A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “It’s bad, huh? A tragedy.”

  “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. This is why I don’t sweat not having a college degree yet. The two of you have how many years of schooling between you, but still channeled the Three Stooges in a secret lab with unstable tech? Jesus.”

  “It was my fault. She was trying to get me to come home with her, trying to make our marriage work. She was fighting for us! She wanted to bring the romance back into our lives.”

  I nearly did a spit-take, which would have been disgusting as I wasn’t drinking anything. “Then book a night in one of those silly fantasy suite hotels! Or go skinny-dipping! Or play with sexy dice! Don’t have an impromptu wrestling match beside a wormhole!”

  “We’re trying to work it out,” he whined.

  “How? How? Howwwwwww? Screwing with the timeline? Trying to get me killed?” Even as I said it, I realized that was exactly what that rotten bitch had been doing. “She thought you would come looking for her,” I groaned. “She caused problems that could potentially screw history and waited for you to show up … was she leaving clues? Like temporal breadcrumbs?”

  “I really feel like I let her down.”

  “That’s your takeaway from this?” I rubbed my eyes, vaguely hoping I’d wake up and realize this was a weirder-than-usual migraine-induced hallucination. But alas, I opened my eyes and Warren was standing not two feet away, slurping his whiskey, Eleanor was his missing wife, I had (more) brain damage, and this was all really happening. “So Eleanor fell, which is why you didn’t dare shut it down—you couldn’t risk stranding her there. But after the accident, the gates kept opening and other people disappeared. It was never about Losties. It wasn’t even about your work. It was just about getting Eleanor back so you could cover your blunders.” I shook my head, remembering how the first thing Warren said to me was “who did you see?” Right out of the gate, he was dying to know if I’d run into his wife.

  “Hey! I need Eleanor. Is that so hard to understand?”

  I took another look around the small suite, in which the most expensive thing was the bottle of Scotch. I thought about our expensive dinner the night before. He said, I didn’t sign on to get rich. He said, it’s family money. And a lot of it is tied up in trusts and such.

  “No,” I said slowly. “It’s not hard to understand.”

  My funds are nearly depleted. I can’t pay you this time.

  “It’s Eleanor’s money, isn’t it? She’s the wealthy one. She probably sensed your vast reserves of sociopathy and made you sign a pre-nup.” His gaze dropped and shifted to the window. “You can’t access most of the money without her. Which is why you’re baching it up here. It’s not even about getting her back, it’s about getting her money back.” Warren was like a diabolical onion: each layer peeled back exposed a darker motive. Had I thought this guy was stable and methodical and safe? Had I really?

  “Aw, c’mon. I know what they say about a woman scorned, so you’ll forgive me if I didn’t let you in on every little detail of my life.”

  “You said …” My voice actually wobbled so I swallowed and tried again. “You said you paid me because I was worth it.”

  “Well. You weren’t,” he said kindly. “But Eleanor is. Literally. So if we could just owwww, Jesus!”

  “Sorry, I meant to tell you I was going to smack you upside the head with your framed diploma but I didn’t want to let you in on every little detail.”

  “That glass could have cut me!”

  “Yes, and my knee could have smashed your balls.”

  “What’s that suppooooooo …” Then he trailed off like a slowly leaking balloon and flopped to the floor, spilling his whiskey. The juice glass held up, though. Good for you, juice glass.

  I stood over him. “Not to victim-blame, but how do you say all those things to someone and not expect them to go for your testicles? Also, your ex is quite the agent of chaos.”

  “We’re only separated,” he wheezed. “Nobody’s signed any paperwork yet.”

  I stifled the urge to bury my foot in his ribcage. “Where’s my phone and purse, Warren? The quicker I get them, the quicker you can go ice your balls.”

  “My wife,” he gasped.

  “Yes? So? What about the late Mrs. Warren, dead now for five hundred years?”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Simple fact. She’s not here, so she’s back there. If she’s back there, she’s dead. But she might have died of old age—Teresa didn’t get that much, not that you cared. All you have to do is produce a pile of bones to prove you’re a widower and then you can get your beautiful forearms on her money.”

