There was also almond milk to drink, which I found out when I took a gulp and sputtered, “This is almond milk!”
“Have you never had such a thing?” Cromwell asked indulgently. He, Henry, Anne, Mary, Cromwell, and various servants were all glancing at me with various expressions of “aw, isn’t that cute?” which, while annoying, was vastly preferable to “off with her head!”, so I shut up about it. I considered, and rejected, telling Cromwell that almond milk was so trendy in the 21st century I’d had to go out of my way to avoid the stuff. Milk is milk. Almond milk is not. Soy milk is not. Nor is cashew milk. And don’t talk to me about lupin milk.
But I was happy to slurp it down, since there was only so much ale and wine I could handle before 8:00 a.m. Small wonder Amy Donovan was thriving here. She probably didn’t even have a hangover. I was beginning to suspect metabolizing alcohol with no ill effects was her superpower.
There were more than half a dozen offerings on the sprawling table, including a bowl of oranges and early apples that perfumed the air, but Mary Boleyn and Cromwell both apologized for the “meagre offering”. My new motto: bring on more meagre! Because among other things, I was enjoying some sort of savory pie with buttery lumps of seafood swimming in leeks, parsnips, and a creamy gravy, and all of it tucked under a flaky crust with so many layers it shattered on my tongue.
There was also more of that tender manchet bread served with butter and sage, and a tray of cold leftovers I was told were peacock and lark. (Before you ask, peacocks don’t taste like chicken. Larks might. I didn’t try them because they reminded me of a blue crab: lots of work for very little reward. Like artichokes.)
Then there was a custard tart that had been baked so gently, the pudding shivered in its crust and the smell of nutmeg and sugar made me think of Christmas. A good Christmas, one before The After.
Add to this wine, ale, and plates of smoked herring and hazelnuts, and I didn’t even care that forks hadn’t been invented yet. Spoons and knives and bare hands were more than acceptable, even when breaking the fast with a king and a future Marquis de Pembroke. Plus, Mary Boleyn was kind enough to procure a knife for me (everyone else carried theirs around with them, because you never knew when you might have to slice up a peacock).
This might sound out of character, but despite my satisfying culinary experience the day before, I initially hesitated before plowing into the food. Not from indifference, either; I’d woken up positively raging for a meal.
Wait.
I’ll back up.
After Mary brought me back to my rooms, she summoned my maids pro tem, whose names I had forgotten because there wasn’t a Tudor TV show or book about them, and left me to their tender care. Which mostly consisted of them pleading with me to change my clothes for tomorrow’s ceremony, and me gently telling them to buzz off. They (finally) left, threatening—er, promising—to return in the morning to help me get ready.
Possibly the most unexpected thing about that long, long day: the bed was surprisingly comfortable and I slept so soundly I didn’t remember my dreams. That’s always a good thing.
In the morning, the maids returned with fresh water for a quick-and-dirty sponge bath. Not to worry: I’d brushed out my hair, stuffed it back under the cap, and had the wig in place before I let them in. They came in with a basin full of fresh water in which sage, rosemary, and orange peels floated, and there was a separate, smaller bowl to rinse my teeth and spit into. Since my mouth tasted like I’d been sucking on dirty cotton, the latter was particularly welcome, as was the clean cloth they gave me to scrub my teeth, the mint they encouraged me to use as chaw, the clean towel, and the olive oil soap to scrub my hands and face.
I was careful with my morning ablutions, not just for my own sake, but because I knew Henry famously loathed bad smells and filth in general. For the times, he was practically a fanatic. I’d avoid him if I could, but if I had to be around him, I’d rather he got pissed at what I said than what I smelled like.
The girls tried yet again to talk me into a new outfit, employing the But What About The Mean Girls argument, which fell on deaf/indifferent ears.
