A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

  Well. That makes one of us.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I don’t like to travel. My New Year’s Eve goal was to slowly transform myself into a shut-in. (I’m aware of the irony.)

  Worse, I found out what Henry meant by ‘you won’t be alone’: he’d saddled me with the Duke of Norfolk and Anne’s main Mean Girl, Lady Eleanor Stanley. Tough call as to who was more aggravating.

  “Your hair is not so bad. This time, at least. I could help you. But the dress is dreadful.”

  Never mind; Lady Eleanor was more aggravating.

  When Henry and I came back down to the courtyard, Anne was once again surrounded by her ladies and a number of new people had shown up. Fifty or so men, all wearing the same livery and milling about with purpose. (You’d think those two things would contradict each other, but they didn’t.) A sober-but-richly dressed old man—late seventies?—was just then swinging down from his horse, and he stumped over at once, stiff from the ride, and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

  “Your Grace. I fear I must send you off again, and you still dusty from my last task.”

  “My lot in life,” the older man said with a thin smile. He’d nodded at Anne on his way past her to greet his sovereign, and though she was several feet away, I could see those big eyes of hers narrow.

  As for myself, I was staring at the flags and the man’s guards, because there was something familiar about the coat of arms they were all sporting: what looked like a big cat—or a lion designed by someone who’d never seen one?—with an arrow sticking out of its mouth, and three other cats against a yellow and blue checkerboard.

  “Your Grace, may I introduce my friend, the Lady—”

  Wait, what? Friend?

  “—Joan? Joan, this is His Grace Thomas Howard—”

  “The Duke of Norfolk.” Now I had it. This was the older arrogant nobleman who’d had the dentist clapped in irons. Given what I knew about him, that wasn’t surprising. “Nice to meet you.”

  He raised grizzled eyebrows at me. “Eh? What’s that, lass? I cannot understand you.”

  The king was smiling fondly. “Her accent takes some getting used to. Joan hails from …” He cut himself off and turned to me. “I don’t believe you ever told us where you hail from.”

  “Far far away, Your Majesty. The journey takes years.” Well, that part was true at least. Hundreds of years. “Across the great wide sea, in a land known as, um, Merka.” So don’t mind my accent. Or my clothing. Or my cluelessness about current events. Or the way I don’t know how to curtsy. And my general lack of deference. And my terrific teeth. Well, I had a cavity filled last year, but still—not bad.

  “Uncle.”

  Norfolk turned. “Niece.”

  Anne had strolled up with one of her ladies, the pretty brunette in the dark green dress. On closer inspection, her kirtle was a dark green which brought out her eyes, underneath was a bright blue surcoat, which she’d topped off with a deep brown French hood. I was wearing one, too, and it was beyond irritating—it kept wanting to slip no matter how many pins I jammed into it. I was considering staples. Her entire ensemble reminded me of a peacock. But that may have been the way she liked to toss her head and stare down her nose/beak at me.

  “Here is my lady-in-waiting, Lady Eleanor Stanley.”

  And here is me, not caring. “Hello again.”

  “Oh, have we met?”

  Nice try. But if I had to take an unscheduled trip, I wasn’t going to be the only one inconvenienced and annoyed and put on the spot. “Yes, you made fun of my hair at Blackfriars.”

  “Yes, well.” Unruffled, she nodded at my wig. “Can you blame me?”

  When Anne didn’t titter along with her, she immediately checked herself. In fact, now that she suspected I might be Someone Important, her entire demeanor was changing even as I watched. Her voice, when she spoke again, was at least twenty degrees warmer. “The Lady Anne has honored me by asking that I accompany you to The More to see the Dowager Princess.”

  “Ah,” Norfolk said. He’d been absently staring at Eleanor’s cleavage, but now looked up. “My errand.”

  “Just so, Thomas.” Oh. Right. Here was another Thomas, argh. “But you will hurry back. Neither the Lady Jane nor the Lady Eleanor can be allowed to miss the investiture.”