  “My beautiful what?” He was slowly staggering to his feet, like he was rock climbing with a storm on the way. “Never mind. You listen. You have to go back and bring her out.”

  “Y’know, I thought you were working your way up to that, but even so, I couldn’t quite believe it until the words came out of your mouth just now. You really are a reprehensible coward. I’ll bet Eleanor lost her mind—well, more of her mind—when she realized you were never going to come for her, you were just going to keep talking me into it.”

  “I couldn’t risk myself.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard this speech from Holt. You fuck-ups are too smart and indispensable to jump. See that? See how I said that with a straight face?” I shook my head, thinking about Eleanor scheming from five centuries away. “She was supposed to identify as a Lostie and come back with me. That was your plan, right? But she wouldn’t. Why wouldn’t she tell me who she was? Why wouldn’t she ask for help?”

  “She’d never,” he said with misplaced pride. “She’s far too proud to ask for help.”

  “Is she far too proud to ask me to pass on a message? You get that there’s pride, and there’s pathological narcissism, right? And even now, knowing each jump builds up microscopic brain damage, you think you can talk me into going. Cripes, the ego.” I turned to leave. “Keep my phone. And the purse.” The phone was stuffed with pictures of food (I followed a lot of pie accounts) and my contacts were mostly restaurants. He was also welcome to the ten pounds I had in my wallet. I’d regret losing the Tootsie Rolls, though. “And enjoy widowhood.” Or would that be widowerhood?

  “If my wife died five hundred years ago …” He was steadying himself with a hand on the back of the chair, wincing and adjusting his trousers. “Then so did your friend. Lisa.”

  I was halfway to the door and stopped dead, then turned and came back. “No you didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I did. Why do you think I had the idea for her to get in and document everything before the feds shut us down? I got her over there, let her think I was helping her take stills and vids of the machinery, and shoved her through. I knew it was the only way you’d go.”

  “You were wrong.” I turned to leave again. “Lisa would rather die in TudorTime then have me risk myself. I know that’s incomprehensible to a sociopathic ding-dong like yourself so just take my word for it: she wouldn’t want me to go so I won’t. Have a nice life, you repellant shitstain.”

  “Wait!” He staggered forward a few clumsy steps and grabbed my elbow. “No, please—you have to!”

  “I know. Of course I’m going. I just needed you to drop your guard.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  “No, seriously,” I said, standing over him for the second time in less than a minute. “How do you say those things and not expect another shot to the bean bag? These aren’t rhetorical questions.”

  Chapter Seventy

  “I can’t emphasize how much I appreciate this. And you may find this hard to believe, but I think you and Eleanor would’ve gotten along in different circumstances.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I truly believe that once we put I.T.C.H. behind us, Eleanor and I can get a fresh start. Think of it:
you’ll be saving our marriage!”

  “Do you see this?” I held up my coffee mug. The I.T.C.H. logo on the side meant nothing; it was mine now. “I’m going to hit you and hit you and hit you with it until there’s nothing left but a piece of the handle if you don’t. Shut. Up.”

  While I struggled into my gown, I kept up the interrogation. “What are you going to tell the others? That you’re tossing bystanders into wormholes since your health insurance doesn’t cover marriage counseling?”

  “They won’t know. They saw the writing on the wall. They’re in the wind.”

  “In the wind, huh?” He really didn’t hear it. It was amazing how he’d throw clichés around like they were original thoughts. He probably thought it made him sound like a real person, one with a conscience and everything. How had I not noticed this earlier?

  “Yeah. They’re long gone. They took one look at your friend and knew it was over.”

  “Yes, well. Lisa has that effect.”

  He went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “We knew discovery—always inevitable—was now simply a matter of days. Perhaps hours, so we have to hurry … your migraine put us behind.”

