Yes, it was fair to say that my confident mood held right up until I saw Teresa Lupez’s corpse.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Call me sheltered, but I had only ever seen one dead body—my mother. (My dad had been cremated; I saw him dying in the hospital, and then in an urn four days later.) And like everything about The After, I tried not to dwell on it.
So it was fair to say I was taken by surprise.
“Oh my God!”
“Your lamb,” Cromwell said with no ceremony, because he was a heartless prick.
“I thought—you said—she—you said—”
“I said she fell into the Thames, and she did. I said my men fished her out, and they did.”
I whirled on Cromwell, who was as calm as a clam. Not a hair out of place. By contrast, I felt like a sweaty hysterical wreck. “You inferred she was okay!”
“No. You inferred she was ‘okay’. Nor did I imply; that was simply your conclusion.” Because on top of everything else, Thomas Cromwell was a fucking grammar Nazi.
“Lord Cromwell, I must protest.” I’d never seen Thomas so angry: tight jaw, narrow eyes, hands into fists. He was, I realized, one of those people who got quieter when he was angry. (I was more the shouty type.) “You should have prepared the lady.”
“There we disagree, Master Wynter.”
“Oh-ho,” he replied slowly, fists relaxing. “No longer ‘Thomas’?”
“That depends on you, sir.”
I tuned out the TudorTime verbal bitch-slapping; I couldn’t stop staring at Teresa. She was wearing the shorts and t-shirt her folks had described to the police, but her clothing was torn, she was barefoot, and there were cuts on her face and long deep scratches on her arms. You didn’t have to be Kay Scarpetta to deduce she’d torn free of a mob and had been running for her life when she fell into the Thames. Or jumped. Or was thrown.
It suddenly occurred to me that the vaguely muddy, fishy, rotting vegetation smell was Teresa, and I had to grit my teeth to keep the barf back. When I was (kinda) sure I had my gorge under control, I turned to Cromwell. “You sneaky prick,” I marveled. “You set me up and marched me in. Why did you bring me here? Why not just tell me what happened?”
“She bears several witch’s marks.” He pointed to an immunization scar, and her belly button ring. “We should like you to explain them.”
“You don’t know what a piercing is?” I refused to believe that Thomas Cromwell, sneaky hatchet man and world traveler, had never seen a piercing before.
“I do not know why any lady would have such a thing there. To what purpose? No one would ever see it. Why punch a hole in your belly only to cover it up? Why would she make a mark, then hide a mark?”
“For the same reason sailors get tattoos! It’s something private for them and they decide who sees it. And what makes you think I know anything? I’ve never even met Teresa.”
Cromwell didn’t bother answering. “To that end, you are under arrest by order of the king.”
“Why?” I knew, but I wanted him to say it.
“Suspicion of witchcraft.”
Suspicion of bullshit, I managed not to say. “Oh, sure. When I make predictions the king likes, it’s God’s will. But he changed his mind about me when Elizabeth was born, didn’t he?”
“It is not for me to know the workings of the king’s mind.”
“Ha!”
Angry as he was, Cromwell smiled at that. Meanwhile, he was still self-righteously explaining himself. “Suffice it to say when I told him about your drowned lamb he ordered me to keep watch for you.”
“Lady Joan is not the king’s subject,” Thomas pointed out. “And is not subject to his—or your—jurisdiction.”
“How so? We only have her word for that.”
“Rude! And Thomas is right, I’m not from around here. Surely that’s obvious.”
“So then,” Cromwell continued, ignoring the interruption, “I am certain that her country of origin can be easily proved.” To me: “Surely you have papers or some such to prove your Merka citizenship. We should like to see them.”
As a matter of fact I did. But it wouldn’t help my case at all.
“I’ve done nothing wrong, and I think you know it, Cromwell.”
It was like I hadn’t spoken. Like I wasn’t in the room at all. “The king is preparing to go on progress with Queen Anne, but I have sent a page to inform him I have you in custody. I daresay he shall command an audience with you before he departs. For now, you are my guest.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“No. Merely courteous.”