“The Lady prefers those about her to be—to be most stylish,” Gwyn began. “In the French fashion. Your gown is—is very nice, but it is somewhat, er, out of style. More like what Queen Catherine wears. Which is also very nice. But the Lady Anne …”
Parker picked up the ball. “And her friend Lady Eleanor can be—can, at times—”
“Ladies, thank you, but I don’t care about Lady Eleanor’s opinion on anything, especially clothing. I’m wearing what I’m wearing. Trust me, this is Anne Boleyn’s big day; nobody’s going to care about what’s on my back. And even if they did …” I shrugged. “Who cares? It’s clothing.”
They looked at each other, then at me. I had a brief moment of panic, which Parker alleviated with, “You do us too much honor, Lady Joan. We are not gentle.”
Argh, archaic class systems! “You’re helping a stranger and being nice to me. It could be argued that the first part is your job, but the second isn’t. You’re also trying to help me fit in, which is over and above. As far as I’m concerned, you’re ladies. Did everybody follow that? My accent’s not in the way? Great. Now point me in the direction of wherever it is I’m supposed to be and stand back. Unless you think I need an escort. In which case, go get my escort, please.”
Thus, twenty minutes later I was staring down the blancmange-that-wasn’t-dessert and recalling a few home truths.
They don’t have the FDA here. Or pasteurization. There’s no Department of Health and Human Services. No Food Standards Agency. This could be Grade E beef. Or Grade A rat.
Yes, but … you have to eat.
So I took a bite, and damn! That’s good Grade A rat! (I found out later it was whitefish.) And later, when I had time to think about it, I realized I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Food couldn’t be transported any great distance in TudorTime, or frozen, so by necessity we were eating pesticide-free fresh food. If the consequence of an extra slice of custard tart and bonus blancmange was a tapeworm or E. coli, I’d deal with it then.
Anne rose to excuse herself as I restrained myself from licking the crumbs off my plate, so everyone else stood, too. (Though that may have been because as soon as Anne’s butt was off the chair by a bare inch, Henry had leaped to his feet. Even I knew that when the king stands, everyone stands.)
“I shall see you soon, my own sweetheart,” he promised, kissing her hand. His beard must have tickled her knuckles, because she smiled. “My darling Marquess.”
She nodded, then looked at me. “No more future Marquis de Pembroke, eh, holy fool?”
“I guess not. And please call me Joan. And I’ll call you Marquess. But not for long.”
She beamed, and it transformed her. Here was a woman who had made ambition her watchword, and to see her closing in on her years-long goal was to see her come alive. Which was all the more awful when I remembered where her bred-in-the-bone ambition would take her.
Luckily I didn’t have to think about it any longer, because Anne left with a casual “Come, Mary,” and headed for the door without bothering to glance back to see if she was being followed. Mary—the luckiest of the Boleyns, and wouldn’t she be surprised to know it!—forced a demure smile and joined her sister.
“My lady Joan, I trust you and your angels found the fare acceptable?”
“Oh, yes! Thank you so much for a very fine meal, King Henry,” I replied, and for once I was being sincere. He was, after all, my host. And the custard was, after all, exquisite. “Everything I ate was better than the last thing I ate!”
He threw his head back and guffawed at the ceiling, which put broad smiles on everyone else’s face. Henry Tudor was someone who, when he let loose with a belly laugh, you couldn’t help laughing yourself, or at least grinning like a dolt. I knew this because my mouth was sore f
rom grinning like a dolt.
“Lady Joan,” he said, still chuckling, “you are the best of guests: a holy maid who serves my kingdom and is grateful for the simplest things.”
“Thanks. Could I maybe wrap some simple things in a napkin for later? Like a medieval doggy bag?”
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“Never mind.”
“His Grace the Duke of Suffolk!”
I nearly dropped my cup. How are they so loud without megaphones? It’s got to be sorcery.
“Too late to break the fast, Charles!” was Henry’s boisterous greeting when a man almost as big and broad entered the room and bowed. “And Lady Joan has finished the custard tart.”
