And you.”
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 10