A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

  “No, I know you haven’t been lovers. In the clinical sense, I mean.”

  “Oh!” She smiled. “So God knows I have been pure.”

  “Uh, no, God knows you’ve been with Henry Percy. And I’m not even going to bring up Thomas Wyatt.” Risky, but I had to reinforce her belief that I was otherworldly guided. Because it was happening again. And I didn’t know why. Nor did I know for sure about Wyatt—there were rumors of an affair, but it had never been confirmed for the historical record, which is why I didn’t dare get into specifics.

  What I did know? I had something to fix. Again.

  When she spoke, I had to listen closely as she forced each word out through gritted teeth. “Do. Not. Repeat. That. To anyone.”

  “Do I look like the Spanish Ambassador to you? I’m no gossip.” This was also true, but not because I was morally opposed. There was a time when gossip would have finished me. Literally destroyed life as I knew it. So I rarely indulged. “I’ve had plenty of time to spread that word, and you know I haven’t. You think I care what you did back in the day? I absolutely don’t.”

  She’d smiled—well, bared her teeth—at my mention of Eustace Chapuys, Spanish ambassador and inveterate gossip and tale-teller. His bitchy letters to Emperor Charles were one of the reasons why we knew so much about what happened in TudorTime. “And so?”

  “And so you need to give in to Henry during the Calais trip.”

  She was already shaking her head. “No and no and no.”

  “I think one ‘no’ would have—”

  “All I have is my honor, poor thing though it is, and the knowledge that no matter what they say of me, I was never a whore like my sister.”

  “Wow.”

  “Even if they never believe it, I will know, and His Majesty and my family will know, I will not give myself to the king until I am the queen.”

  I opened my mouth again but she cut me off. “Seven years, Joan. The better part of a decade. Only to—what? Toss it all out the window? Risk everything with an illegitimate son?”

  “No and no and no?” I guessed.

  I got a grim nod for that one. “I can wait a few more months. Archbishop Warham is a frail ancient; when he dies, and I pray it will be soon—do not look shocked, I am not the only one who prays for such a thing—Henry will appoint Cranmer as his new Archbishop and we shall be married. I can wait. And Henry, though he would say otherwise, can wait, too.”

  I saw it, then. The way to convince her—she was a harder sell than Henry, so I needed that edge. She wouldn’t immediately bend just because I told her what she wanted to hear.

  “Warham’s dead,” I said flatly. “A few days ago.”

  She sat. Hard. Thank goodness there was a chair there! “That is not yet public knowledge,” she managed, trying—and failing—to hide how I had taken her by surprise. I was also trying to hide my reaction—my relief—that the gamble worked. I only had a vague idea that Warham died in August; I couldn’t remember when. “Less than a dozen people know; the official announcement will not come until we are prepared.”

  “He’s dead,” I said again. “I know that like I know you need to give it up in Calais. The future of the greatest monarch England has ever seen depends on it.”

  “Ah.” She straightened in her chair. She smiled. She glowed. And I felt like an utter shit. Because she would make assumptions I wouldn’t correct. Because she was a woman ahead of her time, but even she wouldn’t assume England’s greatest monarch could be a woman. (Fun fact: England’s other greatest monarch was also a woman. Ditto its longest-lived monarch.) “I see it now. This changes things.”

  “Besides, you’ve already made preparations.”

  “Have I, all-seeing fool?”

  “Occasional-seeing fool.” I picked up the Letter Patent and waved it at her. “’Heirs male of your body.’ That’s how it reads.” I was pretty sure. The thing looked like the Sunday jumble to my modern eyes. “Not ‘legitimate heirs male’. Even if you have a bastard, he’ll be a peer. Even if the king doesn’t marry you, you’re set for life and so are your children. And I know the wording of this thing wasn’t Henry’s idea. He wouldn’t dare put down in writing anything that even suggests he won’t marry you.” I waved it again. It made a great prop. “You’re hedging your bets because it’s been seven years and you’re still not queen. Give in to him, Anne. Because either way, you’re covered. You saw to that.”