I looked up from where I definitely wasn’t chasing crumbs to pop in my mouth. “Is that my cue to apologize, King Henry? Because I won’t apologize.”
“Unrepentant wretch,” he said, blue eyes twinkling. My, someone was in a good mood. Was he thinking he’d get laid once the future Marquis de Pembroke was a current Marquis de Pembroke? Because that was hilarious. Anne wouldn’t give it up until Calais, and that was weeks from now. Ha!
“Majesty,” the Duke said to his toes, still in a reverential bow.
“A fine morning to you, Charles,” Henry replied, and the Duke looked up at the friendly greeting with a tentative smile.
Charles Brandon, as I’d noticed when he entered, was almost Henry’s equal in size, with brown eyes, a full beard, a fleshy nose, and a small, red mouth. He was so broad he probably had trouble walking through normal-sized doorways, and was dressed in rich robes trimmed with fur and gold. They were peers, close to the same age. They’d grown up together, as I’d reminded Henry.
“Welcome back to court, Charles.”
“A great pleasure to return. Your Majesty is generous.”
Henry let out a regal snort (if there was such a thing). “Your thanks are due to the Lady Joan, my holy fool …”
No. No. No. I wasn’t ‘your’ anything, Hank.
“… who was good enough to refresh my memory on certain points.”
“Your reputation as a good woman guided by God precedes you, my lady, and you have my gratitude,” he replied, and I got a bow, too.
“Your Grace, I was happy to help,” I replied, trying not to preen the way Henry did when someone gave him a compliment. I have to admit, although my (laughable) plan was originally to avoid history’s major players if at all possible, Brandon was someone I didn’t mind running into. “Modesty forces me to point out it was the king’s decision.”
“The lady is too kind,” Henry said, and ugh, he looked like a red-headed frog when he puffed up like that. “How does my sister, the Dowager Queen of France?”
At once, Brandon’s smile fell away. “Alas, she was too ill to make the trip. She sends her warmest good wishes to Your Majesty.”
There was a short silence, and I realized Henry was looking at me. Waiting, actually. Then I got it. “I’m sorry your wife is sick,” I told the Duke, because she was. But I knew why Henry thought she might be shamming to get out of showing up for Anne’s big day. Mary Tudor had been a loyal ally of Queen Catherine and would be until the end, one of the few who wasn’t afraid to get in Henry’s face and tell him he was making a fool of himself. But she was starting to die, probably from tuberculosis. “And I’m sorry to say it’ll get worse before it gets better.” A lot worse. And by “better” I meant she’d die, and be out of her pain, and wouldn’t have to live in a world where a Dowager Queen of France had to give precedent to the diplomat’s daughter who had shoved her sister-in-law off the throne of England.
“Ah, that grieves me,” Henry said, and to his credit, he sounded genuinely sorrowful. “Charles, I shall send my best physician to see to her; you could both leave on the morrow and be at Westhorpe by sundown.”
“Ours is very fine, Harry, and frequently attends Her Grace my wife,” the Duke replied gently. “And I believe it is no longer a matter for physicians.”
“Perhaps not, but you will not leave us without some of my special medicines,” he ordered. “I have used them myself; they will do her much good.”
“Thank you, Harry.”
“That’s really nice of you,” I added, because it was.
“… my beautiful baby sister.” Then the king seemed to come back to himself with a curt nod. “And now if you will excuse me, I need to see to the last of the preparations. Crum, with me, if you please.” And he was off in a swirl of robes and jewelry, probably to micro-manage the florist or threaten to behead the caterer. No time for sick sisters; he had a Marquis to make! And Thomas Cromwell was right behind him, ready to do everything except tuck Anne into bed with the king. And maybe that, too, depending on how things went today.
I was idly glancing around and wondering where I should go until the ceremony started when I realized Charles Brandon was standing beside me, though I’d never heard him move. Large men who move quietly are uniquely frightening; I always want to hang bells on them.
“Lady Joan, I heard about what you said,” the stealthy giant told me in a low voice.
