A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

  “I beg your pardon, a what? Your accent confounds me.”

  “Someone who expects the worst.” When she just looked at me, I plunged ahead. “I know how it seems like domestic disaster won’t ever show up at your door or, worse, a budget you have to stick to, but—”

  “Holy fool or no, do not presume to tell me what I think. And I hear and heed your warning. I will see to Her Grace Queen Catherine. And the Princess Mary.”

  “Thank you.” I knew how Catherine’s sad story ended, and Mary’s. But what about the small, fierce woman in front of me?

  I’d have to look her up when I got back (if I got back). I had the vague recollection the Countess lived a long and happy life, and I couldn’t wait to check to see if it was true. It must be true. Who’d mess with the kestrel in silk? Nobody. Probably not even God.

  “Farewell, Lady Joan. May your angels keep you safe.”

  “Amen,” I said, and I’d never meant it more.

  * * *

  1There. I trademarked it. Don’t even think about stealing it.

  Chapter Thirty

  After what happened to my parents, I was too stressed to go out with anyone in high school.

  So I didn’t. And current events notwithstanding, I usually kept to myself and didn’t date much in England, either.

  So this trip back to Windsor on a lovely day with sunshine on our shoulders and spirited horses with their heads held high was the closest to a date I’d had in almost a year. Not that I was going to admit that to Thomas Wynter, since I was too busy yelling at him.

  “Have you lost your mind? Big trouble, Thomas, that’s what you were looking at, and not just for you but for the queen and Princess Mary and the tiny countess, too.” And me, but he couldn’t have known I’d be there, so I let that one go. “What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking my queen and my princess needed me,” was the calm reply. “And so they did. And so do you.”

  “Just a roving Good Samaritan, huh?”

  He laughed. “Does that not describe you as well, Lady Joan? Which lamb of God has gone astray this time?”

  “Her name is Amy and Will Sommers maybe kidnapped her.”

  “Your pardon, Lady Joan?”

  “Or hired her,” I mused. “There wasn’t time to get details before the king dispatched me to The More. Where, in case you’re keeping a list, I had to endure a thousand-hour cart ride, squash Catherine’s rebellion, talk the queen and the princess out of violence, talk to the Countess about something I can’t tell you about, and try not to get arrested along with everyone else in the deer barn.” Who knew deer barns were such hotbeds of rebellion?

  “I would never have allowed such a thing,” Thomas said quietly. “I would have taken full responsibility and seen to your safety.”

  “Tough to see to my safety from the Tower of London.”

  “Tough,” he agreed, “but not impossible.”

  “Oh, listen to you.” I had to shake my head. “So much confidence.”

  “Or faith in our ability to avoid serious trouble. We are, after all, on the side of the angels.”

  Damn. Thomas Wynter was slick.

  “Ah!” He pointed, delighted. “A smile at last. I have labored hard to earn one. You were much more easily amused in Calais.”

  Only because I didn’t know what I’d be putting up with. “Here are some tips to earn another one. First—”

  “Do not foment rebellion?”

  “See?” I pointed to my teeth. “Smile number two, just like that.”

  He laughed again and I couldn’t help noticing that for a guy born hundreds of years before dental floss, he had a beautiful grin. But then, Thomas always looked good to me, and I’d like to think it wasn’t (entirely) because I was shallow. He was always helpful and nice; the thick red hair, long strong limbs, beautifully cut and clean clothing, bright blue eyes, and delectable forearms were just a bonus. A yummy bonus.

  And then, out of nowhere: “It is most agreeable to see you again.”

  I snorted. “I yelled at you and pinched you and then yelled some more.”

  “As I said. Most agreeable.”

  I rolled my eyes, but mostly for show. “Cut the flattery, please.”

  We talked all the way back to Windsor, passing more and more people the closer we got to the castle, our armed escort never more than twenty or thirty feet behind us and nobody bothering us. I could actually feel myself relaxing the closer we got to Windsor.