  “Yeah, perish the thought.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said the idea of missing it makes me want to perish.”

  “Ah.”

  So just like that, we were on the road to The More. And by “just like that” I meant fortyfive minutes later, because in 1532, no one could just pick up and leave. And by the time everyone was ready, I was in full fret-mode about the oncoming nightmare (this is nuts, I’m actually getting farther away from Amy-the-lost and what the hell am I going to say to Catherine of friggin’ Aragon of all people?) as well as transport to the oncoming nightmare until I saw the carriage Eleanor and I were meant to ride in. Since my horseback skills weren’t anything to take pride in, that was a relief. Or it was until we got moving.

  “How much further?” I groaned as the wheels went over several boulders because, for some reason, they had paved the road with boulders. They had to have. No other explanation.

  “Nearly there.” This from Eleanor, who hadn’t dropped the smirk since the guards slammed the carriage closed and locked us up in this rolling, jouncing tomb.

  “You keep saying that—ow!” Christ, my head almost made contact with the roof that time. “And it keeps not being true.”

  And this was First Class! Delta, I owe you a profound apology. And to whomever invented shock absorbers, I’ll never take your contribution to society for granted ever again.

  Desperate to distract myself from the misery, I asked, “So how do you know Anne and Henry?”

  “Anne and Henry? My, such informality from a citizen of—where did you say, again?”

  “Merka. We don’t have kings there.”

  “Yes, so you said. Sounds rather uncivilized.”

  “Well. Yes.”

  “To answer, my family has long served the crown, going back to Bosworth.”

  “Okay.” That was an odd emphasis. Wait. Bosworth—that was when Richard III got his head handed to him by Henry VII. “Oh.” That Stanley.

  “So. New-come as you are, you know my family’s history.” She sounded relaxed, but her mouth was a straight, neutral line and there was no way to tell what she was thinking. I made a mental note to never play poker with the woman. “My family’s long, storied history.”

  “Yes, I get it, you guys are mean to everybody, so I shouldn’t take it personally.”

  “Oh, stop that, you sound like a child.” This from the granddaughter (or grand-niece or something like that) of the guy who promised to help Richard III, then stood back and watched Henry VII’s men butcher him like a pig on pork chop day. “As I said, we serve the crown.”

  “Yes, you keep going out of your way to emphasize that. I get it, you’ve convinced yourself you’re not traitors because it’s not the individual you follow, it’s the butt on the throne you follow. I’ll bet you get along great with the Howard family.”

  “As a matter of fact.” She pointed, and I realized she wasn’t gesturing to me, but past me, to where the Duke of Norfolk—the head of the Howard family, the highest peer of the realm after Henry—was currently riding ahead as he escorted us to The More. “We get along quite well.” Then she laughed, and for a second, she was almost likeable. “But wherever you hail from, I warn you, the Dowager Princess will brook no disrespect. So curb your cruder instincts, if you have that ability, which I doubt.”

  The second was over, so I went back to loathing her.

  Finally, we slowed, and thank goodness, because if I had to guess, I’d say we’d been trapped inside the carriage for two thousand hours. So you can imagine my
surprise, when the thing lurched to a stop and I booted the door open, to see it was still daylight. And summer.

  “Oooooh, better, that’s so much better, my back!” I’d gotten down with no help, by which I mean I’d almost fallen out onto my face in the dust, and now I was hobbling in a small circle trying not to groan. “And my legs. And my everything else. Yow-ow-ow!”

  Our escort was staring at me like I’d spontaneously burst into flames and yelled how hot I was. “What ails the lass, Lady Eleanor?”

  “I’m standing right here,” I advised the Duke of Norfolk, who had swung down from his horse in a manner I could only envy. He might have been pushing eighty, but he was in better shape than I was, the lithe buzzard. “You could just ask me directly.”

  “Your Grace, I’m afraid the poor thing isn’t used to the finer things.” Then she let out that titter again. I was so relieved to be out, I didn’t mind this time.

