“Astonishing.”
“So after Cardinal Wolsey died, you kept in touch with his son?”
“Yes, and even now Wynter is kind enough to run an occasional errand for me.”
“Out of the purest impulses of the heart, no doubt.”
Cromwell grinned. “We do each other favors. Now and again.”
I’ll bet. “I wasn’t here when it happ—when Cardinal Wolsey died. If you don’t mind my asking, how did Thomas take it?”
“He took it as the king did. Outwardly indifferent, inwardly sorrowful.”
“Yes, that sounds about right.” I peeped at him with my peripheral vision. Cromwell was leading me through multiple corridors and past several rooms, gaze fixed and straight ahead. People either nodded at him or deliberately looked away; no one was indifferent. “I’m sure you miss the Cardinal—”
“A kinder and more generous master there never was, save for His Majesty.”
“—but you have to admit his downfall was a pretty big career boost for you.”
“I beg your—”
“It’s just nice to see you doing so well.” Especially since it wouldn’t last. “And I appreciate the escort, since I’ll bet you have five thousand more pressing matters to attend to.”
“Nothing is more pressing than my duty to His Majesty. Though it is terribly kind of me to assist you,” he said cheerfully.
“Ha! I see you, Thomas Cromwell.”
“Of course you—”
“You want to help me, but you want me in your debt even more. You’re on board with the first because you’re secretly nice, and you’re in for the second because you’re not-so-secretly ambitious.”
It took him a minute to translate that into TudorTalk, but his reply was mild. “Hush. I will destroy you in an instant if you dare tell anyone I am secretly nice.”
We had to be near the king’s apartment, because the furniture and wall-hangings had gotten progressively nicer, and we didn’t have to so much as touch the door—“Master Cromwell and the Lady Joan to see His Majesty the king!”—since it was instantly thrown open. Much less efficient than doorbells, to be frank. Noisier, too. And how did the Royal Yellers know who I was?
And there he was, Henry Tudor, in his Presence chamber with arms outstretched, looking like a big bundle of gold chains and silver brocade. And curled up like a cat in the window (but unfolding herself to join us across the room) was Anne Boleyn.
“Your Grace.” Cromwell bowed.
I nodded. “Hello again, Your Majesty.”
Anne greeted me with, “Ah, yes, they do not know how to curtsy where you’re from.”
“We know how,” I lied pleasantly. “We just don’t bother.” I got a smirk for that one, but no lightning. Anne Boleyn, I think, liked a little fight.
“Now, beloved,” Henry said, gently chiding. “We are not come to our holy station because people show reverence, but by God’s will.” To me: “Welcome back to court. We greet you with joy, Lady Joan.”
“And lots more joy when I tell you Catherine won’t move against you. Not that she ever said in so many words that she was raising an army. Because she would never do that. But if she did—and she did not—she has decided it’s God’s will that the Emperor and his troops keep out of it. As well as any private armies here in England.”
“Just so! I knew the angels would guide you rightly in this!”
“She should have been seized and imprisoned in the tower,” Anne snapped.
“Which would have improved your situation how, exactly?” Cromwell interjected smoothly.
Cue an awkward silence (if jukeboxes had been around, there would have been a jarring record scratch), which I broke because I despise awkward silences. “Anyway, everything has been taken care of. So if you could point me toward Amy—”
“Oh, but you cannot leave us so soon!”
So soon? It already felt like decades. “Just to see her,” I clarified. “I said I’d stay until your fiancé—uh, betrothed?—was the Marquis de Pembroke and I will.” Mostly because I couldn’t weasel my way out of it. “But I need to see her. She’s my responsibility.”
“Your devotion to your holy cause is most commendable, and of course you may see your friend. Cromwell, make sure she finds Will.”
A shallow bow. “Majesty.” And, again: what did this guy actually do all day?
“Are your chambers to your liking, Lady Joan?” Anne asked. She had changed into a different outfit from this morning, this time a wine-red gown. The color would have dominated a paleface like me—they’d look at the dress, not the person wearing it—but it warmed her complexion and made her eyes seem bigger and blacker.