  “Hand that back at once.” She snatched the letter away, carefully set it aside. “Fine. You are correct, I need to look after my own interests, and that of my children’s, and so I took appropriate steps. Some would call that mercenary.”

  “Some would call it smart.”

  “But I shall do as you say.” She sighed. “But not so much because you say it. In truth, I tire of waiting. It feels like a hundred years.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Fortunately, we do not require your imagination. Shall we?” She stood, running her hands all over herself and patting her hair in case anything was out of place. Nothing was. “That is an awful sound your stomach is making. It’s a wonder you can hear your angels with all that internal rumbling.”

  “I’m hoping for more custard.”

  Eye roll. “I am sure we can accommodate. Come along. And if you find yourself back with us in time for Calais, I pray you join us.”

  Pass. Really didn’t need to be on the trip where two of the most egotistical people I’d ever met got sweaty and coital for the first time.

  “I guess we’ll see what happens.”

  “Why must you be either unnervingly precise or maddeningly vague, and nothing in-between?”

  “It’s part of my mystique?” I guessed, and she laughed at me.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Banquets, by definition, are exhausting. It takes hours, you eat, you drink, you get sleepy, you eat and drink more. It’s inevitable.

  Not this one, though.

  For one thing, this banquet wasn’t divvied up into courses. The servants didn’t start with appetizers and work their way to dessert. Instead they were bringing in roasts and pies and cheese and fish and candied fruit, so you never knew what you were going to get. What was next, saffron meatballs or marzipan? Mallard or scones? Who could get sleepy with that set-up? The next course could be the TudorTime version of French Silk Pie! Or turkey legs!

  Guests were seated on one side of the table, which at first struck me as wasteful, but after a few minutes I realized the servers needed the extra room to bring in and take away all the platters of food. I had the, um, honor of being at the king’s table with Anne, Henry, Cromwell, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk, and a couple of others I didn’t know.

  And one I did.

  “Oh, darling, that gown? Again?”

  “Nice to see you, too, Eleanor.”

  “Lady Eleanor.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “So there’s that,” Anne mimicked, and she and Mary Boleyn giggled, locking eyes and behaving like sisters for the first time.

  Eleanor, who had doubtless been preparing some verbal evisceration, took another look at the Boleyn girls and switched tactics. “I do wish you would allow me to assist you, my dear, dear Lady Joan. One of my maids is a wonder with hair, and I have some old gowns I should be happy to lend.”

  “I don’t care about that, either.” Hmm. Better not push my luck. “Though it’s kind of you to offer.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “Take care, fool,” Anne warned. “Your country may well suffer customs that differ from ours, but surely they understand the concept of courtesy.”

  “They understand the concept,” I admitted. “It’s the execution that needs work.”

  Eleanor laughed at that—a genuine laugh, I think—and we both silently agreed to back off each other. Which was perfect from a tim
ing standpoint, as the next course was being carried in.

  “Do you find—”

  “Turkey legs, turkey legs, they’re bringing out turkey legs turkey legs!”

  “It is of no use, Master Cromwell,” Anne explained while Henry started laughing. “She is deeply enamored of food.”

  “I like what I like,” I replied, wondering if it was uncouth to wave the servers over. If it was socially acceptable, I’d be guiding them to me like a ground crewman waving in a 747. “Let me guess—you’re one of those people who only eat for sustenance.”

  “It is only sustenance.” She sniffed and tossed her small, sleek head. “Hardly important in the larger scheme.”

  “Tell me that when you’ve had to go to bed without supper a few times, with no idea if there’ll be breakfast when you wake up.”

  I was so busy forking a turkey leg onto my platter (after furtive glances revealed people only helped themselves to one at a time, dammit) I didn’t realize everyone had gone quiet. I looked up and saw something astonishing: Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII looking at me with clear sympathy.