  “I am not,” I agreed. “At all.”

  “Your Grace is kind to escort us today,” She Who Titters went on. “I know you have many pressing matters to attend to.”

  “I am not kind, Lady Eleanor.” Whoa! He’d almost cracked a smile. His lips moved up at the corners and everything. “And nothing is more pressing than the king’s pleasure.” He’d emphasized the last word, so I assumed it was some sort of sly commentary on Anne Boleyn giving it up to Henry pretty soon, since he was making her a Marquess tomorrow.

  “On that, Your Grace and I agree.” She stretched out one of her hands, laid it lightly on the Duke’s sleeve. “Shall we?” They swept onward as I stumbled (literally—still didn’t have all the feeling back in my legs) in their wake.

  I’d been so grateful to escape the hellish contraption, I needed a few seconds to take in The More. The place was impressive and fit for royalty, at least to my untrained commoner’s eye. The main building was a long structure of red brick three stories high, with several chimneys and quite a few of stained glass windows. There were three low buildings set back—stables, I assumed, the Tudor equivalent of garages—and we were surrounded by beautifully tended long, rolling lawns. There were moated gardens, and knot gardens, and the sun had come out so the rays were bathing the ground and turning everything to gold. One thing about TudorTime, depending on where you were, the place looked gorgeous.

  “All right, ladies,” the Duke was mumble-grumbling as we came up the walk to the house. “Quickest in, quickest out.”

  I had to call on vast reservoirs of self-control to avoid adding “That’s what your mom said.”

  All I’d known about Thomas Howard before today was that he was Anne Boleyn’s uncle, as well as Catherine Howard’s (wife number five, poor doomed teenager). He’d do everything in his power to put both women on the throne (twice), and when it turned bad (twice), he’d betray them (twice!) to stay in Henry’s good graces. Here was a man who was so good at covering his ass and sucking up, he outlived almost all the players—including Henry VIII.

  To that scant knowledge I could now add that he had eye-watering halitosis. If I had to guess, I’d say he enjoyed a diet of rotten meat, tobacco, and booze, with a chaser of horse manure and a sprinkling of flat beer.

  All this to say I was glad Eleanor was touching him and walking close, not me.

  “My lady Joan!”

  Hey, I knew that voice! I could feel a big silly smile forming as I looked, and here came the first (and best) Thomas, Wolsey’s bastard, loping toward us from the building on the west side of the property.

  I waved, which probably wasn’t done, but who cared? “Hi!”

  His hat was already off as he ran up and bowed. “So your angels have sent you back to us! Will you permit me to say how very good it is to see you again, Lady Joan?”

  “Yes, and how about we drop the lady?”

  “What lady?”

  “Sorry, I meant that you could call me Joan. Just Joan.”

  “That is a kindness indeed, Just Joan.” He bowed again, then seemed to realize I wasn’t alone. “Your Grace. Lady Eleanor.”

  “Eh, you again. Come along, then.”

  “Why, it’s Wolsey’s bastard! Soooo terribly sorry about your father. Though he was a traitor, it must have been difficult for your family. The shame of it.”

  First of all, use of ‘Wolsey’s bastard’ was a privilege, not a right. Second: “Why do you have to constantly be a huge bitch?” Oh, hell. That one slipped out before I could swallow it back.

  “What did she say?” Norfolk was shaking his head like a horse trying to get the mosquitos off. “God’s teeth,” he snapped. “I can barely understand her.”

  “Again, standing right here. Not even three feet away. Close enough to touch.” Unfortunately. “And I said that although it’s sad to lose a father, you are rich with the good memories he left you.” Not my best ad lib. But Norfolk didn’t care what I said anyway. Neither did Lady Eleanor.

  “I thank you for your condolences, Lady Eleanor,” Thomas said in a perfectly neutral tone. Then, to me, “I would have come out straight away when I heard you coming, but I was in the deer barn.”

