“You’re half right, ma’am.”
She laughed, then said, “Ma’am?”
“Forgive her, Your Grace,” Eleanor said, because she couldn’t wait even half a second to butt in. “She’s from a primitive place rather far from here.”
“And the Lady Eleanor is also half right,” I said. “But I meant no disrespect. Ma’am is a contraction for Madame where I come from.” Right? That sounded right. I was positive America didn’t invent “ma’am”.
“What brings you to us?”
Silence. I peeked at Eleanor and the Duke out of the corner of my eye and saw them doing the same to me. Whoops. Missed my cue. “The king asked me to speak with you about—about your plans.”
“My plans.”
No upward inflection, so it wasn’t a question. She knew why I was here. Well. She thought she knew why I was here. She was (probably) ignorant of the “Operation Rescue Amy” aspect of my plan.
“May we speak in private, ma’am?”
“Oh, why? Is that necessary?”
“I’m afraid so.” I was about to elaborate when the Duke made a “hrehm-hem!” noise that sounded equal parts patient and put-upon.
“Will you stop?” I cried, turning on him. “You’re in a hurry, you don’t want to be here, we get it.”
A shocked silence followed my unbelievably ill-timed outburst, broken by—of all things—the Duke of Norfolk’s rusty laughter. It was like listening to a gravel truck chuckle.
“Lady Joan.” Queen Catherine spoke gently, but she was reproving me just the same and we all knew it. “You do wrong to speak to the Duke in such a manner. It is not for you to question his schedule or his priorities.”
“Sorry, Your Grace.”
“I am not the one to whom you should apologize.”
“I’m sorry, Your Other Grace,” I repeated, never looking away from the queen. For that I got a small smile, gone so quickly I wondered if I’d imagined it. But before she could keep gently ripping me a new one, Thomas jumped in.
“My lord Duke, I can make sure the Lady Joan returns safely to Windsor. We all understand you have pressing matters that demand your attention elsewhere.” He gestured, indicating the room and/or The More in general. “Nothing is happening here.”
“Quite so,” Eleanor murmured, so low I don’t think Catherine heard it.
Another short silence fell, this one significantly less awkward. I tried not to gawp at Wolsey’s bastard. I failed.
The Duke made that rusty gravel truck noise again. “Kind of you, lad. And I know my niece does not enjoy being parted long from the Lady Eleanor. Nor do we. Heaven knows she is the only one who can manage Anne’s temper these days.” That last in an indiscreet mutter. Oooh, dish-dish-dish! On second thought, don’t.
“Oh, I would dearly love to go back to my lady,” Eleanor gushed, so breathy it put Marilyn Monroe to shame. “With Her Grace’s most gracious leave to return, of course.”
Catherine nodded, and while they said their fare-thee-wells, I grabbed Thomas’s hand again. “Thanks, but—are you sure?” It was 1532; we couldn’t just hop in a car and zoom up the interstate. If he was lucky, this would only take up the bulk of his afternoon. But it could take up more than that. I certainly hadn’t planned on spending the long weekend in 1532, but guess what?
“Of course,” he replied easily. “The purpose of my visit has long concluded. And it would be no trouble to escort you to Windsor. I’m certain the queen will provide you with one or two of her ladies as temporary companions; you need not fear being compromised.”
He was a sweetie, all right, but on my list of fears, “being compromised” was nowhere near the top. Or the bottom. Or the middle. Technically I’d been compromised five hundred years from now, right after Prom.
“It is just as well,” Eleanor snarked on her way out. “I simply could not bear the incessant complaints from our oh-so-charming country visitor every time the carriage took a bump.”
“A bump? It was a lot more than—” I cut myself off as it hit me. Thomas Wynter, he of the glorious Cherry Coke hair, and his kind offer meant no carriage ride! I hadn’t even thought of that! I reached out and grabbed him again, a little too hard going by the stifled yelp. “Thank you so much. I’d love to ride back with you.” Absolutely. On a horse. Or a pony. Or a cow. Or a pig. Whatever. I was in.