  “God’s regard can be a burden, Lady Joan, as Job himself would attest,” Anne pointed out kindly. “But he only asks much of those whom He values, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I suppose that’s true.” I wasn’t going to get into The After with any of these people. Irrelevant, and ancient history centuries from now. “But I think even someone who never missed a meal would love this banquet, Anne.”

  (I hadn’t realized my slip, but later Mary Boleyn told me everyone at the table had been shocked when Anne didn’t loudly and violently correct my use of her first name. Which was good to know, but jeez! Who could worry about niceties when the capon with lemon sauce was being served? And fried oranges? Fried oranges! I didn’t know oranges were a thing you could fry!)

  While the devouring went on, Will Sommers and his troupe were performing some kind of skit I had trouble following. It was a little like Robin Hood if the titular character had a limp and yelled at the king about the futility and folly of the Trojan War. Or maybe he was praising the king about the Trojan War? No idea, and it didn’t matter. What did matter was that I could see Amy having a wonderful time and getting her fair share of laughs, so the end was finally in sight.

  Which was 1) fine and 2) dandy for all sorts of reasons. One, we’d been here too long. Hours and hours and hours too long. Even if we made it back without a scratch, my luck wasn’t going to hold every time.

  Two, I’d had to fix history again, twice in one trip. Without my time travel blundering, Henry would have choked to death last year. Or, if he hadn’t, Catherine would have brought the Emperor’s soldiers into the King’s Private Bullshit this year. Or, if she hadn’t, Elizabeth I would not have been conceived next month.

  Madness, all of it, and I refused to believe my role in society was to put Elizabeth Tudor on the throne after saving her wretch of a dad from choking to death. Something else was going on, which meant I needed to solve the mystery or come clean to I.T.C.H. Neither sounded a bit palatable (unlike the turkey leg). And speaking of I.T.C.H., they had to be worried. I’d never been gone this long. And I didn’t want to think about what my roommate was going through.

  For God’s sake, was I going to eventually find myself in the historical record, a paragraph somewhere about a random holy fool with a terrible wig and worse fashion sense who saved Henry’s life?

  No. And check it—the skit was over, everyone was taking their bows, Anne and Henry were gazing into each other’s eyes for some reason, servants were running to and fro, Mary Boleyn was flirting with a fellow wearing a lot of shiny things on his jacket, Lady Eleanor had done a fade, and the delightful chaos was the perfect time to leave.

  “Oh, hey!” Amy was happy to see me—and when I thought about it, the one nice thing about TudorTime (aside from the food) is that most people seemed delighted when I turned up. “Hey, it’s you, Foolio!”

  “My name is not Foolio. I’m Henry’s holy fool.” Oh my God, what the hell did I just say? “Forget that. Forget I said that. And never speak of it. Ever. To anyone. Please?”

  “Didja see me up there?” She gestured with her mug to the front of the room; ale flew like rain. “Ha, and they let me wear my regular clothes so I’d look crazy!”

  “Brilliant. You’re the next Olivier. Time to go.” I gently seized her by the elbow and started plowing through the chaos. “I have to say, Amy, you’ve been a hell of a good sport about all of this.”

  “Nuh-uh … it’s fun! But prob’ly I should get back to my family. They don’t like the, y’know, my drinking, but the headaches c’n get really—I should get back.”

  “We are on the same page one hundred percent.” We were clear of the hall by now, headed for the exit and sweet, sweet freedom (and, eventually, sweet, sweet 21st century air pollution). I spared a brief moment of mourning for the stash of sugar postage stamps I’d left in my rooms. “And I’m taking the fact that our departure caused no notice as a very good ow jeez!”

  I’d seized Amy, and then someone had seized me while I was babbling.

  “Not so fast, lass.” For a guy nearing his 90th birthday, the Duke of Norfolk had a grip like a python. “I need a word.”

  Aaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhh!

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “Hello, Your Grace.”

  “Fool, I cannot fathom what it is you think you’re playing at—”

  “This is Amy, by the way.”