“To think I felt sorry for you! I’m glad you’re broiling in velvet!”
Nothing. It was like yelling at a paperweight. No matter what you said, the thing just sat there wrapped in velvet and did its job.
Cromwell turned and left the room, except it wasn’t a room at all. It was a cell, and I realized three seconds too late that he was going to lock me in with Teresa’s corpse, which was as clever as it was heartless. However long I had to wait for the king, I’d be stuck staring at a dead body and wondering what Henry was going to do to me. It would rattle anybody.
“Fear not, Lady Jane. I shall remain with—hey!”
I’d seized Thomas by the arm and shoved him out into the corridor—the adrenaline surge had helped me pull a Hulk, because under ordinary circumstances I doubt I could have budged him. Then I grabbed the door and yanked it closed before Thomas could come back in with me.
“Bad enough I’m in here,” I told his shocked face. “I won’t have you in here, too. Especially when all you’re guilty of is being nice to me. Go home, Thomas.”
He’d seized the bars and I saw his knuckles whiten. “The hell I will!”
“Shut up. Don’t get yourself arrested for disturbing the peace of the Tower or whatever.” I put my hands over his. “There’s not one thing you can do for me and you know it. I’ll either convince Henry I’m not a witch, or I won’t. Anything else—anyone else—won’t be a factor. You know this.”
“I’m not leaving you,” he said, forehead already grooved in stubborn lines.
“Please please go. You don’t know—” How bad this could get. What Henry’s becoming. “Just go. Okay? Please.”
“I will not leave you.”
“Idiot.” No, it was safe to say Thomas Wynter didn’t know anything about the monster his king was becoming and I couldn’t enlighten him. All I could do was give him the advice I gave Lisa: “Keep clear.”
But he wouldn’t. When he saw Cromwell didn’t care either way, he settled on the chilly stone floor, got as comfortable as possible under the circumstance, and stuck his hand through the bars.
After a few seconds, I took it, and he held my hand and talked about growing up in Calais, his studies, and all the good food we were going to eat once I was back in Henry’s good graces. His tone never wavered from warm confidence, and his voice seemed to beat back the dark and gave me something to focus on besides Teresa’s corpse, until the guards came for me.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Hampton Court Palace is one of many Tudor palaces I didn’t bother visiting five hundred years from now.
So I didn’t expect to see it for the first time as a prisoner of the Crown while in the company of Thomas Cromwell, Cardinal Wolsey’s illegitimate son, and three guards, one of whom smelled like someone set a pound of garlic on fire.
Also, Thomas Wynter had the tenacity of a lamprey, because I could not shake him.
“If you will attend, please,” Cromwell said, pausing before the closed double doors to Henry’s chamber, and it was downright adorable how he couched compulsory commands as polite requests. No. Wait. It was irritating. Very, very irritating.
“Sure. Just me, though,” I said. “Other Thomas can go home, right, Other Thomas? Right. O
kay, bye!”
“I will not leave you.” This was the only thing he’d said since Cromwell’s guards came for me. And a good thing, because he was a little hoarse from gabbing half the afternoon away.
“Listen, you.” I grabbed his earlobe, tugged him down so I could hiss in his ear. “This is the nicest, dumbest thing anyone’s ever done for me but you are painting a target on your back, now go away, you gorgeous dolt!”
The presence of said target was, of course, entirely my fault, which is why I was still reeling over my stupidity. Gosh, if only Cromwell had a historical reputation for being a behind-the-scenes genius who employed treachery as needed and saw any number of innocents legally murdered OH WAIT. (I know, the ‘oh wait’ thing is dead and dated, but it fits here.)
And to think I’d felt prepared, felt in control just because I had the Tudor Version of the Farmer’s Almanac in my phone and ran into men who had been nice to me before. Idiot.
The doors were flung open and we walked in with the guards shrieking “Lord Cromwell! Master Wynter! The Lady Joan!” in the background, which I figured was the TudorTime equivalent of elevator music.