  “There are deer barns? Domesticated for pulling sleighs, or what? Is there a petting zoo? I wouldn’t mind seeing a petting zoo.”

  “Ladies, come along.” This from the Duke of Dour, who wasn’t slowing down. In fact, Thomas had to break into a jog to keep up.

  I grabbed Thomas’s arm and, over the noise of our announced arrival, murmured, “I really am sorry about your dad.”

  “And so I thank you, also.” He took my hand, patted it. “Though I don’t believe I ever called him ‘Dad’.” And he laughed.

  “Why’s that funny?”

  “It’s not,” he assured me. “Well. Perhaps a little. I do enjoy listening to you talk, but to some ears, your accent sounds, ah, provincial.” Pause. “In the very best of ways. Unsullied. So many at court are hopeless cynics.”

  “Provinc—oh. Like a country bumpkin.” If some of the Tudor Townies thought I sounded like a poor woman’s Dolly Parton, well, there were worse things. “And in keeping with the passive aggression also prevalent at court, I won’t tell you that your accent sounds like you’re talking through your nose and being strangled at the same time. Yours, too, Eleanor!” I added loudly, because I’d heard that damned titter again. “What brings you to the castle?”

  “It is not a castle, Lady Joan.” Unlike Lady Eleanor, Thomas could correct me without sneering his way through it. “It is a great house.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Castles are for royalty; great houses are for those with high status but who are not royal themselves.”

  “Like a cabin versus a cottage?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Never mind.”

  By now, we were inside, and I could see several household servants going about their business. There was a lot of subdued flurry and going back-and-forth, and I had the impression that the queen, banished to The More, wasn’t getting many visitors these days. So on the increasingly rare occasion they showed up, the staff was caught off-guard.

  And it would get worse. Bet on it: much, much worse. These poor people were going to be—well, poor people. They would spend the next three years moving to smaller, danker, damper houses, going longer and longer without visitors unless the king sent some to badger his wife, until Catherine of Aragon died in the dankest dampest prison of them all.

  This is as good as it gets, gang. It is almost literally downhill from here.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t take my own advice. I had since found out The More is long gone in my own time, which is a real shame, because that sprawling palace—excuse me, great house—was exceptional. The worst part is, by now I had seen so many exceptional things, they were starting to blur together. So when I think of The More now, what stands out is all the magnificent dark wood furniture—not one pi
ece had been barfed out by Ikea—the gorgeous rugs on the walls, the hushed reverence of the place, the snacks, and Thomas Howard’s foul breath.

  Oh, and Catherine of Aragon. And the Princess Mary, who we caught playing hooky. And María de Salinas, who helped her play hooky. Come to think of it, it was something of a miracle that we didn’t end up spending the weekend in the Tower of London while various state employees used the rack to make us taller.

  But again: mostly the handmade furniture and Howard’s dog-breath.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “The Duke of Norfolk, the Lady Joan, and the Lady Eleanor to see Her Grace the queen.”

  “Now, now,” Eleanor chided the announcer. “Even bastards are allowed a formal introduction. Well. It would depend on the bastard, I think.”

  “I am not slighted in the least, Lady Eleanor,” Thomas replied, calm as a clam. “The queen already knew I was here. There was no need to announce me again.”

  “Yes, Eleanor, the queen already knew he was here. And you noticed how he said my name before yours, right?”

  “As a courtesy,” Eleanor said, and I actually heard her teeth grind together, which was glorious. “Not a promotion.”

  There was a polite throat-clearing, and I remembered the Queen of England was sitting five feet away.

  “Your Grace,” Catherine said as the Duke bowed over her hand.

  “Your Grace,” he replied.

  “And Lady Eleanor, how nice to see you twice in the same month.”

  Twice in the same month? My God, was there no end to the sheer hell this poor woman must endure?

  “The pleasure and honor are mine, Majesty.”

  “And Thomas Wynter, of course.” She turned to me with a lovely smile. “And the king’s holy fool.”