Which I ruin by bursting into tears and running to her like a toddler who’s lost her mommy I mean goddammit, so fucking embarrassing. I haven’t cried since my Bio professor died before I could tell him he was a waste of skin who didn’t know mitosis from halitosis.
“Thank God you’re here, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“Oh, Lisa, you’re okay!” she says, and squeezes me back so hard all the breath whooshes out of my lungs so I can’t talk, which was actually a win because I was already sick of apologizing. She loosens up to let me breathe and looks at me and she’s all concerned which makes me cry harder because she’s worrying about me when it should be the other way ‘round, it should always be the other way ‘round.
“Are you hurt? You never cry, Lisa. Were you thinking about how Dr. Binderman died before you could yell at him?”
I laughed and wiped my eyes. “Mostly I was thinking how glad I was to see you. And what an idiot I am. And that I can’t believe you’re risking further goddamned brain damage to help me. But yeah, he had a lot of nerve, succumbing to pneumonia before I could tell him to get fucked.”
Then she looks past me and I shit you not, her face? Lights right up. Like somebody turned a little spotlight on it, right in the middle of the Tower. “Thomas!” she cries, and rushes to him, and the big lanky dork just opens up his arms without a word and she runs right into them and now she’s the one who’s getting all the air squeezed out of her lungs.
I sidle over and wait a few seconds, because I’m not completely bereft of tender emotions, and then a few more, and then I clear my throat, and now they’re whispering to each other, stuff like “I’m sorry I left you” and “I was so terribly worried, thank God in His mercy you are safe” and yak-yak-yak, and you can’t fit so much as a Kleenex between them and they’re doing that dorky gazing-into-each-other’s-eyes like they’re in a Nicholas Sparks novel and finally I can’t take it one more second.
“You guys. C’mon.”
Then it’s like they suddenly remember we’re in jail, in the 16th century, and guards are staring, and somewhere in this maze of buildings Anne Boleyn is waiting to leave the scaffold in pieces and Joan has to figure out a way for us to get home and even if we get home there’s a shitstorm waiting for us on the I.T.C.H. platform.
Also, Thomas Wynter really wants to fuck my roommate. Which is okay, because my roommate really wants to fuck him, too.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Lisa’s aggravated throat-clearing finally penetrated and I pulled back from Thomas with no small amount of reluctance. “Thank you for keeping her safe,” I told him. And to her, “I’m delighted to find you unburnt!”
“Makes two of us, Joanie. What’s the plan?”
Huh. I didn’t think Lisa had ever asked me that when it wasn’t food-related. “I have to talk to Anne.”
“Time is short, my lady,” Thomas reminded me.
“I know. They’re building the scaffold. I walked right past it.” I shook my head, trying to imagine. “She’ll be able to hear the hammering from her rooms, my God.”
“Creepy and demoralizing,” Lisa said. “Poor silly bi—lady.”
I cocked my head. “Silly?” (Bitch was accurate.)
Lisa shrugged. “She tried to upset the natural order of things, and hey—good for her. But it doesn’t often end well for the individual who stirred the shit. Check any history book. And sorry if this is a dumb question, but why do you have to see the queen? Why can’t we just try to get home now?”
Note to self: never tell Lisa how scared she sounded when she asked me that. “Because, trust me, it’ll be more about filling a last request. Queen Anne will be contemplating doing something totally counter to the historical record and I’ll have to talk her out of it which will take hours but I might get a nice snack out of it before we’re done. I know that sounds a little self-involved, like I’m the only one who can fix the—”
“Stop.” And she held up a hand, traffic cop style. “That was stupid. I was stupid. You are the only one. I wouldn’t let myself see it. So get going. And if I was talking to anyone else I wouldn’t have to throw this out there, but please prioritize our safety over your appetite.”
“I can do both. And I have to find Lady Eleanor and talk her into coming home with us. And believe it or not, those two seemingly unrelated tasks are related.”