And there he was, Henry Tudor, wooer of women, slayer of elderly priests, abandoner of wives, de-legitimizer of children, devourer of pudding. He was seated on a short dais, the better to glare down at us, and his clothing was so ornate and puffed and slashed, I was willing to bet any blade under four inches wouldn’t penetrate his flesh. And speaking of his flesh, I was meanly glad to note he’d gained several pounds since I saw him last.
“Your Majesty.” From Cromwell. “May I present Thomas Wynter and the Lady Joan?”
Thomas bowed, and I knew they were both looking at me out of the corner of their eye.
(Do you even have to ask? Of course I didn’t bow.)
It was odd how calm I was. The thing I’d fretted about most—an accusation of witchcraft, the prospect of torture and an agonizing death—was happening. I didn’t have to be nervous about it now, I just had to survive it.
So it was good to remember that Henry Tudor, Waste of His Name, was used to gold medal ass-kissing. When unlucky citizens were hauled before him, they were, at best, tense. At worst, they were gibbering in terror while simultaneously giving up bladder control. Begging and pleading were no guarantee of leniency. Neither were pleas for forgiveness.
So.
“Hello, King Henry. How’s Princess Elizabeth? Congratulations, by the way.”
His beady blue eyes, already narrowed in pique, almost disappeared. I heard Thomas Wynter stifle a pained groan. Cromwell, of course, was a rock. A velvet-swathed rock. “We shall ask the questions, Lady Joan. What have you to say for yourself?”
“About what?” The weather? Your youngest daughter? Your queen pro tem? Speaking of, where was Anne?
Oh. Right. Dumb question … Henry wanted to know why I hadn’t warned him of one of the biggest disappointments of his life. With Anne in the room? Awkward.
“About the witch Cromwell’s men pulled from the Thames. What say you about that?”
“I say it’s disgusting she was beaten and pursued and murdered by a lawless mob. Is that how you do things here, King Henry? If you’re afraid of someone, if you don’t like how they look or what they’re wearing, you can kill her on sight? A woman alone, without protection?”
“Lady Joan! We will ask the questions.” Ugh, the royal we. The definition of pretentious. Though the way he squirmed was a good sign—he didn’t want to think of his people as a mob, or himself as a bad man. “You are here under suspicion of witchcraft.”
“Yes, but why now?”
“Furthermore, you—what?”
“Why didn’t you have me tossed in the Tower the last time you saw me? Or the time before that? And yes, I know—you’re asking the questions. So I’ll answer this one for you: you had no problem with ‘witchcraft’ when it benefited you.” Oh, hell. I just used air quotes in 1535. “Or did you forget I saved your life?”
“We have forgotten nothing.”
“Good to know. The only reason I’m in the Tower now is because you think I should have warned you about Elizabeth. If Anne had given you a son, you’d have given me a feast.”
“That is definitively untrue,” he declared, and I noticed he didn’t seem to have trouble understanding me. Either Lisa had a point about me picking up the accent or he just paid better attention when he was pissed. “But if it was so, why would you not warn me?”
“Why are you assuming I knew?”
“Because—because you—”
“What? Because I got it right twice, that must mean I know every single thing there is to know about anything? Every possible permutation of every moment of your life, and Catherine of Aragon’s, and Queen Anne’s?” Here’s hoping he doesn’t notice I didn’t deny knowing about the future Virgin Queen. “Is that how you think it works?”
“We know not how it works,” he said with more than a hint of petulance. “Which is why we sent for you.”
“Sent for me.” I laughed. “Is that what you call it?”
“Lady Joan,” Cromwell began. “Do not think to—”
“Shut up, Other Thomas.” I turned back to Henry, who had lifted a hand to stifle his snicker. I made a note to remember that he liked playing his advisers against each other, and didn’t mind (sometimes) when someone else got snippy with them. “I am sent here with tasks from which I am not allowed to deviate unless I want to bring down God’s wrath.” Or worse, confused pseudo-scientists. “When that task is done, I go home. That’s it.” I shrugged, holding my hands out palm-up. “That’s the beginning, the middle, and the end of what I do. You understood that in the past. You even appreciated it.”