She was also wearing her famous Boleyn necklace, a large gold B with three dangling teardrop pearls, with two more strings of pearls that twined around her famously slender neck. She stretched her hands out to me in warm greeting, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to clasp them or bow over them or what. (The Wisconsin public school system is perfectly adequate, but there were a few things they didn’t cover.)
Then I realized she was showing off her pale perfect hands and long fingers, which was equal parts adorable (“Look at me!”) and vain (“Look at me!”). Not that I blamed her—she could have modeled Tiffany watches with those gorgeous mitts.
“My what?” I asked, because I’d been so distracted by the shiny B and unnecessary hand-waving that I’d forgotten the question.
“Your chambers. I had a word with the Lord Chamberlin on your behalf.”
“Oh, yes! One of the nicest rooms I’ve ever seen. We don’t have anything like that where I’m from.” It was true! Wisconsin was a privy-free zone.
Henry predictably swelled (with pride, this time), and I got a condescending, “Well, of course,” from Anne.
“My new queen is pleased to tend to all household matters large and small,” he bragged. “Her elegant touch is most appreciated, don’t you think?”
“Your queen,” Anne snapped. “Not your new queen, your only queen. Your first queen. Catherine of Aragon was never your wife.”
To my surprise—I knew he catered to her, but I didn’t know how much was history and how much was hyperbole—Henry folded like origami. If he’d been a dog, he’d have flopped over and exposed his belly for scratching. “Yes-yes-yes, of course, beloved, you are my first queen. My only queen, and the keeper of my heart.”
(There were at least two lies in those two sentences.)
Mollified, Anne turned back to me. “Have your angels told you anything new? Are there more holy signs that ours will be a true union, that I will be the true queen of England?”
I shook my head. “You don’t need them. You will be queen; nothing can stop it now.” Hmm. That came out sounding more dire than I intended.
There was a rattling crash—I flinched hard enough to elicit smiles from the others—and then the Royal Yeller was informing everyone in the room (and the next room, and the next floor, and probably the next castle) about the imminent arrival of …
“The Duke of Norfolk and the Lady Mary Carey!”
Oh, joy, the other Boleyn girl. Someone else to pop up out of nowhere and slow everything down. It was official: I was going to die here, but not by fire. Of old age.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Boleyn trope is that Mary was the pretty one, and Anne was the smart one. (And their brother George was maybe the gay-or-bi one.)
This was true, as far as it went. (About the ladies. I had no idea about George.) But it didn’t mean that Mary wasn’t even a bit smart, or that Anne was ugly.
Though there was no denying Mary Boleyn Carey (eventually Stafford) was gorgeous, pretty as a Botticelli beauty with creamy skin (set off to superb effect by her sapphire-colored gown) an Irish milkmaid would envy. I could see a stripe of dark reddish-blonde hair peeking from beneath her Fre
nch hood, which offset her big brown eyes, lush mouth, and the long Boleyn nose.
As she entered with the sentient piece of gristle known as the Duke of Norfolk, I saw her gaze go to the king, then me, then Cromwell, then Anne, and you could almost hear the click-click-click as she put it all together. “Your Majesty,” she said in a low, pleasant voice, curtsying. “Madame La Marquis.”
“Not quite yet, dear sister,” Anne replied. “But soon enough.”
“Master Cromwell. Lady Joan.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I replied as Cromwell bowed over her hand.
Mary looked around the room again and added, “It’s all settled with Queen Cath—with the Princess Dowager, then? She will not bring war to our doorstep?”
Anne’s smirk fell away at Mary’s slip, which I suspected wasn’t a slip. It would be an asinine blunder for a noted idiot, never mind the future queen’s sister, who was also the king’s former mistress. A courtier from a family of courtiers who knew the value of proper titles, probably from the cradle, wouldn’t make such a bone-headed move. And when I saw Anne shrug off Mary’s gaffe with an eye roll, I realized Mary Boleyn was taking full advantage of her “dumb but pretty” reputation.