Thomas coughed. “That reminds me. It pains me to speak of such things to ladies—”
“Let ‘er rip, Tommy-Boy.”
“What Lisa said. Let’s hear it.”
“Very well. I have heard some gossip which is not to anyone’s credit. Apparently the king’s mistress is pregnant.”
I could actually feel the ligaments in my jaw creak as my mouth fell open. “Jane Seymour is pregnant?”
“No, no. Lady Jane is in seclusion to protect her reputation as a good and virtuous lady. One of the queen’s other ladies is pregnant. Lady Eleanor.”
“That doesn’t happen!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I—that—” No. No and no. Jane Seymour was very much on the scene at this point, the gleam in Henry’s beady blue eye, but she’s not pregnant. They aren’t having sex, they aren’t even married yet. She won’t get pregnant for over a year.
No, this was Lady Eleanor’s latest attempt to lure Warren in. Which was ridiculous and risky, because Warren would have no way of knowing she was enceinte. The definition of insanity is to repeatedly mess with history until your husband time travels to rescue you.
She befriended Anne, got close to Henry, then pounced when his eye wandered, as it always did when his queens were pregnant (and when they weren’t). Now a woman born in the 21st century was pregnant with Henry VIII’s baby which she did solely to screw the timeline because she had no faith in the therapy process.
“I hate that bitch,” I managed through gritted teeth. “Is she here? In the city?”
“I believe so. And although the king wishes to make Lady Jane Seymour his wife—”
“Because of course he does.”
“—he has not yet put Eleanor aside.”
“Because of course he hasn’t. He’s got too few heirs as it is; he’ll want to keep his options open.”
“Um, Joan, you remember we’re in a big hall with lots of other people, right? Talking at a volume that can be overheard?”
“It’s fine.” I waved off Lisa’s concern. “Hardly anyone can understand us at first, plus, everyone’s more invested in keeping their head down until the Henry storm passes than they are in what we’re up to. Which reminds me, the reason I have to find Lady Eleanor is because she’s from the same place we are.” I was staring Lisa down, willing her to get it. I was falling for Thomas, but I wasn’t ready to reveal all just yet. Subtlety must be my watchword. (I’ll try anything once.) “And she needs to come back with us. To the place we’re all from.”
“A native Merkan!” she replied, then giggled. Not really—Eleanor was British. But this wasn’t the time to haggle over details. Lisa stopped laughing long enough to add, “Yeah, I follow. But I’m putting two and two together and getting seventeen, so you’ll have to walk me through it later.”
“Gladly. Thomas, while I visit Anne, find out where Lady Eleanor’s holed up, will you?” I knew Warren’s instructions had been to find Eleanor, then Lisa, but screw that. Lisa was right here. What, I should ignore her or, worse, abandon her while I looked for someone else? No chance. “Then let’s meet here in an hour, okay? And keep Lisa safe. She smells like bacon!”
Lisa let out a snort. “Naturally that’s what you’d home in on. And don’t worry, I’ll stick with your boy here. If I could sew myself to Thomas without getting noticed, I would.”
“Be careful, my lady Joan.”
“I thought we agreed on just Joan.”
He caught my hand,
held it to his lips. “As you wish, my Joan.”
“Slick,” I said.
“Aw. You guys are cute,” Lisa cooed, which was as alarming as anything that had happened that week.
The Lieutenant of the Tower looked relieved to see me, and greeted me with, “Her Grace the queen has been asking for you.”
“And here I am.”
He escorted me up to her sumptuous suite, the same one she’d stayed in for her coronation three years ago. Which was staggering when you thought about it. Almost a decade to woo her. Three years to turn on her. If it seemed unreal to me, how much worse for her?
I knew these chambers had been renovated specifically for her coronation, all part of Henry’s “if I say she’s my queen, and make her look like a queen and make her rooms like a queen’s rooms, all of England will buy into her being queen” plan which, given where we were now, had been an expensive disaster.