“Well, I already told the king I wouldn’t apologize. I’m sure the cook would make another custard tart if you asked.”
“Ah. No.” He cocked his head and studied me for a few seconds. “They told me you were different.” Who the hell was they? Cromwell? Thomas Wynter? How long had the Duke been in the building? “I explained myself poorly. I meant to say I heard about what you told Harry yesterday. That I would have been his best friend even if he was a kennelman’s get.”
“Yessss,” I replied cautiously, though I believe I said cook’s boy. Was this a trap? Or just a friendly conversation?
“You had it exactly right,” he said with peculiar emphasis, like he couldn’t believe someone understood this basic fact of his life. “I always liked Harry for himself, even when he—ah—never mind. But you do not hail from our shores, and we have never met. I would have remembered,” he added with (it must be said) a roguish smile.
Given that Charles Brandon had a reputation for 1) genial stupidity and 2) inveterate womanizing, I doubted that was true. He had a great grin, though.
“No, Your Grace. We’ve never met. I just—I just knew things about you.” Also, Henry Cavill played you in The Tudors and what to say to that except yum-yum-yum? “I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”
“Indeed, no.” He’d been leaning in, speaking in a low, intimate voice, but now he straightened to his full height and beamed down at me. “In point of fact, I am in your debt. If not for your kind intervention, I may have gone many more months outside Henry’s regard. The king is … I know he wished me back at court, but … outside influences … ah …”
“But you’re back now,” I said brightly. “So no need to dwell. Right?”
He caught on a little quicker this time, nodding before I’d finished my sentence. “Just so, Lady Joan. The past is the past, and best left there, don’t you find?”
For a moment I thought I was going to burst out laughing, but I reminded myself the custard tart was gone and retained my sober mien. The Duke was still talking, so he likely hadn’t noticed my brief internal wrestling match. “I only wished to convey my gratitude. And … to ask … are your angels—is there anything else you wish to convey?”
Be nice to your wife. She’ll be dead within the year. “Just cherish your loved ones. But that’s good advice for all of us, don’t you think?”
“Just so,” he agreed, and smiled again, and damn. Charisma was like porn: it was hard to quantify, but you knew it when you saw it. Brandon had buckets of it.
“Your Grace, welcome back to court,” someone snapped, and we both looked up. Mary Boleyn had swept back into the room, eyes narrow and mouth tight. There was a handprint on the side of her face that got redder while we watched. I decided against telling her
she sounded exactly like her sister when she raised her voice. “I know the king is overjoyed you have returned to us.”
“Thank you, Lady Carey.” The Duke shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked everywhere but Mary’s face. “How go the, uh, preparations?”
“Well in hand.” She touched her cheek and grimaced, and I had to bite my lip so I wouldn’t smirk at the pun that sailed over the Duke’s head. “As it turns out, my sister does not require my assistance so I thought I would see to the Lady Joan.”
What? Don’t drag me (further) into this!
“Yes, well. I am glad you are, ah, well. Both of you, I mean. Well, both of you and Henry. The king. So all three of you. Are well. Which is very fine.” Charles Brandon, who didn’t hesitate to lay waste to the north of France back in the day, was literally backing away from the aftermath of a cat fight. “I must see to my, um. And so farewell, ladies.”
“Coward,” I muttered as the doors slammed shut behind him, and Mary Boleyn giggled.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Wow. That looks nasty. C’mere.” Mary trudged over to me while I rooted through the detritus on the table and found clean water and a clean(ish) towel. I dipped the towel, then tipped her chin up and pressed the damp cloth to her face. She hissed and closed her eyes in relief at the same time. “Stings like crazy, I know. A slap actually hurts more than a fist. The surface area of contact is larger, and it’s just as disorienting as a punch.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Joan, I cannot understand what you are saying.”
“Your sister’s a bitch.”
She snorted against my palm. “They have such creatures where you come from?”
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 16