But first I had to talk the rightful Queen of England out of war.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Catherine of Aragon gestured to a low chair just a couple of feet from hers, and I reminded myself it wasn’t our living room couch and thus resisted gracelessly plopping down. Instead I sat so slowly and carefully she probably thought I had early onset arthritis.
Close-up, I could see how beautiful she’d been. But the red hair was faded and gray, the blue eyes lined and shadowed, the round face sinking into fat. But none of it mattered—or, if it did, only to her husband. She was a queen, no matter how many crow’s feet she had.
“Wine, Lady Joan?”
Right out of the gate, a stumper. I’d already been here for hours and was thirsty, but I knew fresh water wasn’t a primary or safe beverage here, unlike the 21st century, where we routinely traveled with our own clear fluids. On the other hand, alcohol wasn’t going to quench my thirst. On the other other hand, the queen of England was waiting for me to stop dithering and take a glass of wine (or not).
“Yes, please, your—” And there was one of her ladies, bringing two glasses of wine and (joy joy joy joy joy) some plums, blackberries, what looked like small, pale green early pears, walnuts, and figs, spread out on a wide silver tray. I hadn’t even taken a bite and I was drooling; they were so fresh and plump, I could already smell them.
“… and … but … king … holy fool …”
Is she talking? I think she’s talking.
“… cannot … however … king … God …”
“This is the best fruit I’ve ever had!”
The queen stopped making noises at me and smiled. “You are kind to say so; my larder is lacking just now and this is a poor offering.”
“It’s a wonderful offering.”
She made a comme ci, comme ça gesture. “I wish you had been here only last week; we had some wonderful porpoise.”
Ye gods. The last thing I wanted was a Flipper filet. “That’s all right, I had porpoise for lunch.”
“It can be difficult getting delicacies … I am pleased you like it.”
“They’re so good!” Each bite popped the thumb-sized plump berry, flooding my mouth with dark, sweet juice that went down easy. The wine they made from these must be sublime, and I don’t even like wine.
“Your people enjoy fresh fruit?”
“Oh, yes. Over in Merka, we have access to lots of it year-round.” I decided not to elaborate, as I wasn’t sure I could explain a supermarket to a medieval queen. Or triple coupon Tuesday. Or sample day, the most glorious shopping day of the week.
“I admit I have had something of a battle to encourage my people to eat fresh fruit. The English don’t trust it that way. They prefer to stew it, or make pies from it.”
“Don’t knock pies, those are good, too.” I was going through such pear rhapsodies, it took me a few seconds to get my focus back. “Your Majesty, speaking of a battle—”
“Ah. Were we?”
“We were trying to find a way to subtly lead up to it,” I admitted. “Then you distracted me with a pile of wonderful fruit.”
“And I shall distract you again, and ask you the secret you told the king my husband.”
“Secret?” (This was me stalling so I could gulp down the last pear.)
“When you were here last.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. If my mother knew I was talking to a queen with my mouth full, she’d come back and give me such a smack. “That secret.”
“You pul
led him aside. You told him things.” Catherine was leaning forward, her tired eyes bright with curiosity. “I can count on the fingers of both hands how often I have seen my husband so shaken these twenty years. And here you are, to speak to me of battles. But first: the secret. He said he could not tell me without your leave.”
“I told him when Wolsey was going to die. And how. And under what circumstances. He didn’t believe me.” I sucked down the last blackberry, a juicy sweet thing that was one of the best snacks I ever had. “Then.”
“Madre de Dios.” She crossed herself, then sat back. “And here you are again.”
Here I am again. But not to help you. Or Henry. Or England. No, not any of them. I just wanted to grab my Lostie and get the hell gone. And maybe take a fruit plate with me.
“The thing is, nobody doubts you could do it. I mean, with Queen Isabella being your mother and all. She stomped on plenty of throats in her day.”
“So she did. Though I have never heard it described quite like that.”
“That’s not the issue.”
“Pray tell me what is, holy fool.”