Which was wonderful.
“Indeed, yes. We thank you, Norfolk, for your assistance in seeing Lady Joan about her holy business for the realm.”
“Howards serve the crown,” was the faux modest reply.
“As do Boleyns,” Anne said dryly. “Occasionally.”
Mary nodded. “No one could say we Boleyns failed to service the king.”
“Now we lack only the Duke of Suffolk,” Henry said, his mouth disappearing as he pursed his lips. He looked like a toddler trying to decide whether a tantrum was going to be worth the energy.
Norfolk cackled. “Still in disgrace, eh? Charles Brandon was never clever.”
“We don’t require ‘clever’,” Henry snapped, and Anne didn’t bother hiding her grin. “Only loyalty. So let him stew and fume down there in Southwark until he remembers his duty to his king, and to his future queen. As the Lady Joan has said, nothing can stop us now.”
Uh, could you maybe keep me out of it? All of it? Everything? Just keep me out of everything. That’s all I ask.
Henry was still fretting, and I guess the plan was to stay quiet and let him, since no one was changing the subject or leaving. A pity I wanted to do both. “Still. As much as he tries us, sweetheart, he is my oldest and dearest friend. If he would spend more time in your presence, surely he would grow to love you as I have.”
“The Duke of Suffolk has had seven years,” Mary pointed out. “Either he cannot love my sister or she is simply unlovable. I am sure it is the former.”
Damn. Anyone else would have been devoured on the spot, but the only thing coming Mary’s way was Anne’s sarcastic, “Oh, look who finally learned to count!”
Mary Boleyn: veritable ninja of shade. But I wasn’t able to fully appreciate her skills, because something had started poking at my brain (figurative poking, thank goodness). Something about the Duke and La Marquis. Something wasn’t right. Or was off.
Enh, I’d think of it later. In the meantime: “May I go? Master Cromwell was going to take me to Will Sommers.” Where we’d probably run into Jane Seymour, George Boleyn, Bishop Gardiner, and my great-great-great-great grandfather, all of whom would no doubt slow me down another six hours. “Please?”
“Of course. We shall see you later, dear dear Lady Joan,” Henry promised, and he probably thought that sounded warm and affectionate.
There were murmured goodbyes and Cromwell and I were almost to the door when it happened. I was so relieved to have jumped through all the hoops, happy the king was happy, and glad I’d finally get to comfort Amy and promise her we would be going home tomorrow. (Poor thing must be losing her mind.)
So my relief swamped my good sense, and I laughed and babbled without thinking, “I actually feel sorry for the Duke of Suffolk!”
“What?”
Remember the awkward pause earlier that was worthy of a record scratch? This one was worse.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Oh, shit.
I turned back (so close to a clean getaway!) and beheld a pissy monarch. “Is there a problem, King Henry?”
“I should say so! You take the side of a traitor, Lady Joan? It is difficult for us to believe your angels would countenance such an immoral act.”
I’ll bet. My angels only arrange things to your satisfaction, isn’t that right?
To distract myself from calling him out on his ongoing hypocrisy, I considered my options. I was reluctant to pull the “angels told me to say that!” ruse again. One, anything loses its effectiveness when it’s overused, and two, I preferred to save it for when I was in a corner (one worse than this), or one of my Losties was.
Given that the guy who could have me imprisoned (or worse) without a warrant was angry with me, I was surprisingly calm. I figured it was like worrying about falling versus actually falling: the thing you were scared of is happening, so there’s nothing to be scared of anymore.
Except the landing.
“Taking his wife’s side over the future Marquis de Pembroke’s isn’t treason. It’s being married. He has to live with her.” I was pretty sure—what the hell did I know about treason or marriage? “And yes, I feel sorry for him. Anyone who has spent more than five minutes with a Tudor would feel sorry for him.” So, even as I was figuring out what to do, I’d apparently decided: Plan Double-Down was going into effect. A glance around the room showed expressions ranging from anger to horror to blank incomprehension (nice try, Mary Boleyn, not buying it). “It’s not obvious?”