  Thomas kept solicitously asking if I wanted a rest, some food, “a moment to myself”, which I assumed was code for taking a pee break, if the sun was too warm, if the breeze was too cool, and I finally had to tell him that unless I advised him otherwise, he should assume the sun was just the right amount of hot, the breeze just the right amount of cool, a nap could wait, and I required zero moments to myself. This was taking too long as it was, and I preferred to use whatever passed for a public restroom in the castle to copping a squat in a muddy ditch while a gorgeous man politely pretends he can’t hear me peeing.

  Soon enough the castle emerged, seeming to appear suddenly in the middle of the woods. You could see how they picked a prime spot overlooking the Thames, cleared the forest to accommodate structures, and the town and castle sprouted and spread from there, like Coachella. The ride had taken hours, but—sorry about the trite phrasing—time flew. I’d be sore tomorrow, but the horse Thomas tossed me on (a true gentleman, he ignored my grunt as I tried to situate myself in the saddle without toppling over the other side) was a big brown mare with velvety brown ears and eyes, and a big belly like a barrel. I was riding, but she was in charge and knew where to go, so I just let her do her thing.

  When I factored in the cart-less return ride, the lack of the Duke of Norfolk and the Lady Eleanor, Thomas’ company, and the fruit plate, this was the best time I’d had in Tudorville. I was almost sorry to see it end as we trotted into the courtyard. Suddenly everyone was busy dismounting and helping with horses and greeting each other and it was a good few minutes of uncomplicated chaos which gave me time to think.

  I’d been able to un-do the disastrous idea Queen Catherine had caught like a fever, then put into her daughter’s head. I’d made it to Windsor, but had to stay to see the future Marquis de Pembroke become the actual Marquis de Pembroke, spring my Lostie, and get back to the 21st century.

  And pee.

  And I wouldn’t say no to a sandwich, either.

  “My Lord Wynter.”

  “Yes?” My redheaded escort had turned to the newcomer with a big smile. “Ah! Sir Henry, how nice to see you.”

  “And how nice to be seen.”

  “I well remember your kindness to my father during his lowest days.”

  Sir Henry’s smile faded. “Courtesy to a guest is no kindness.” He was a couple of inches taller than me, with brown hair, dark eyes, and a beard trimmed in such a way it made his face look like a triangle. He bowed to both of us. “Welcome to Windsor Castle, Lady Joan. I am Sir Henry Norris.”

  I knew the name. Vaguely. It made me uneasy. “Hello.”

  “The king wishes an audience with the Lady Joan to discuss your visit with Her Majesty the queen. The Lord Chamberlin has asked me to escort you to your chambers where you might freshen up before your audience with His Majesty.”

  “Lead on.”

  We followed Sir Henry through the castle, past various drawing rooms (or receiving rooms, or whatever they were called here), past servants and courtiers of all stripes, many of whom nodded or bowed or smiled greetings at Sir Henry, and made no secret of staring at me.

  After several corridors and confusing stairs, we were in a wing that I would guess was set aside for visitors. I would have been happy to get a small room with a door that locked and some clean water to wash my face and maybe a bed to dramatically fall back onto, which is wh
y I gasped in appreciation when he escorted us into a lovely suite overlooking the Thames.

  Hardwood floors covered with rugs wrought in deep jewel tones and rush mats strewn with herbs. Heavy dark furniture that was simultaneously gorgeous and sturdy, a fireplace with the wood already laid in, lacking only a match (they had those now, right?) to get the blaze going, several cream-colored fat candles the width of my wrist set out everywhere for light, and a lovely yet oddly sized bed (TudorTime’s version of a super single, maybe?) with gorgeous bedcovers.

  I resisted the urge to bite one of the candleholders to see if it was real gold. “This is beautiful!”

  Sir Henry smiled. He was, clearly, a busy man—I’d almost had to trot to keep up with him and he had no time for the people who kept hailing him. But on short acquaintance, he also seemed nice. And I wanted to get Thomas alone to find out just what kindness Sir Henry had offered Wolsey. “His Majesty will be pleased; he extends all courtesy to his honored guests.”