  “Aw. Super-duper sorry about that, Warren. And the others ran off like terrified geese? Well, nothing Karen did would surprise me. Holt, though …” I snapped my fingers. “That’s why he shut you down when you asked me out! He knew your ulterior motive.” And since Holt was a card-carrying coward, he didn’t have the courage to tell me what Warren was doing, so he settled for vague disapproval. Ugh.

  Things were starting to make sense at last. “When I came back and you had shut down, you weren’t upset about something happening to me.” As I talked I was taking Thomas’ advice and jamming my hair under the hood. Screw the wig; if anyone asked, I’d had a fever and was shorn to let the evil spirits out of my hair follicles or whatever. “You were hoping for Eleanor. All that ‘I ran home to shower but felt sad about you being abandoned and came back’, what bullshit.”

  “You know what, Warren?” I continued. “I almost hope this will kill me. Living in a world where I was outwitted by Eleanor’s P.O.S. estranged husband is too embarrassing. What? I said estranged, not ex. God, you worry about the dumbest things.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand what we have.”

  “I understand perfectly. A spiteful narcissist found a passive aggressive narcissist and they got married and nearly destroyed humanity. As far as love stories goes, it’s not great.”

  “We’re running out of time.”

  “Finally some truth out of you. So I’ll find Lisa and Eleanor—”

  “No.” He looked up from his equipment. “My wife first. Return her and I’ll let you go back. Remember, we can see you through the gate for a few seconds.” At my silence, he elaborated. “We did learn a few things while you were gallivanting in the 16th century.”

  “Gallivanting.” I clenched my teeth. “Fine. What if I can’t find Eleanor? Or get her to come back with me?”

  “When you see her, tell her ‘the tennis balls were yellow, not green’. That’s a private joke from our honeymoon. It’s really a charming story. We had just—”

  “No.” I stepped up to the pad. My gown was on, my fanny pack was on, my pomander was full, my sleeves concealed all sorts of devilry, and my heart was filled with hatred and anxiety. Lisa, God love her, had brought my time travel tote bag to I.T.C.H., probably to do comparative readings or something; I had no idea, not my field. Her methodical mind might be the saving of us. “Don’t care. And if Eleanor still won’t come?”

  “She’ll come,” Dr. Narcissist predicted.

  “And when you’re reunited with your she-Minotaur, you’ll send me back to get Lisa?”

  “Yes. You’ll just have to trust me.” When I gagged on my hysterical laughter, he continued. “No? Well, how about this—it’s better for me if you two don’t disappear from I.T.C.H.. Especially since the feds might be landing any minute.”

  “Hmm. Point.”

  “Bad enough there are those—those—what did you call them?”

  “Innocent bystanders you didn’t care about hurting because you’re a selfish chickenshit bastard?” (Also Losties.)

  “They’re out there and they know what happened, which is bad enough, but add to that a local doctor’s sudden mysterious disappearance and her roommate? When it can all be traced back here if the wrong person asks the right questions? Too much heat.”

  “You talk like a TV show. Not a good one.”

  “Ready, Cupid?”

  “Please die while screaming and on fire, Warren.”

  I jumped.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  It’s not the best version of King Arthur, but one line from King Arthur: Legend of the Sword has always stuck with me: “Why have enemies when you can have friends?” (Ooh, the forearms on that man!)

  Case in point: TudorTime Hertz was delighted to see me. So was my nice new friend at The Gray Horse, Lee O’Bannon, she of the venison pasty and spermys cheese. From the former, a horse. From the latter, invaluable gossip, my orders, and a raspberry tart.

  She greeted me with, “Yon sweet lad was right, here you are again!”

  Despite my urgency, I had to smile. “If you called Thomas that to his face, he’d laugh.”

  “Oh, aye,” she agreed cheerfully. It was baking day, if her flour-dusted dress and apron and hands were any indication. “Come with me, my lady, Tom will tend your horse.”

