“But here’s the thing: everyone wants to be best friends with a crown, but Charles Brandon would have been your best friend if you’d been the cook’s son. And you know that.”
“Are we sure he wasn’t?” Norfolk asked, and cackled. An honest-to-God cackle, like the witch from Snow White. If he offered me an apple, I’d probably start screaming.
But at least the king had calmed down, was (almost) smiling while I prettied up the story of his family, a pack of selfish, greedy, grasping assholes who brought trouble everywhere they went, sometimes years of it. Who killed to get their way, and killed to keep their way. A band of sociopathic thieves with charisma to spare: behold, the house of Tudor.
I fought a wave of dizziness and realized I’d been holding my breath. I forced a deep calming inhale and said, “King Henry, I’m not trying to talk you into anything. Or out of anything.”
“Oh no?” Anne murmured.
I shrugged. “Whatever I say, you’ll do what you’ll do, and why not? You’re the king. I can’t stop you. No one can. You wanted to know why I laughed. You wanted to know why I felt sorry for the Duke of Suffolk. I told you why.” Hmm. Should probably throw some humility in there. “I didn’t mean to offend you, especially after you’ve been so gracious.” I almost choked on ‘gracious’. “If you’re not still angry with me—or even if you are—may I go?”
Yes. Go. Now. Right now. Because one way or the other, I had no desire to see what happened next. Not because I thought the Duke of Suffolk was going to stay away in disgrace. But because I knew he wasn’t. And I had finally figured out why.
As it turned out, after he shook his head and let out a disbelieving snort, like a bull dazzled by sunshine, Henry did let me go. And I’d either made a few friends in that room, or a few enemies. Certainly Cromwell, the Boleyn girls, and the Duke were all looking at me with expressions I’d never seen before. Whether that was good or bad, I had no idea.
Either way, Cromwell was again instructed to take me to Will Sommers, and thank goodness, and finally. So we took our leave and walked in silence for a minute, until he said in a tone of almost indecent satisfaction, “You and I are going to be great friends, Lady Joan.”
“Don’t threaten me, Cromwell.”
He laughed, so I decided I’d been joking and laughed, too.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I hate throwing up.
Obvious, right? Goes without saying, because who enjoys it? I’ve never once run across someone who led with, “You know what I love? Puking.”
I hate it because I view it as my body going rogue, because I associate throwing up with my migraines, and because just the sight or sound of someone else vomiting often pushes my vomit button.
That said …
“I think I’m done,” I managed weakly, backing away from the bowl. No toilets in TudorTime; just basins. I groped blindly and Will Sommers put a handkerchief in my hand. “Thanks. Sorry for what I’m about to do to it.”
Sommers was a cool customer, though. “I am grateful to have lived long enough to see a holy fool scrub her tongue with my personal linen.”
“Mumgladuations,” I mumbled around the handkerchief. Then, to the rest of my audience, “Sorry. It’s been a stressful day.”
“Small wonder!” Mary Boleyn squealed. “She provoked the king—”
“Not on purpose! I wasn’t thinking.”
“Yes,” Will snickered, “that would be how it happens.”
“Then she faced him down and got the Duke of Suffolk invited back to court and all my sister and uncle could do was stare at her. Never apologize, Lady Joan.”
Cromwell and I hadn’t gotten far when we were overtaken by Mary, who had picked up her skirts and trotted after us the second she’d been excused.
“Wonderful,” she gasped when she caught up to us. She pressed a hand to her heaving bosom and smiled up at me. It was such a winning, warm grin that I couldn’t help smiling back. “That was wonderful. Please say you’ll stay past tomorrow. I very much wish to see what you do next.”
“As do we all,” Cromwell said.
“I can’t.” Though it’s nice to be wanted. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, too bad,” she replied, blinking her big dark eyes at me. I guessed it was a reflex, some sort of Bambi Effect. “Who knew the Lord was such a demanding master?”
“Anyone who has read the Bible or heard a sermon,” was Cromwell’s dry reply.
