In fact, the average person who came in and eyeballed me would probably assume I’d had an uneventful evening and was sitting at the writing desk without a care in the world while (pretending to be) reading Utopia.
“Make way for His Majesty!”
My door was unlocked and thrown open, and there he was: King Bloat. And staring at me over his shoulder: Thomas Cromwell. And staring over his shoulder, the lieutenant of the Tower. There was probably someone behind him, too. They were like TudorTime nesting dolls.
“Lady Joan,” Henry began, and I could have cheered at how vastly uncomfortable he looked. “We have—”
“COULD YOU SPEAK UP PLEASE? IT’S HARD TO HEAR YOU OVER ALL THE HAIL.”
The king cocked his head to one side. “The hail stopped an hour ago.”
“OH.” I coughed and lowered my voice. “Oh. Sorry. It was so loud, I guess I thought I was still hearing it. Also, good morning, King Henry. And Thomas. And man-behind-Thomas whose name I forget.”
“Sir Edmund, if you will excuse us.” But we would never know if Sir Edmund would excuse us, because Cromwell closed the door in his face.
“So!” Henry began briskly, but almost immediately petered out. “Erm …”
“My goodness,” I said, and he perked up. “This weather! Very out of season. I can tell you it never hails in July in Merka.”
“Ah. Yes. Most unseasonable.”
“Aren’t you glad I warned you?” I asked sweetly. “About the unseasonableness?”
“Yes.” The king cleared his throat. “As dawn broke, no one was allowed to leave without ‘buckling a helmet’.” He chuckled, which made me smile because ugh, charisma. “And glad I am to see you looking so well.”
“Well, my room was very comfortable. And I had ways to pass the time.” I tapped Utopia, making the recently beheaded Thomas More the official elephant in the room. “Remarkable, don’t you think? His vision?” Not that I could get through much of it. Or any of it. Luckily there were other ways to pass the time. I hoped they wouldn’t notice where I’d carved HENRY SUX.
“A vision that shone in only one direction,” the king replied darkly.
“Not anymore.”
“No.” More’s murderer had the gall to look sad if you can believe it. “Not anymore.”
I rose to my feet. “May I go?”
“You should have stood when the king was announced.” This from Cromwell, who had finally found his tongue. “And curtsied.”
“I should have done a lot of things.” Like getting my ass in gear on poor Teresa’s behalf. Which reminded me. “Thank you for not locking me up with Teresa’s dead body overnight, by the way. But where is her body? I need to let her family know.” What I would tell them, and under what circumstances, remained to be seen.
At Henry’s questioning look, Cromwell replied, “She was interred at Cross Bones.”
I made a mental note to look that up if and when I got back. “And what should I tell her family?” I asked sweetly. “Regarding the manner of her death? A mob?”
Henry cleared his throat. “A misunderstanding.”
I just looked at them. After a looong uncomfortable moment, I said, “Really.”
“A regrettable one.” Henry spread his hands in the universal gesture for “eh, what are ya gonna do?” This was alarming, as were his tone and body language, which were all wrong. I figured he’d be furious or terrified or a combo. Instead he was … regretfully pained? “But misfortunes, alas, happen every day, to the best of us as well as the least.” Now he was walking toward me and … extending his arm? I gingerly put out my hand and he took it, placed it onto his padded sleeve, patted it, and started walking me out the door, out of the Tower, into sweet sweet freedom and the smell of too many unwashed bodies.
“We grieve to see you leaving us, Lady Joan, but I hope that if your angels bid you come again, you will seek us out straight away. We are best placed to help you with God’s work.”
“Okay,” I managed.
“And as you so kindly reminded me last evening, you have been a friend to the Crown,” he added with smug pomposity. “And will be in the future, we trust.”
“Yes.”
Now he made a concerned ‘hmmm’ noise and squinted at me. “Are you well, Lady Joan? You are uncharacteristically withdrawn. Perhaps you should consult with my physician before you take your leave of us?”