  “—but the king needs to keep his feet on the ground—”

  “She’s pleased to meet you.”

  “—and bend an ear to long-time loyal servants of the Crown—”

  “And I’m sure you’re pleased to meet her.”

  “—which necessitates spending less time listening to whey-faced fools, whether they be holy or not!”

  “And now that the pleasantries are over, Your Grace, what can I do for you?”

  “Halt!”

  “Halt? Seriously?”

  He’d hollered that last because we were still headed for the exit. The only difference was, now I was dragging two people. Norfolk was strong, but not heavy, probably because he was 95% gristle.

  And something else … I noticed there wasn’t anyone around. No guards, no servants, no musicians, no loiterers. He’d either sent everyone away or chosen his moment carefully. Neither boded well for Amy or me.

  “Are you deaf, fool? Stop!”

  I stopped and glared. If I was a gauge, the needle would be edging into the red. “I don’t have time for this.” Good God, the exit was right there. Right there. “We have to go.”

  I turned and he tightened his grip on my wrist. “Do not turn your back on a peer of the realm!”

  “Shhhh,” Amy whispered. She’d gone pale and was rubbing her forehead. “You guys. C’mon. M’gettin’ headache.”

  “Small wonder. We call those hangovers in Merka.”

  “Yeah, it’s not a hang—hey, are you trying to pronounce Ameri—”

  “We are leaving, Your Grace. Amy’s not well and we’re overdue. Have a nice day.”

  At this, the Duke of Disaster not only tightened his scrawny hold, he twisted my wrist, proving Americans didn’t invent the Indian Burn. “Now, girl, lend an attentive ear,” he snarled, and oh my God, the halitosis. “In future, you—what are you doing? God’s breath, that hurts!”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  My father held a black belt dan in aikido and got me started when I was six. I quit when I hit middle school, but took it up again after The After. It’s remarkably simple to learn, though it takes practice and I always get hungry after a class.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “Take your hands off me, fool!”

  “Yes, I don’t like being grabbed, either. It’s disrespectful, right? And cheap bullying, when you strip a
way the niceties.”

  “I’ll have my guards skin you screaming!” Which would have been a lot more intimidating if his face wasn’t mashed into the table.

  “I’ll be screaming or your guards will be screaming? I think that’s an important distinction.” I tightened my wrist lock and, because I’m a rotten bitch, smiled when he yelped. I had him face down on some sort of side table just to the left of the main entrance. Freedom: so near, so far. “And what will you say? ‘Help, help, guards! Come save me from this fool, a lone woman who has me at her mercy even though I’m a war hero!’ Yes, you should definitely summon them. They’ll drink on that story for a year.”

  “I—you—I—nnf—gggnnnn—”

  “If I let you up, will you behave?”

  No answer but the grinding of his teeth. Or he was unhinging his jaw. But he wasn’t hollering for his guards, and that was good enough.

  I let him out of the wrist lock, seized him by the (now sore) shoulder, yanked him back up. His face was so red he resembled a peeved tomato, his hooked nose was full of burst capillaries and I could see a vein throbbing at his temple. His blocky hands were balled into fists. He was still grinding his teeth.

  “In the future, Norfolk, do not touch me without permission. In the future, keep out of my way. In the future, brush your fucking teeth. All of those are equally important.”

  “I will see you in the Tower for this!”

  “Shut. Up.” I was about medium height for a 21st century American, and Norfolk was tall for a 16th century jerkass. He wasn’t used to being glared at by a woman at eye level, which was probably why he hadn’t stabbed me yet: pure astonishment at the goings-on. Or he was worried there’d be divine retribution for striking a holy fool. I wouldn’t get this lucky again, so I had to make it count. “If you don’t respect my, um, holy visions, at least respect the fact that your king and your future queen enjoy having me around and wouldn’t think much of your bullying. If you do that much, we can keep it civil. If you do that much, we can keep this between us. Provided you mind your manners in the future.”