Though Queen Elizabeth I might disagree with that assessment.
Henry had Cromwell, that velvet-clad snake, spend the modern equivalent of over a million pounds on her rooms, and the one thing I liked about the Tudor era that the shows and movies hadn’t been able to nail were the colors. When you’re flipping through a history book, or watching The Private Life of Henry VIII with your mom for the 20th time, you start to think everything back then was drab, all blacks and browns and grays. But there were bright jewel colors everywhere in TudorTime, from the apricots in the yellow tart stuff at the deceptively bland-sounding Gray Horse Inn, to the stained glass windows and bright tapestries of the Tower.
Gone in my time. All gone. Anne’s apartments were just a grass lawn now. (Wow. I was having Tudor regret. If I went back in time—well, forward in time to my present, then back in time to ten-year-old me—she wouldn’t believe it.)
The Lieutenant escorted me to the Queen’s Great Chamber, rapped sharply, then swung the door open. I went in and swallowed a gasp at the enormous room—one of six!—and then saw her attendants, most of whom were hostile to her. Anne, who had never been able to make and keep many friends—being popular was not the same thing, just ask Regina George—was to be surrounded by enemies all the way to the end. The most treacherous being, of course, her own family. Her uncle, who had shoved her at the throne, passed the death sentence on his niece and his nephew. Her parents had made themselves scarce. Other Boleyns were cozying up to Jane Seymour. And Mary Boleyn would steer clear, thanks to my warning.
But here was her aunt Elizabeth Howard, and another aunt, Lady Shelton, and neither of them were Team Anne. They were there to encourage Anne’s confidence so they could play informer for Cromwell. I had no idea that trick was so old. And I imagined the other two ladies weren’t put in Anne’s rooms to make things easier for her, either. All this to explain why we were all giving each other side-eye without speaking. And then, to ramp up the awkward, Elizabeth Howard made the sign of the cross at me.
“Lady Joan, the king’s holy fool, to see Her Grace, Queen Anne,” the Lieutenant announced, and then got the hell out of there because he was a smart fellow.
Without a word, Howard and Coffin led me through watching chamber to the presence chamber, where Anne was waiting for me. “Ah. Lady Joan.”
“Queen Anne.”
“Not for long.”
I winced as she repeated the first thing she ever said to me. “No.”
“Ladies, I shall see the Lady Joan privately.”
Elizabeth Howard was already ruffling up like a hen and bustling toward us. “Those are not my instructions. You are not to be allowed to see people without a chaperone.”
I put up a hand to stop her. “She’s still a queen. Which means you’re still her subject. She wants to talk to me alone, now back off.”
“How dare you!” Rustle, rustle. I half expected her to paw the ground like a bull. “The king will hear of this!”
“Great. Go tell him. Right now.”
There was a sound behind me, like Anne was trying to stifle a snicker, but that could have been wishful thinking. Howard tried to come forward again and I planted a hand on her narrow chest and pushed back. Gently. “Do you think I won’t knock you on your ass?”
It was like everybody gasped at once—half the air was sucked out of the room. I waited, and was actually a little disappointed to see Auntie Howard think better of the plan that would end with her being knocked on her lying spying Howard butt.
I heard her mutter something in French as she turned away, something that made Anne Boleyn smile. “She called you a barbarian.”
“She’s right. Shall we?”
“Indeed.”
I won’t lie. Shutting the door on their astonished faces was damn satisfying.
Chapter Seventy-Four
“I actually don’t mind if they overhear.” Because this was a most luxurious prison cell, she had a throne-like chair right beside the window and the table. It wasn’t even a dining room table—she had another whole room for that. No, TudorTime’s idea of a small end-table was an enormous hunk of wood at least six feet long and three feet wide, which Anne was using as a bookshelf. There were rich, gorgeous tapestries on the walls, fresh rushes on the floor, and the room was dappled with yellow and orange light. “I’m not planning to say anything to get anyone in trouble.”