“You can’t,” I said simply. By which I meant you don’t. “That’s not how you’re supposed to fight this.”
Her eyes—I know it’s a cliché, but they really did seem to light up. Or at least get a bit bigger and brighter. “But I am to fight …?”
Right. Right! I was an idiot. Here was the perfect way to present this. “Oh yes! And you will. Not all battles take place in the field. You’ll fight and you’ll be unrelenting and constant. And if you do this—if you don’t use violence—Princess Mary will be queen.”
She was holding herself very still and watching me. “You swear it,” she ordered. “To your lord and mine, on pain of your soul’s everlasting torment should you lie.”
I raised a hand, wiped the blackberry juice off, then raised it again. “I swear that if you raise no armies against Henry, your daughter, the Princess Mary of England, will be queen and if I’m lying, may I burn for a billion years and then starve to death and then have my head cut off fifty-five times and then the whole thing will start all over again.”
“I think,” she said after what sounded suspiciously like a snort, “that will be sufficient. And what of my daughter, the Princess? Her long absence troubleth me, as it pleases the king her father to separate us.”
I was starting to notice Catherine slipped Henry’s résumé into the conversation (and wavered between formal and not-so-formal) every chance she got. Reminding others, I guess. Or herself, when things looked bleak.
Oh, did I forget to mention you’ll never see your daughter again? Guess it slipped my mind. “It pains me to tell you—” Literal pain, right in the middle of my stomach. Either that or the fourth fistful of blackberries wasn’t agreeing with me. “I’m sorry to tell you that you will never see Princess Mary aga—what the hell?”
Queen Catherine, who had spotted the new arrivals without the slightest sign of surprise, now beckoned them forward with ringed fingers. “Attend us, please, ladies.”
I stared.
“Princess Mary, Countess Willoughby, this is Lady Joan, the king my husband’s holy fool, who comes to us on the king’s business.”
Gaping like a full-on yokel, that was my business. “This is completely screwed up! And for the record, I’m not the king’s holy anything.”
All three women looked puzzled, and when the princess spoke, I was surprised by the deep voice coming out of that frail frame. She was short—even for the times—and pale, with large blue-gray eyes, skinny little wrists barely an inch wide, and an adorable spray of freckles across her nose. So the harsh voice was startling. “I beg your pardon, Lady Joan, I am having trouble with your—”
“You can’t be here!” No. No. Catherine never saw her after the king banished her in 1532. It was one of the sorrows of their lives and may have hastened Catherine’s end. It was also a huge reason why the pretty girl before me was destined to become Bloody Mary. This was all wrong—again. “This is bad, this is very bad!”
The countess pulled herself up to her height of four foot ten and speared me with a dark glare. I’d never seen someone a head shorter look down her nose at me before.
(Authentic!)
“It’s not bad, nor very bad. The queen has done no wrong. She is blameless in this, as I followed no instructions save those of my conscience.”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean you’re—” I stuffed a fist in my mouth to stop the flood of profanity I wanted to cough out. “Nnngggnn mmmmsssffff.” Shit-fuck-shit! And dammit! And I’ll throw a motherfucker in there, too! Because why the hell not!
And above all of it, the constant drumbeat cycling through my brain: I have to get my Lostie and get the holy hell out of here. I have to get my Lostie and get THE HOLY HELL OUT OF HERE.
I sighed, mentally squared my shoulders, and set about doing what I do best. “Are there any more plums? Pears would also be fine.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Princess Mary Tudor had what my mother would have called “pinched prettiness”. Beautiful, no question, but also … strained. My mom thought girls like that spent so much time worrying, it was ultimately stamped into their features.
In Princess Mary’s case, she had plenty to be anxious about. If anything, she wasn’t anxious enough. Not that I could—or would—tell her. And though the situation was rife with imprisonment/torture/burning potential for at least four of us (five, if the Duke of Norfolk was in on it), it was impossible to look at mother and daughter, reunited after so long, and not feel glad.
