A Contemporary Asshat at the Court of Henry VIII Read online

  It was an hour’s drive back to the house. Which meant I could look forward to lying down in the backseat of Lisa’s car on a sunny day, to sleep or just endure until the pain eased. Then I remembered the new drug she’d started me on, fished the small bottle out of my purse, got it open after a brief struggle (where was a dexterous first grader when you needed one?) and obediently popped a pill.

  Ah! Candy coated, excellent. The worst part about meds is forcing what feels like a piece of round chalk the size of a quarter down your throat.

  Down it went, chased with Coke. At least I didn’t need a bathroom, and thank goodness. Back in the day, if a visitor asked a staff member where the bathrooms were, their response was to seize the unwitting person’s hand and haul ass toward the porta potties while shrieking, “Privy run! Priiiiiivy run!” This was considered a wonderful (authentic!) way for employees to interact with guests, until the first heart attack. Now the employees just quietly point in the general direction of the land o’loos.

  I started toward the field they had converted to a parking lot, and then the squiggly lines on the edge of my vision seemed to get much brighter, so much so that I could barely see and …

  … then I wasn’t there.

  Chapter Five

  Someone had moved all the cars out of the parking field.

  And replaced them with thousands of people. Which was amazing … think of the man hours! The coordinated effort! The—

  (What is happening?)

  And where did all the horses come from? I had to hop aside before I was clip-clopped into oblivion. At least the migraine aura had receded; for a second it had seemed as if those bright jagged lines had swallowed my entire world.

  They also moved the play jousting arena. And—whoa. The guys doing it this year were a lot bigger. And wearing a lot more armor. And their horses didn’t look like anyone should try to entice them with sugar cubes. Quite the no-nonsense ensemble this year.

  And tents. Many more tents than I’d noticed earlier. If the festival normally looked like part of a small town, now it seemed more like a small city.

  Which made no sense.

  So it had to be the meds.

  And since I didn’t feel like I was about to vomit, and since the aura wasn’t getting bigger, and since I had no idea where the car was, and since this was shaping into a weird day, I figured I might as well do some exploring. Perhaps a turkey drumstick would ease my pain. (Sadly, my Coke had gotten lost along the way.)

  I followed part of the crowd, marveling: the Medieval Festival at Herstmonceux Castle really stepped it up this year. And in next to no time, I was watching two male actors (crowns were the dead giveaway) pretending to wrestle. Then it clicked, and I realized what they were reenacting. I was right in the middle of one of the most expensive pantomimes in the history of human events, the Field of the Cloth of Gold. To wit (whatever that meant), Henry VIII’s impromptu wrestling match with Francis I. Which was worth watching if for no other reason than because Francis I had famously knocked Henry VIII on his ass. Even as the watching crowd gasped and groaned, I couldn’t take my eyes off the men. The actor playing Henry VIII was very, very good. When Francis threw the English king on his rump, the looks on the mens’ faces were hilarious. Henry: flabbergasted outrage. Francis: smug squared.

  Henry had the look of a man whom no one had laid a hand on without permission since his father died. It was the look of a man whose ass is kissed so often and so hard, the thought of being knocked on it is insupportable. It was enough to make you laugh, and I did. For some reason, I was the only one in the crowd who saw the hilarity.

  Queen Katherine (the first of three Cathys he’d marry) and Queen Claude quickly intervened, gently but completely separating the men under the guise of “oh, gosh, wasn’t that fun, time for a drink, maybe? and no more wrestling? boys? okay?”

  It worked (authentic!) and the kings allowed themselves to be led from wrestling and toward treaty signing. The show was over, so I wandered outside the big-enough-to-be-its-own-castle-sized tent.

  The smell hit me all over again; a powerful mix of food, fire cooking the food, too many people, shit, horses, and more people. I shrugged it off; everything smelled like too much when I was in the grip of a migraine. At least the pain was holding off. Which was a blessing indeed, because it let me focus on my surroundings. They were worth the focus, since everyone I saw was putting every effort into making it seem just like …

  Um.

  Where are the power lines? Sure, we were in the country, but I couldn’t see a single utility pole. Just a cool blue sky broken by clouds …

  Also: where were the lights? Though it was midday and lights weren’t needed, I couldn’t see anything that would work when it finally did get dark.

  (Even the … huh.)

  Even the signs were authentic. No plastic, no metal, they were all made of wood, and the archaic misspellings were an interesting touch. Some were so misspelled I couldn’t read them.

  (There weren’t this many people around before you took that pill.)

  Oh, of course there were.

  (Nobody moves 400 cars in twenty seconds.)