  Great, another Thomas in the mix. “I can’t stay. I’m just wondering if you saw someone who looked out of place.” Way out of place. I started to describe Lisa when Lee stopped me.

  “Master Thomas scooped up your lamb, poor thing, she was so upset and feverish, too …”

  “Feverish?”

  “Oh, the raving! And the language! Poor thing’s brains must be on fire; I never heard half so many words and my Fa loved his drink. When she fell ill her folk must have cut her hair off, but they weren’t watching her close enough.” Lee lowered her voice. “I think she must have run away in a daze, poor girl. Still so sick! And in her linen! In public!”

  “Yes, that’s her. Thomas, er, scooped her?”

  “He had to take her to the Tower because of the Lady.” At my confused blinking, she elaborated. “It’s right horrid. That Anne Boleyn, they’re going to chop her head off! And they’re saying she did … unnatural things. With a host of men. And her brother. Lord Rochford.”

  That put me at May 1536. “Yes, that sounds very wicked, but what does it have to do with Thomas and my friend?”

  “The Lady wants to see a holy fool before she …” Lee dragged her finger across her throat, but couldn’t hide her distress. “Goes to He who made us. Poor thing. She was wrong to push the old queen off her throne, but it seems to me that she’s being punished for doing just what the king liked about her in the first place.”

  “That’s exactly why she’s being punished,” I said bluntly. “So Thomas took her?”

  “To the Tower,” Lee confirmed, and my heart definitely didn’t drop into my stomach. “They’ll be expecting you—he was sure you’d be along directly, and there you be, so here.” From somewhere in her apron she produced a small bundle of cloth, which had been wrapped around a fruit tart.

  “It’s still warm!” I gasped, sniffing it. “Oh, thank you!”

  “God bless you, Lady Joan. And give whatever peace you can to the queen, poor lady.”

  “No promises.”

  “Think of her baby! Orphaned by the end of the month, or as good as, poor lass. The king declares her a bastard before the world.” Lee sighed. “They’re saying baby Elizabeth isn’t even the king’s get. Her, with that red hair! There’s nothing harder than love turned to hate.”

  I thought of Eleanor’s poison, and Warren’s desperation. “You’re right about that,” I repli
ed, and went to work. On the tart, but also the road to the Tower.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  (It’s easier to have Lisa tell this next part. I wasn’t there for half the swearing and I missed the larceny altogether. So here you go, straight from her blog which for some reason she calls her frog.)

  From the frog of Lisa Harris, M.D., F.U.

  Holy crap, where do I even start with this shit? Minding my own business and it’s my own fault for taking my eyes off George fucking Warren for half a second. Blah-blah, you should take a look at this particular piece of equipment let me help you up and then buh-bye.

  The fucker buh-byed me!

  Then I’m standing under this big-ass willow tree and my phone won’t work and there aren’t any power lines or highways. And there aren’t any cars or bikes. And the buildings all look wrong. And everyone’s dressed wrong. And sounds wrong.

  And my friend isn’t crazy.

  I didn’t want to show myself to this wrong-ass world but I didn’t want to keep cowering under a tree either. So in a minute I start walking. I’m on the edge of a town where there were few houses but just over the hill, a two-story tavern called The Gray Horse because people in the past don’t have any imagination I guess.

  Then here comes this guy, big redheaded guy who’d been out in front doing whatever, and he takes one look at me and says, “No fear, lass, God’s errand girl will be along directly.”

  He was being nice so I didn’t tell him to fuck off. But when I kept walking (I mean, jeez, total stranger, what, I should linger and hope he asks me out?) he says, “My Lady Joan has made helping lost travelers her vocation. May I escort you somewhere safe to wait ere she comes?”

  My teeth almost fall out. What are the chances that we both know the same Joan? So I stop and go, “Tell me what Joan looks like. Please.”

  He listens close and says she’s about medium height with pale skin and ‘eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea’ and ‘hair like sable’, I shit you not. Fucking sable. And the sea.