“Oh. Yes. How stupid of me.” Bambi look. “What you must think of me, Lady Joan.” What I thought was that she was stupid like a fox. “Master Secretary, will you permit me to relieve you of her company? And bring her to Will’s menagerie? Surely you have more important work to do? Like taking the rolls or counting the Crown Jewels or changing long-term fiscal policy or whatever it is you do?” she Bambi’d. “I want to help. Everyone is so busy getting ready for Anne’s, um, elevation. Oh, Master Secretary, I don’t want to be left out!”
Cromwell melted like a sugar cube in hot coffee. “Of course, my lady, no one could doubt your generosity of spirit. It’s not your fault your sister was blessed w—ah. A topic for another time. With Lady Joan’s leave, of course you may be her escort.” At my shrug (what was another delay? I imagined Amy had died of old age by now), he handed me off like the baton in a relay race. “Very well, allow me to take my leave of two most charming ladies.” Which he did, and very graciously, and then Mary Boleyn seized my arm—“Yow!”—and away we went.
“Finally,” she muttered.
“You are terrifying,” I said, with no small amount of admiration. She was hauling me along at such a good clip, it felt like my feet were barely touching the floor.
“And you know I am not the feeble-minded slut many take me for. I must ask—did your angels tell you this?”
“No. But you didn’t give yourself away or anything,” I assured her, because who knew what this woman was capable of? Besides physically overpowering me and dragging me through a castle? “Where I come from, it’s generally accepted that women are as smart as men.”
For that, I got a most unladylike guffaw. Then she saw my face and checked at once. “Ah. Hmm. I apologize, I was certain you were jesting. Your home … er …?”
“Merka.”
“It sounds lovely.”
“Yes, and I’d love to get back there.” Hint. HINT. HINTHINTHINT.
“Oh, you will.” Mary Boleyn, I could see, was much more popular than Cromwell. Virtually everyone she was hauling me past had a smile or a friendly greeting for her, and she smiled back and apologized for not stopping while keeping us moving. She was like a harried cheerleader trying to get to class on time while everyone else wanted to talk about Homecoming. “The king so promised.”
“Uh-huh. Please don’t take this the wrong way—”
“Shall I now expect to hear something offensive? Because that invariably follows ‘don’t take this the wrong way’.”
Damn! She even nailed my accent. Hearing my Midwestern twang come out of Lady Carey’s mouth was beyond hilarious.
“All right, that was terrific, but didn’t the king also promise to love you forever and ever?”
“Not once,” she replied cheerfully, “not even as he thrashed in the throes.” She was remarkably angst-free for someone who was used by a narcissist, forced to birth to at least one bastard, then was chucked for her sister. “He only wanted what the king of France had. Rather like a child who has no interest in a toy unless another child touches it. Le roi a un amour: lui-même.2”
“Oh.” In a sudden fit of insecurity, I didn’t want Mary Boleyn, secret genius, to realize I had no idea what she just said. “I see.”
“I am not sure you do, Lady Joan, but your angels see, and they surely know that the king, though a great man, is not a perfect one.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“And
I say this with all respect due my sovereign lord: Henry has proved intractable and capricious in the past, which is rather a good trick, don’t you find? I pray nightly he has outgrown those most unfortunate traits. Surely he has?”
When I said nothing despite her hard stare—what could I say?—she added, “I note you are not contradicting me. My poor sister.”
“I can’t—”
“And here we are!” We’d passed through several more halls and were now on the far end of the castle, where a number of people were bustling about in what looked like a gigantic dining room minus the table. “Halloooo, Will! Look who I’ve brought you!”
Wow! Smart and efficient. It took Cromwell twice as long to cover the same distance. From now on, I wanted Mary Tudor to be my escort wherever I was. Windsor. The Tower. Various malls. The post office.
“Very well: I am presaged. One more thing,” she muttered, the dazzling smile never wavering as she beckoned and Will wandered over. “I’ve no love for His Grace my uncle, and so this warning: he very much liked being the only Duke at court with Henry’s ear. Of course, there is also Richmond, but he hardly counts, for all he insists he is a man grown. My uncle will not thank you for getting Suffolk back.”