“I’m well,” I said. “I’m still recovering from yesterday. It was an eventful day.”
Henry laughed, because he thought executing an old friend and/or putting a guest who’d broken no laws into custody was hilarious. “Most definitely! But I trust Mary Stafford’s visit was beneficial.” At my confused blinking, he added, “Did you think Cromwell could give a subject permission to visit my holy fool and I would not know?”
“I … guess not. That was nice of you.”
Henry waved that away. “Nonsense. A trifle for an honored guest.”
“A trifle.” I thought about that for a couple of seconds. “No, I don’t think it was that.”
Before my eyes I was seeing Henry’s fabled talent for self-delusion unfold. Teresa’s death was a misunderstanding because what else could it be? Not a mob—that might indicate the populace was beyond his control. Not something a holy fool could have prevented—that might indicate the Lord’s agenda differed from Henry’s.
As for me? I hadn’t spent the night as a prisoner of the Crown, oh, heavens no! I was an honored guest. Wasn’t I housed in a beautiful room? Didn’t the queen’s own sister come to check on me and bring delicious treats? Weren’t the sovereign of the realm and his Number One goon here first thing in the morning to courteously see me on my way?
The worst part: Cromwell’s total lack of surprise.
The Lieutenant of the Tower bowed as we passed him, as did all the servants. They all look much less confused than I felt.
“Now that your work here is finished,” Guess Who was jabbering, “we shall see you on your way. Cromwell will arrange for any transportation you need.”
“Thank you.” What else could I say? You’re freaking me out? You’re as dangerous as you are delusional, and you’re really fucking delusional? “I am always happy to serve the Crown.” And how I got that lie past my teeth I will never, ever know.
“But before we bid you farewell, do you have anything to impart to us? Some … knowledge you wish to share?”
A guard had his hand on the outer door, but paused. Everyone paused. And Henry’s smile had vanished as he watched me carefully.
I stared into those beady blue eyes and thought, your queen will die next year. Your illegitimate son will die next year. Your heir will die young. Your daughter will hand the country back to the Pope. Your other daughter will doom your dynasty.
And there’s nothing you can do to prevent any of it.
“No. Nothing’s coming to mind.”
“That is very well.” Open door, exit Henry and fool (and Cromwell). Now that the formalities were over, Henry was all brisk courtesy. “We hope to see you soon, Lady Joan.”
“Your Majesty! My lady!”
Thomas Wynter looked terrible. To be specific, he looked as if he’d slept outside all night and woken up in a hailstorm which, for some unfathomable reason, he didn’t get out of.
“You’re still here?” The poor dumbass had a welt on his forehead from what I estimated was a golf-ball-sized hailstone. “It’s official, Thomas, you’ve lost your mind.”
“Master Wynter!” Henry said, looking as surprised as I felt.
“Your Grace,” he replied, and bowed, and nearly fell. “It is a pleasure to see you God’s beard I’m c-cold I might needtositdown.”
Cromwell had stepped forward to steady Thomas, which made me loathe him a tiny bit less. “There are easier ways to show devotion,” he muttered, and Other Thomas sh
rugged. Then, to King Henry, “Your Grace, I will tend to these matters for you. I believe you are to leave on progress later today?”
“Indeed,” the king replied, and then said some things I didn’t pay attention to, kissed my hand, and got lost. Finally.
“He has a room at the The Gray Horse Inn,” I said. “Will you take us there?” And then fuck off?
As it happened, Cromwell did both.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The Gray Horse Inn was the Sheraton of TudorTime; it existed in the netherworld between TudorTime Marriott and TudorTime Super 8.
To give him credit, Cromwell had gotten us there in less than an hour with an escort as well as a litter for Thomas, who bitched non-stop (“I can ride, dammit! Stop coddling me!”) while I had a quick chat with Other Thomas.
“We have this thing in Merka called spin,” I began. “It’s a person’s individual interpretation of an event.”
“This is an interesting salvo,” Cromwell commented, looking straight ahead.