  Well, that was harder to argue. But what was the alternative? That I had magically been transferred from 21st century Great Britain to 16th century France? That was beyond ridiculous.

  (Jesus Christ who put a harbor there?)

  I rubbed my forehead and looked again. I might swallow the argument that someone had moved four hundred cars and gotten rid of all the metal and plastic and electric lights and power lines while my back was turned. But then they … dug a harbor? And quickly produced a bay for the harbor they dug? And immediately filled it with period-appropriate ships? But not a single modern boat?

  “Dammit,” I managed, and barely recognized the weak thready voice as my own. “What’s happening?”

  “Are you well, fair lady?”

  “God no,” I managed, and turned to face who’d asked.

  A good-looking teenager had separated himself from the teeming throng and was reaching for me, not quite touching. He was lean and tall, with hair the color of a Cherry Coke, a beverage I would dearly love to be guzzling right now. He was simply dressed in dark colors, hatless and, going by the sober clothing, an apprentice to a scholar

  (an actor pretending to be an apprentice)

  (no, it’s real, this is real)

  or a clerk-in-training. A job requiring brains, and only occasional brawn.

  I stared at his hair and thought, I wish I had my Coke. I used it to wash down the meds and then I lost it when I … when I

  (traveled back in time)

  ended up here and I really, really wish I still had it because I could because I

  (meds?)

  “Oh thank God,” I told him. We were exactly the same height, so I was gazing into a pair of startled blue eyes. I’d grabbed his hands at one point and was hanging on so tightly he winced. I let go at once. “It’s the meds!”

  He was rubbing his knuckles, but at least he wasn’t shouting for a constabulary. And I had to award points for his composure, when mine was in rags. “Who are the meds, my lady?”

  “Of course it is! Oh. I thought you were going to ask something else. It’s my new migraine medication. It’s not even on the market yet, and I can guess why.” Lisa was going to burst a brain cell when I told her about the hallucinations. “Your accent is awful, by the way.”

  “Perhaps you would like to be bled,” he suggested.

  “I can’t think of anything I’d like less. Did you hear what I said about your accent?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “I like your costume.”

  He looked down at himself and seemed almost surprised. “Ah. These … these are not technically mine.”

  “Well, no. It’s a costume. And you know what’s silliest?”


  “No, my lady.”

  “This!” I made a windmilling gesture with my arms and he leaned back so I didn’t clip him on the nose. “It’s all for nothing! This is supposed to fix it so England and France are best friends forever. And it’s a joke. One that goes on too long, like Family Guy.”

  “I do not understand.”

  The more he talked, the better I could understand what he was saying. To be frank, at first he sounded as if he had jammed walnuts up his nose to fight a head cold.

  “Okay, it’s like this. He—what?” I caught a couple of the locals staring at me. “Don’t stare; it’s rude. It’s for a masque.” The one that will never take place because this is a migraine-induced hallucination. The teenager with hair like lustrous Coca-Cola gestured and we headed in the other direction, gradually pulling away from the crowd. “You know what this is? All this? It’s two weeks of dick-measuring. That’s all. That’s the entire point.”

  “And Dick is …?”

  “Shush.” I was on a roll, giddy from the high of whatever experimental drug my roommate gave me. “Henry and Francis are just trying to impress each other. That’s it. That’s all this is. It’s why there are five hundred horsemen and three thousand soldiers for each monarch. It’s why there are jousts. Banquets. It’s why people are wearing cloth of gold, and why that cloth is decorated with pearls the size of jawbreakers.”

  “Jawbr—?”

  “Shush. It’s why there are two thousand eight hundred tents for the peons. Thousands of retainers. And one addled college student. I mean, there’s glamping, and then there’s this.”

  “I do not understand any of that,” he admitted.

  “Is that because of my horrible American accent or because I’m deep in migraine aphasia?” Most of the locals I’d met in the U.K. were perfectly polite, but Lisa and I were aware our accents were a bit “nails-on-chalkboard” to them.

  “Nor that,” he added.

  Oh, who cared? I was going to enjoy this mind-trip while it lasted. I normally had all the coherence of a drunken hyena when I had a migraine. Being able to babble was kind of fun. The lack of pain was even more fun.

  “All the players are here, too,” I marveled. “Two kings, two queens. Suffolk. Buckingham. At least two Boleyns. Wolsey. And—”

  “Cardinal Wolsey,” the teenager corrected me, sounding testy. Which was odd; out of the provocative things I’d been blaring, why did that get a rise out of Coke Hair? When I paused to look at him, he added, “My father.”

  “Oh. Is that why you’re here?”