I looked at her. “That’s kind of you.”
“Not really.” An elegant shrug. “You don’t strike me as the type to hold your tongue; I am certain you shall find trouble again. I only wish to point out where it is most likely to originate.”
She was right. Hell, I was lucky I’d made it out of Henry’s chambers of my own free will (more or less). He could have had me locked up, and then poor Amy! And me. Poor, poor me.
I actually swayed a little on my feet as the adrenaline rush at last began to fade. And Will Sommers didn’t like the look of me at all, judging from the way he lunged for a basin (no table in the dining room, but chairs and at least one basin for some reason?). Three seconds later, I was throwing up, but at least I wasn’t barfing all over the court jester.
As far as victories went, it was a small one.
* * *
2The king has one love: himself.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Amy Donovan, as it turned out, was a high-functioning alcoholic.
Thank God.
“Aw, don’t feel bad. I throw up in public alla time. I threw up twice just today! An’ it’s, what? Like, not even noon?” She shared this with me while I was scrubbing my tongue with Will Sommers’ handkerchief. “That ale they got here, that’s got some real kick to it but they keep tryin’ ta water it down, which—yuck! Okay? Does that help?”
“Oddly, yes.”
Amy Donovan, audacious T.G.I.F. manager, was another blonde with brown eyes, bouncy and energetic and drunk off her ass. Unlike other Losties, she was neither confused nor frightened. Well, she was a little confused, but she was putting it down to stumbling across a Renaissance Fair crammed with staff who committed to their art.
“I shouldn’t a snuck away from the tour, but Jesus, I can only look at so many churches in one morning, y’know?”
“I understand.”
“And look how great it worked out!”
“Uh-huh. Great. Yes.”
And the best part, according to her? “Everything’s free!” she exclaimed, swinging her mug to emphasize her point. From obvious practice, Will ducked and avoided the splash. “You don’t have to pay for anything and everyone’s so nice and we’re gonna be in a play tomorrow for some reason and the guy playing the king is gonna love it and then after it’s done summa the girls and I are gonna play skittles, whatever that is. Are ya staying?”
“Yes.”
“You gotta stay.”
“Yes. I’m aware.” And more than that—I saw now what Will meant when he had described Amy: delightful and quite enthusiastic. I hadn’t realized that was TudorTime code for “friendly and relaxed drunk up for anything”.
I was so relieved she was intact and unburnt, I figured the best thing was to leave it to the I.T.C.H. gang to disabuse her of her RenFair fantasy once we were safe. No telling how she’d react if I explained the vast amount of danger we were in. By pure luck, her choice of church-viewing attire was outlandish to Tudor eyes but not indecent: Amy was a fan of long cotton skirts, long-sleeved blouses, no jewelry, and her shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a braid. It could have been worse; she could have chosen shorts, sandals, and a Rolling Stones t-shirt cut above the midriff.
“If anything, her accent is harder to fathom than yours, Lady Joan,” Will snarked. “But we can accommodate.”
“What are you planning for us, Will?” Mary asked. She seemed terribly amused by Amy and/or by Will’s bitchiness, and her bright gaze missed nothing. “Something that will please my sister, I trust.”
“Doubtful; her plays have a streak of cruelty I find off-putting and blunt. Especially ironic when you consider she fancies herself a most subtle player.”
From around us, a chorus of muffled gasps and whispers of, “Will!” and “Take care, for the sake of God … and your head!”
“Fool’s prerogative,” he retorted to the muttering few. “And how is it none of you can hear me when I’m critiquing your performance, but you follow every word out of my mouth in a private conversation?”
“The Cardinal Goes To Hell,” I remembered out loud. That had won Anne few friends when word got around. Except for her inner circle, most people found a play celebrating Wolsey’s fall and descent into Hell to be in poor taste (go figure!), even those who had been fine with Wolsey’s death.
“Further proof that women have no sense of humor.” Will shrugged. “I am certain by comparison my modest effort will seem quite dull,” he added with touching modesty.