I realized I’d taken a few steps forward, so I was standing right at the foot of the dais glaring up at him. “And what if I had? What if I told you last August that Anne was carrying a girl? What would you have done? Believed me? Cancelled all your plans? Scaled down the celebration? How would you have told your queen? ‘Sorry, sweetheart, but Joan Howe says it’s a girl. Don’t even bother planning the celebratory jousts.’”
Henry-the-henpecked literally shivered in his chair at the prospect. I let him picture the ball-busting scene for a couple of horrifying seconds, then finished with, “Or would you have tossed me in The Tower the way you did The Nun of Kent?”
“The Nun of Kent—”
“Made predictions you didn’t like.”
“—was a traitor!”
“For predicting your death. You’ll notice I did no such thing. In fact, I saved you from death. And yet.” I made a gesture encompassing his luxe chambers. “Here we are.”
Cromwell smoothly stepped into the silence. “Your friend—”
“She isn’t my friend. I never met her. And thanks to the mob mentality fostered in London, I never will.”
Unlike Henry, who was as red as an overripe tomato—if Lisa saw his face, she’d take his blood pressure—Cromwell remained emotionally aloof. “Your friend was taken into custody—”
“Is that what fishing a battered corpse out of the Thames is? Custody?”
“—yesterday. And yet you arrived only this afternoon. Why the delay?”
Ouch. Tough one.
Henry seemed to realize that Cromwell had touched upon something I didn’t want to discuss, because he snapped, “You will answer My Lord Cromwell.”
I stared at the floor. “Because when I found out they—when the angels gave me a new task, I didn’t want to come. So I ignored my instructions.” Gah, my sinuses were filling like a clogged sink. Bad enough I had to explain myself to an asshat, but I might cry in front of him, too. “And Teresa paid for it. I should have come straight away.”
Henry leaned back. “Ah. You turned your face away from God like any heretic.”
“Don’t call me that!” Though it was accur
ate, as I was an atheist, but he shouldn’t make assumptions, dammit! “Do you think I’m the only person who ever struggled with bending to someone else’s will? Don’t you think I feel bad enough?” Angry. Angry was good. Anger was loads better than tears. I was no Boleyn; I couldn’t compel men to pity and shelter me. All I could do was harangue them into sheltering me. “And why are you talking like I have any control over any of this? Do you think I want to be here? Away from my home? Do you think I enjoy roaming a strange land? Do you think it’s fun to have to figure out the customs and courtesy as I go, knowing at any moment if I say the wrong thing to the wrong person I could get hurt or arrested? Or chased into the river by a mob? Where I’m always afraid? And then I make it back, but sooner or later I have to come back and it starts all over again?
“So yes. I hid from my duty, and the unthinkable happened. And now I have to explain myself, so here it is: I am doing the best I can with what I have. If you don’t like it, too bad.”
And then, to my mortification, I burst into tears.
This was awkward for everyone in the room. It got worse when Henry rose and came toward me, patting my back with his huge paw. “Now then, Lady Joan. We had not considered your age, nor the difficulty of your calling. We shall overlook your impertinence this once.”
“S’not impertinence,” I wept.
“Your Majesty, I must protest.” I started a little; I’d almost forgotten the Thomases were there, they’d been so quiet. Wynter had raised his hand like he wanted to pat me, too, then let it drop to his side. “This treatment ill befits a lady and a guest. See her distress!”
“I am,” I said tearfully. “I am distressed.”
“Not only is the Lady Joan blameless, Cromwell locked her in with the corpse for hours. It was a singular cruelty.”
“Ah. Yes. Well.” Henry’s complexion, which had been calming down in the face of my hysterics, flushed again, and I realized that bit of mind-fuckery must have been his idea. “That is most unacceptable. Yes. Truly. And to a guest. Cromwell! Apologize to the lady.”
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 22