My mother used to say (usually after The Tudors credits rolled, especially seasons three and four) that Princess Mary Tudor was her mother’s daughter, but I never thought that was true. She was the child of both parents, which meant she got a double dose of stubbornness but, unfortunately, none of the charisma. I think one of the reasons Anne Boleyn’s daughter did so well was because she got her parents’ brains and stubbornness and charisma.
With an effort I put my Tudor 2.0: The Next Generation musings aside, as we were at least getting ready to depart. Everyone said their goodbyes, politely laughed at me when I confessed I had no idea how to curtsy, rattled their rosaries, and then the Countess escorted me to the courtyard. When I saw Thomas Wolsey again, this time with horses fitted out for travel and a small escort, I realized what must have happened.
“Ah, Lady Joan, I see you’ve had the pleasure of meeting ouch!”
“That’s why you didn’t come out when we first got here,” I hissed, and pinched him again for good measure. “You were stashing the princess and the Countess in the deer barn!”
This time he caught my fingers before I could give him another zap. “It grieves me to argue with a lady, but I had already ‘stashed’ them in—”
“You were up to no good in that deer barn and we both know it!” I tried to stomp on my temper. And lower my voice. “You know the king doesn’t want them to see each other. He sent the Countess away from Catherine for the same reason! He doesn’t want the queen to have any comfort, nothing that will help her stick this out! If you’d been caught, do you have any idea what he would have done?”
“No.” Thomas was very calm, watching my face as he held my fingers in his. “What would he have done?”
I shut up. I couldn’t tell him, and if I did he wouldn’t believe it. Henry hadn’t gone full-blown monster at this point; he was still loved more than he was feared. Plenty of Germans would have laughed in 1933 if you’d told them what Hitler would get up to in 1941.
“Your concern touches me,” he said, and his breath tickled my fingers. “How very kind—”
“May I be of assistance, Lady Joan?” The tiny and terrible Countess Willoughby had glided over on her infinitesimal feet. One thing about TudorTimeTM1, eavesdropping was a popular pastime, but they were polite about it
, always subtly intruding on private conversations with offers to assist.
“No, thank you. Wait. Yes.” I shot Wolsey’s son another glare and yanked my hand out of his grasp. “You, don’t go anywhere. Ma’am, I need a word.”
“As you wish.”
“Ma’am? As you like.” Her English was perfect, which was to be expected from someone who’d been speaking it for forty-plus years. “Such a helpful gentleman,” she continued in that mystifying vein, because who cared? “A young man with a rare devotion to duty. His father’s son, I think.”
“Uh-huh.” By now we were just inside one of the knot gardens off the courtyard. Time was my enemy (ironic, given my weird new part-time job), which meant I had to get back to Windsor pronto which meant I couldn’t slip away, or at least not too far. The nearest garden, full of thyme and rosemary and smelling like a dream downwind, would have to do. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Joan?”
I squashed the irritation. People having trouble understanding me was saving me a lot of trouble, just as the holy fool gig did. Stupid to get annoyed; I clearly needed a nap. Or a massage. “Her. Queen Catherine. And this.” I gestured to The More. “The situation.” Now I was flapping my arms like a chicken trying to take flight. “A lot worse.”
“I do not—”
“Keep an eye on the food. Cut back on waste. If you think you’ve got too much of something, set it aside, put it into storage, do not get rid of it.” This is a waste of time. At best she’ll write you off as a lunatic, at worst you’ll scare her into hysterics. But I was never one for taking my own advice, which was probably why I was still talking. “Same for everyone’s clothing and plate and furniture and jewelry and any other accessories you have. Hold on to whatever you can for as long as you can.”
“I see, Lady Joan.” The teeny Countess was peering at me. “Like that, is it?”
“Not yet.” It was all I dared say. And I was gratified to see I had her attention. I should have known she wouldn’t scare easily. In her petite ferocity, with the dark graying hair and dark eyes and reddish-brown gown, she reminded me of a kestrel. I pegged her at mid-fifties, with plenty of fight left. “I’m sure you think I’m being an alarmist.”
A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Page 12