“We’re all quite dull when compared to Anne,” Mary said with touching loyalty. “But it was kind of you to offer to write something new, the better for her to rest. You could have fobbed it off on John Heywood.”
“An hour of nothing followed by yet more nothing? I should die first.”
“I thought you liked John.”
“When have I said otherwise? Thomas More’s nephew by marriage,” he told me. “But his plays run too long and they have nothing to say. About anything. Which many people choose to believe is bold, but in actuality? Simply tedious.”
Mental note: Seinfeld didn’t invent a show about nothing. The things I learn while time-traveling!
“Still, it was kind of you to take on the task. Anne has enough to fret about.”
“No kindness. Merely the proper order of things. I refrain from telling her how to be queen; she need not tell me how to fool,” Will sniffed.
Mary laughed. “Now, Will …”
Jesus, who cares about any of this? “Where are you sleeping tonight?” I asked Amy, who was topping off her mug again. “Did they tell you? Do you want to stay in my rooms?” My adorable, beautiful rooms which would, I hoped, be filled with snacks upon my return, and perhaps some turkey legs.
“That will not do, Lady Joan,” Mary said firmly. “I mean no offense, but you are gentle, while your companion …”
“For today at least, she is one of our own and we shall see to her needs. The troupe has ample quarters near the kitchens, and Amy will have her own bed.”
“And my own drink, right, Sommers?” Amy gave him an elbow in the ribs that nearly knocked the slender man over. “Don’t sweat it, Joanie.” Ugh. That nickname had better not catch on here; I barely tolerated it when Lisa used it. “I’ll be fine. Won’t be worse than camping in parks.”
I almost giggled at the Bostonism (“pahks”), but restrained myself. And I wanted to ask Mary how she had come to insist I was a lady and Amy wasn’t—the clothing? The fact that I wasn’t drunk? Surely it wasn’t Amy’s accent. To Tudor ears, we sounded equally awful. But there was a fine line between playing dumb and appearing suspiciously stupid, so I l
eft it alone.
“I guess I’ll leave you to it,” I said, and I realized just then how tired I was. The day wasn’t just catching up with me, it was ganging up on me, and I turned to Mary. “Would you mind taking me to my rooms? This place is a maze and I’d love a nap.”
“Not at all. Lovely to meet you, Amy. Will, I know it’s a cliché, but it really is always a pleasure to see you.”
“Of course it is,” he agreed.
“Thanks for looking after Amy for me, Will. It was nice seeing you again.”
“Lady Joan. Lady Carey.”
We left, and there weren’t words for the extent of my relief. The end was finally in sight, we were (relatively) safe, and I had a guaranteed roof over my head for the next several hours. Nothing frightened me more as a child than wondering where I would sleep after The After.
It’s not like being a Tudor hanger-on was akin to checking into a Marriott. Someone had to tell me or, better, show me where I’d sleep, when and what I’d be allowed to eat, and where, and at what times, and when bathroom breaks were appropriate, and when I could wander around by myself and when I had to have an escort … and that was just off the top of my head. There were a thousand unwritten rules and I didn’t know any of them. But there was one advantage, as Amy pointed out: money wasn’t an issue.
Which was good, because TudorTime didn’t take Visa.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I will give the Tudors praise for one thing and only one thing: they invented breakfast. Don’t ask me why breakfast didn’t officially happen earlier than the 16th century; I have no idea. Leave it to the House of Tudor to take the “two meals a day? naw, we want three, and if you don’t like it, say goodbye to your head” road.
All that to say this was a wonderful breakfast, partly because it was ceremonial and thus fancy, but mostly because of the blancmange quivering on a serving platter. It wasn’t the dessert you’re thinking of, either; in fact, I’d never had anything like it. It was a sort-of stew with fish and flour mixed with rosewater, cinnamon and some other spices (saffron?), then pressed into a mold and cooked. I know the combo sounds odd, but after my first startled mouthful I got a taste for it. The bland fish contrasted nicely with the cinnamon, the flour gave it heft, and the rosewater somehow made it all work.
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 15