“There does not always have to be a plan,” the queen observed, “to find trouble.”
Well. Not much to say to that. So I just sat there.
“I like those.”
“Pardon, Your Grace?”
“Awkward silences. Would you care for some wine?”
“No, thank you.”
“Some cheese? A pasty?”
“… no …”
The queen of England rolled her eyes at me. “Bring a tray of dainties for our guest.”
Ooooh! Dainties!
Anne smiled to see my expression. “Have your holy travels taken you yet to France?”
“Not yet.” And hopefully not ever. I didn’t know anything about the French royal family, except that Marie Antoinette didn’t actually say ‘let them eat cake’. I couldn’t even say who was running things over there right now. Well, Francis I, but I didn’t know if he was a Medici or a Valois or what. Just that he irritated the piss out of Henry. And the guy who played him on The Tudors was mighty cute. Long, strong forearms, mop of curly black hair … “My work keeps me busy right here.”
“I am sure.”
I studied her while pretending I wasn’t. She was wearing a gown so dark a green it was black in some light. It brightened her sallow complexion, but didn’t hide the purple shadows under her eyes, or the fact that she looked like she was on the hard side of forty, though I knew she was in her early thirties. TudorTime was hard on faces, and a lot more so when you could hear them building the platform on which you would die.
There was a quick rap and then one of the ladies came in with a tray and set it on the table beside us.
“After you,” I said, the two worst words when I was hungry—it felt like hours since I’d gobbled the tart Lee had given me. But the queen waved me ahead, so I put the linen pillowcase Tudors called a napkin in my lap and grabbed one of the small brown balls.
“This is a French dish as well as English, which is why I wondered if you had visited. Délices are spiced roe testicles.”
That gave me pause. Not much of one, though. If anything, her still-affected French accent was more off-putting. “When it comes to food, I’ll try anything.” Testicles, get in my belly! I took a nibble and it wasn’t terrible. The haggis truffle I’d tried last winter had been worse. “Are you sure you won’t have a delicious deer ball, Your Grace?”
“Quite.” Anne’s smile soured as she took a closer look at the tray. Maybe she had pie for breakfast?
“Is something wrong, Anne?”
She nodded at the small unassuming tarts, wh
ich had been baked to a golden brown crust. “That is humble pie, a common dish of the poor.”
“Wait, that’s a real thing? It’s just a saying where I come from.”
She indicated the tray with her long, pretty fingers. I thought about how her daughter was famously vain about her hands and smiled. “This is what passes for wit in my chambers.”
I snorted. “Subtle. What’s in it?”
She shrugged. “Whatever is left of a deer once the best of it is gone. Heart, kidneys. Perhaps the liver, or the lungs. I myself have never had it.”
“And never will, since I’m the one who should be eating it.” I reached out and yanked the tray toward me. “Humble pie, down the hatch. And I’m sorry I assumed the worst about you, and couldn’t be more help to you.”
“You have a chance to be so now. Because you did not spin me a fable, did you?”
“Unh?” All right, humble pie was never going to make my top ten, because those slots were reserved for custard and prime rib and chocolate and chawanmushi. But it wasn’t awful. “A fable?”
“You once told me to ‘give it up in Calais’.”
“It’s wonderful but weird how you can do a Merkan accent.” A Midwestern American accent. That would never not be hilarious.
“You said ‘the future of the greatest monarch England has ever seen depends on it’.”
“Yes. You’re right. That wasn’t a fable.”
“Tell me.” She leaned forward and for a second, she looked like a beautiful bird of prey. Caged, still dangerous. “All of it, this time.”
“Tell me your plan first.”
She raised her eyebrows. “My plan?”
“You’ll have one, Anne. You didn’t get to the throne without one.” Not to mention a Plan B, C, D, and E through M, probably. “I’d like to know what it is—oh, this is good!”
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 32