Since I didn’t know what a salvo was, I ignored the (rude!) interruption. “For example, my spin on recent events would be that the king got angry and had me locked up for the night, only releasing me when he was reminded that the angels were on my side.”
Nothing from Cromwell. He was just a lump of velvet on a big white gelding.
“But it seems to me that the king’s spin is that nobody was angry, nobody was detained, and everyone had a nice evening and a pleasant morning and, oh yes, it hailed in July which was of no consequence whatsoever.”
“I cannot speak for the king, but I had a pleasant morning.”
I had to shake my head. Had I thought I could rattle him? Or coax a confidence? That alone was proof I was indeed a fool.
“Just like the king’s spin for twenty years was that Catherine of Aragon was the love of his life and the queen of his heart and their daughter Mary was the heir to the throne. And then suddenly she was the Princess Dowager and they’d never been married and Mary’s a bastard. He believes that. That’s what I find frightening. He’s not lying. He doesn’t ever lie.”
“I am gratified you stop short of calling my king a liar,” Cromwell said, nodding to the occasional citizen on the street who recognized him and waved or hailed him. They all appeared to be merchants of one kind or another; interesting that none of the aristocrats at court would lower themselves to acknowledge Thomas Cromwell, fist of the king, but the man on the street wouldn’t hesitate. “I enjoy your company but some things I cannot abide.”
“But you know the truth. You know it. So …”
“Yes, Lady Joan?”
I lowered my voice. “How can you stand it?”
Cromwell just looked at me. “I come from nothing,” he replied steadily. “And he is everything.”
I shook my head. “I don’t even know why I’m having this conversation. I don’t like you anymore; why should I care about your motivations?”
“Yes, you declared I should broil in velvet.” He smiled, a genuine grin that took years off his face. “I have been called many things, and had many ills wished upon me, but yours had the virtue of being original.”
“You must know he’s going to turn on you.” This wasn’t me breaking an I.T.C.H. rule. Cromwell was brilliant and he’d been around the block a few times. He saw what happened to Wolsey. If Mary Boleyn knew the pattern; no way this guy hadn’t spotted it. Nor did I think Cromwell would make the mistake of hubris, indulging the “but that couldn’t happen to me” mindset. “You must see that.”
Nothing.
“So why stay?” I persisted. He just looked at me and I sighed and answered my own question, something only a fool would ask. “Because he’s everything.”
“The sun,” Cromwell agreed.
So that was it. It wasn’t about money, or even recognition. It was the thrill of finally being an insider, not just one of the cool kids but the cool kid, indispensable and, after the king, the ultimate authority. Having worked so hard to get here, Cromwell would rather risk a fatal loss of favor than retire to safe, wealthy, dull obscurity far from the sun.
“I don’t know how you can do it,” I confessed. “I hate being where everyone can see me. If I could, I’d stay home all the time.”
“Then you are in a most curious line of work.”
“You bet I am.”
“Perhaps,” Cromwell said gently, and his dark eyes were unnervingly kind, “God wants you in the light as well.”
“I can’t imagine,” I replied, because I really couldn’t. But I could see now how Cromwell was so feared at court but, as Thomas Wynter had confided, adored by his family. Work Cromwell and Family Cromwell might as well be two different people.
I hated that. It was just another way to lie.
But at least we’d reached the Inn, which was great timing because Other Thomas was snoring in the litter he’d insisted he didn’t need.
With Cromwell’s help we got him on his feet and inside, and the locals recognized him at once. The innkeeper, a short, stout redhead with a thousand freckles and faded green eyes, came forward and introduced herself as Eileen O’Bannon, but we could call her Lee and was there anything she could do for His Lordship or Master Wynter or the Lady Joan?
“I’ve got it in hand,” I told Cromwell, which was the truth for a change. Thomas was standing; his brief snooze during our return to The Gray Horse had perked him right up. “Thanks.”