  “Does ‘honored guests’ encompass me as well, or only the two of you, Sir Henry?” Thomas teased.

  Henry actually looked embarrassed. “Ah, Thomas. Though I am certain the king would have no objection were you to attend the spectacle tomorrow, you know the sight of you makes the king feel … ah …”

  “Regretful?” the guy who probably majored in Tact suggested. “Melancholy?”

  Guilty, I decided. And no wonder. Hank the Tank hounded to death the best servant he ever had: Cardinal Wolsey. And however I knew Norris’ name, I also had the feeling it was associated with the late, mostly unlamented cardinal.

  Two teenage girls—maids, going by their simple, uniform garb—had paused respectfully at the door, then came in when Sir Henry beckoned them forward. One of them had a loaded tray. The other was also carrying something I didn’t care about because of the loaded tray.

  “This is Mistress Gwyn and Mistress Parker. The Lord Chamberlin has assigned them to help you attend to your toilet after which, if you’ll be so kind to permit me, I shall take you to your audience with His Majesty.”

  “Uh-huh, sure, sounds fine, um—cherries?” I was sniffing over the various goodies on the tray: a small dish of cherries that smelled as if they were swimming in some kind of cinnamon sugar syrup, plump prunes in some sort of wine–syrup hybrid, a small pile of what looked like fat lumpy grains of rice, some things that looked like white postage stamps but weren’t, and a cute loaf of bread not much bigger around than my hand. The crust crackled just a bit when I squeezed (yes, I already had my grimy paws all over the tray), and I got a whiff of rose water along with the wonderful yeasty smell of freshly baked bread.

  All this, presented alongside a small carafe of wine, what I thought was a linen bath towel (which turned out to be a huge napkin), and a bowl of water for washing, which I belatedly noticed Mistress Gwyn was carrying.

  “This … this is all … I can’t …”

  “Lady Joan!” Sir Henry sounded astounded while Thomas laughed. “Are you … weeping?”

  “No! Well, a little. I have something in my eye. Both eyes. The dust.”

  “Do you enjoy such things in Merka?”

  I almost giggled (was the Merka thing my greatest triumph or my most profound moment of idiocy?), briefly considered telling them about Panera Bread’s bread bowls, then recovered my sanity even as I bit into the tender white loaf. “Yes, but it’s just I’m very hungry.” Stop talking with your mouth full. I gulped the bite down and tried to decide if I would chase it with the cherries or some of the bumpy grains of rice. “And it’s so good! But I don’t recognize some of these delicacies.” I pointed at the bumpy rice.

  “Muscadines.”

  Does not compute. “I’m sorry?”

  “Pearled comfits,” Thomas explained. “Tiny pieces of cinnamon—you know cinnamon, Lady Joan?” At my nod, he continued. “They’re made by coating the small pieces of the bark in sugar syrup; the longer in the syrup, the more layers build up and the bumpier they get.”

  “Yum! And these?”

  “Prunes in syrup.”

  “And these?”

  “Conserved cherries.”

  “Ohhhhh.” I picked up one of the stiff postage stamps. “What about these?”

  “Kissing comfits.” I must have looked dimmer than usual, because he elaborated. “Pressed sugar plates.”

  I popped it into my mouth. Mmmm … sugary postage stamps … clever snacks paired with a luxurious suite! Windsor was even better than the Marriott.

  “Thank you so much,” I told the maids, who seemed equal parts pleased and amused. “This is all perfect. I don’t need any help on the toilet. I mean with my toilet. So, goodbye.” I was shooing them away as politely as I could. Their presence, meant to be helpful, was actually problematic, since I couldn’t risk them getting a look at what was under my wig and gown. And when possible, I preferred to make an utter pig of myself in private. To their credit, they curtsyed, murmured polite things, and took themselves away.

  Where to start? The cherries looked incredible, but my face was streaked with dust and I could use a wash. The rest of the bread was begging to go into my belly, but I had to pee. Argh, time travel dilemmas!