“It is not, and you had best explain yourself! For angels or no angels, Lady Joan, I’ll not countenance traitors, nor those who sympathize with such unnatural creatures.”
Gosh, and everything was all smiles and sunshine thirty seconds ago, Henry, you raging piece of shit. If I talked myself out of this one, it would be a lesson I wouldn’t forget in a hurry: Henry Tudor was a mercurial fellow.
Anne had put a placating hand on Henry’s arm but aside from that, didn’t make a move or a sound. She just watched me; I felt like a mouse a few inches from her hole—safety was so close! But the cat was right there.
“What happens when a Tudor wants something?” I ignored the stifled gasps and, in Cromwell’s case, the muffled groan. I also ignored the Duke of Norfolk’s smirk. Keep smiling, pal. Your day is coming. You’ll see everything you did wrong, but not in time to save your son and heir. “Like when a Tudor wants, say, the love of a queen, despite being a humble steward, like Owen Tudor? Or the hand of the greatest heiress in England, like Edmund Tudor? How about when a Tudor—your royal father—decides the throne of England is his for the taking, despite the longest odds anyone has ever seen?”
No reaction. But at least he wasn’t shouting.
“How about when a Tudor decides to take a French town just because he can? What happens?”
For that, I got a reluctant chuckle from Henry, and I could almost feel everyone else unclench.
“Or when a Tudor reasserts his God-given supremacy over a corrupt church to better shepherd his people?” If I was speaking to anyone but Henry VIII, I might’ve worried I was laying it on too thick. However. “Or when he chooses to expose mass fraudulence, no matter the cost to the church? Or when a Tudor took B—” Ack! Careful. That hasn’t happened yet.
“My point—my point is that Tudors get what they set their gaze on. And that’s why I was laughing. And that’s why I feel sorry for Charles Brandon. Because that poor loyal idiot never had a chance, not once Mary Tudor made up her mind to have him, and you know it.”
A quiet chuckle from Cromwell, who kept his gaze on the floor. Henry kept staring me down, but his mouth didn’t look quite so tiny, and after a few seconds he made an
off-hand gesture: keep going, you.
“Charles Brandon didn’t have a chance. He didn’t have one this month or last month or last year or five years ago.” When did Suffolk marry the dowager Queen of France, anyway? My mom would know. “Or ten years ago.” There. Best to hedge my bets.
“He ought to have reckoned the cost,” Henry said sullenly, but the Smiling Sociopath was settling down. “His head, to begin.”
“Don’t you think he did? This man has been your best friend since you were boys. He has been constantly at your side. For decades. He loves you, he knows your mercy and he knows what happens to people who cross you.” Mmm, that could be construed as Henry being petty when thwarted. Can’t have that. “He knows what happens to traitors,” I amended.
“He’s done a bit more than ‘cross’ me in the past,” the king reminded me. (I also noticed he was having no trouble understanding me, nor me him. Either we were all getting used to each other’s temporal and cultural accents, or Henry paid more attention when he was pissed. Or both.) “As everyone knows. As even you, a foreigner, know.”
Oh, now I was ‘a foreigner’, no longer a holy fool guided by angels to help him work God’s will. (Which in Henry’s mind was synonymous with his will.) On the whole, I preferred being a foreigner, though it was manifestly more dangerous.
“He has,” I agreed. Marrying the king’s sister had, technically, been treason. “But again—Suffolk knows that. He knew his marriage could cost him everything and he still couldn’t say no to the Tudor who needed him. Just like he couldn’t say no to her last month. Even though he knew how important it was.
“And here’s something else: it’s easy to love a king. Practically everyone does, and even if they don’t, they’ll never admit it to your face.” That brought some uneasy murmuring from the studio audience. I made a shushing motion at them and turned back to Henry. “People want to do things for kings. They’ll fall over themselves to do the littlest thing because you wear a crown, and they’ll try to tell you the crown had nothing to do with it. But the crown has everything to do with it. You know this, you saw how people treated your father and you see how they treat you.
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 14