“Thomas. My Lady.” Cromwell bowed and came up grinning. “I look forward to your next visit.”
“Uh-huh.” I’d had about enough of Henry and his head goon, and there was Other Thomas to think about. “Can you just imagine I said something appropriately polite and then made a graceful exit?”
“I have an excellent imagination,” he replied, and (obligingly) departed.
The innkeeper immediately gave us a tour, bringing us through the dining area and parlor and then up the front stairs. She took great pride in her twelve feather beds (“We only need two.”) and the inn’s ability to stable twenty-four horses (“We only nee—never mind.”) and their house wine. (“I could use quite a bit of that, come to think of it.”)
“A pity, my lady, but we’ll have no cockfight tonight.”
“That’s okay. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. The bird wins.”
At the end of the passage she produced a key and unlocked the door to Thomas’ chamber, two good-sized rooms stuffed with dark furniture with windows overlooking the courtyard.
“I’ll have your meal sent up in a wee, Lady Joan,” she promised.
Does she mean small? Or a week? Please be the former. “Thank you so much, that sounds—wait. That’s the second time. How do you know my name?”
Like many TudorTime tenants, she had to pay attention to decipher my accent. “How do—ah! How could I not? Thomas talks about you all the time, doesn’t he? Waits for you, doesn’t he?”
“Weird. I mean, thank you. I’ll just stay here with him and get him settled and I’m really looking forward to the food you’re going to bring us. I mean, he is. It’s his food. And they’re his rooms.” It belatedly occurred to me that I was a single woman about to be alone with a man sans chaperone and had no idea how that was going to go over with the management circa 1535.
It was going to go over fine, because Lee didn’t give a shit. Which was refreshing. She just dropped a quick curtsy and let herself out.
“There you go—oof!” I straightened from where I’d eased Thomas down on the bed which, it must be said, wasn’t as nice as the one I’d had last night, though it was fat with feathers. “I still can’t believe you stayed outside all night. Are you trying to catch pneumonia?”
“Of course not,” he grumbled, trying to sit up. He pushed a hank of auburn hair out of his face and scowled. “Why would anyone try to catch that? That makes—argh.”
“Lie down, I’ll do that.” With some judicious tugging his boots came off. Although he was pale and damp, I have to give him credit, he wasn’t rank.
But he was apparently a mind-reader, because he said, “It’s the linen.”
“Sorry?” I’d been rummaging through the chest looking for dry clothes for him but looked up at the linen remark.
“My mother taught me to always wear clean linen. She would make me change it twice a day if necessary. She couldn’t abide noxious odors.”
“Well, she was a smart lady. My mom had a thing about liners in the garbage can.” Thomas’ mother had a point, though; it sounded deeply nuts, but I was discovering that in TudorTime, clean linen was (almost) an acceptable substitute for a shower. And of course the more money you had, the more linen long underwear you had. “Anyway, just lie there and the innkeeper will be up with food. Your blood sugar’s probably in the sub-basement.”
“My what?”
“When did you eat last?”
“Uh … what day is it?” He squinted up at the ceiling, then yelped when I smacked his foot.
“What were you thinking, courting pneumonia and malnourishment?”
“I was thinking that you were imprisoned through no fault of your own and with no one to speak for you.”
“Aw.”
“And I was burdened with the knowledge that without someone to look out for you, my favorite fool would end up in ever deeper trouble.”
“Ugh.”
“Not least because you have made an enemy of the Duke of Norfolk.”
“You’re the second person to tell me that,” I admitted. “And Lady Eleanor! Apparently she spent the last year seducing the king and talking crap about me. I can’t imagine Anne doesn’t know. Henry’s not subtle.”
“The queen knows,” was the short reply.
“Oh. She’d rather Henry was cheating on her with a ‘friend’ who will promote Boleyn interests.” I shook my head at the sheer cold-bloodedness of it all. “Look, for what it’s worth, I try to avoid the major players. But sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I’ve just got to be in the middle of it all to get the job done.”
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 24