  “I am so glad you are pleased,” he replied, giving Thomas a poke in the hopes that the man would stop giggling. Ha! Good luck with that, Sir Henry.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re glad, Sir. Give me ten minutes to freshen up, and we can go see the king.”

  “I shall be waiting,” he replied, and bowed.

  “I shall, as well,” Thomas added.

  “Lucky, lucky me,” I replied sweetly, and closed the door in their faces.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Side note: 16th century water closets were surprisingly not awful. I’ve been in gas station bathrooms that were worse. Hand to God.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  And who should show up to escort me to the king but Thomas Cromwell? Did none of the major players of this regime have actual work to do? Surely there was a monastery Cromwell could be foreclosing on?

  Not that I was complaining. Well, I was, but my heart wasn’t in it. Because although I knew Cromwell was dangerous, I also knew that history had skipped over some of his nicer qualities. Case in point, his courteous yet gratifying greeting: “The angels have brought you back to us, and once again set you to work for the good of the kingdom.”

  Plus, I needed him. Or someone who knew the castle. My other escorts were doing a fade and there was no way, no way, I could find the king’s apartment on my own. I’d slip up and arouse suspicion in all kinds of ways or I’d get lost or both.

  Sir Henry Norris politely-yet-firmly bid us farewell, and Thomas Wynter, mindful of how the king felt vaguely guilty at the sight of those he’d orphaned, wasn’t far behind.

  “Until we meet again,” he said, breathing on my fingers. It shouldn’t have been exciting—I had no idea until this moment that someone breathing on my fingers was a kink—but it was. The fact that he was no longer a gangly teenager was also exciting. “And we will, I am sure, as I will be on my knees tonight and all nights thereafter until I see you again.”

  “Try to get some work done in the meantime,” I suggested. “And thank you again. For everything. Again.”

  “I remain your good servant, my Lady Joan. God grant you safe journey.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. Take care of yourself.”

  Cromwell and I watched him go, and then I put my hand out. I’d found that half the time the guide in question would absently take my hand and place it palm-down on their sleeve, giving me one less thing to worry about getting wrong.

  “Lady Joan, I hope you will forgive an impertinence—”

  “I usually do.”

  “—but am I correct in assuming your holy work has kept you from marrying and raising a family these many years?”

  Man
y—? Oh. I was an old maid in TudorTime, a withered infertile worthless hag. Well, TudorTime and Hollywood. “That’s correct, Master Cromwell.”

  “Your—ah—family is not—they have not made an arrangement … if they do such things in Merka?”

  “I just have my work,” I replied shortly.

  “Ah.” A couple of seconds went by, and then: “Thomas Wynter is a fine young man.”

  “So people keep telling me. I’ve known him …” Less than a month. “Since Calais.” Perfect! The truth wrapped in a lie—my ethical sweet spot. “But how do you know him? Through his dad?”

  Cromwell nodded. “Yes, as you know, the late Cardinal was my lord. Though his bastard was careful never to embarrass his father. It is the reason young Thomas Wynter is so fond of Sir Henry.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “My late master was often the target of the Lady Anne’s spite. Never more so than when she arranged for the Cardinal to join the court, but neglected to provide him chambers.”

  Ding! The penny dropped. “And Sir Henry offered Wolsey the use of his rooms.” If memory served, it won him no friends on Team Boleyn, though Team Wolsey appreciated it. They still appreciated it. “He walks the walk with that ‘courtesy is no kindness’ spiel, doesn’t he?”

  “Er … Lady Joan, I am having difficulty …”

  “Never mind. So Henry Norris gave Wolsey shelter, but not for long, obviously. And then …” The fall. Decades to get where he was, less than two years to hit bottom. Henry VIII was a disaster to so many people’s resumés.

  Cromwell shrugged. “The Cardinal was a good man, but easily tempted.”

  “So you stayed in touch after Wolsey—”

  “Cardinal Wolsey, if it pleases my lady.”

  “Sorry, I meant no offense, titles are a bit of an afterthought in Merka.”