  To my surprise, he ducked his head and flushed blotchy pink from eyebrows to chin. “Yes. But not for the reason you think. If he sees me I’ll—I’ll be in rather a lot of trouble. But …” He raised his dark head and looked around. “Who could miss this, if there be any way to attend? Who would ever leave, if they could remain?”

  “Oh. Well, if you’re only here for a show, and have no expectations of lasting peace, and don’t think too hard about the waste of time and money, then this is the place to be.” He grinned, so I decided to lighten up. “Tents!”

  “Jousts.”

  “Multiple royal persons!”

  “Multiple composers.”

  “Multiple priests!”

  “Feasts.”

  “Multiple courses!” I had forgotten about the food. Oh, very well, maybe the charade wasn’t a complete waste of everyone’s time. Maybe this army of hangers-on could actually contribute to the betterment of society, to wit, geese, capons, veal, venison, mutton, lamb. For appetizers. Do not get me started on the many, many desserts. Syllabubs. Strawberries swimming in cream. Sugared almonds. Simnel cakes.

  All this, not to mention a disposable castle, thousands of sheep (mutton!), thirty-some priests, at least two court composers (which was to be expected), two monkeys (which was not), and thousands of retainers.

  “So we agree: there’s a lot going on.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling.

  “And it’s a good show to see.”

  “Oh yes!”

  “And it’s still all for nothing. Within three years, they’ll be at war. Again. Wolsey will set up an alliance with the queen’s nephew, and Charles will break his engagement to Princess Mary. Huuuge waste of time and money, all of it. Also it occurs to me that I’ve done nothing but babble.”

  “I like listening to your babble,” he said, and blushed again. Adorable! “And I am remiss. Thomas Wynter.” And he sketched a shallow bow, so quickly and carelessly it was like a handshake; he didn’t have to think about it.

  “What?”

  “My name. Thomas Wynter.” He didn’t bow again, thank goodness. “Might I have yours?”

  “Oh. Right. It’s Joan Howe.”

  “Like the saint?” he asked with a shy smile.

  Adorable! And a bit deluded. “Like my late great aunt.”

  “If you will permit me, your clothing … unusual. Is it a masque?”

  “Sure.” The full-color cast-of-thousands masque going on in my head right this minute. “It’s—what’re you …?”

  He’d paled, taken a few steps back, then jogged toward the nearest cluster of tents. When I saw the donkeys, I got it: Cardinal Wolsey was nigh. On his donkey. (His donkey was also nigh.) I barely got a glimpse of the man, he went by so quickly, and in the company of so many—that donkey was like a greyhound hybrid.

  And something else: my subconscious was a twisted, sick place. Sure, I had often suspected as much, but it was sobering to get proof. Out of all the things I could have hallucinated, both positive

  (Rome! Gotham Bar and Grill! National Strawbery Festival!)

  and negative

  (food poisoning after Taco Bell! squirrel stew!)

  my mind seized on the Field of the Cloth of Gold? Something I was heartily sick of hearing about before I was in training bras?

  And don’t get me started on my field of study. I’m not going to get into it, but suffice it to say that part of me has never left the living room where my mom and I watched all things Tudor. Not least because whenever I had to write a book report or a paper, I invariably chose the Tudors, supplementing my living room “research” with actual research. Yes, I’m lazy.

  Since Wolsey’s bastard had cut our chat short, I decided to head back toward the trees lining the parking lot. Not that the parking lot was there, but it was someplace to go while I tried to figure out why my mind was working the way it had.

  I was so busy contemplating my disgusting subconscious it took me a few seconds to notice the sparkling spots were starting up again. Did that mean the meds were wearing off? Or that the sun was in my eyes? Or that the migraine was finally settling down to bring the pain? I took a few experimental steps toward the sparkles and

  came

  back.

  Chapter Six

  “—lost another one?”

  “Er.” For some reason, I was in a lab with frantic men and women rushing back and forth. The Field of the Cloth of Gold had vanished, if it had ever been there. Well, of course it had been there, just not … you know. Recently.

  “—can’t keep track of them!”

  “Hello?” There were screens everywhere, a staggering amount of tech, white coats, nametags, paperwork, half-empty Starbucks cups, and—was that a microwave? They could afford state of the art equipment but not a separate kitchen? Was it even safe to be around this stuff with a cup of coffee in one hand?

  “How the hell are we going to document this?”

  “You’re worried about documenting? Now?”

  Is this insanity? I might be insane. Which is kind of interesting. And, according to my late mother, inevitable. Hats off, Mom, you called this one.

  But I wasn’t the only one who had succumbed to insane hysteria, given by the people sweating. And yelling. And running. And yelling. None of w
hom had noticed me.

  “I’m confused,” I managed in a small voice.

  “How about you worry about your paperwork?”

  “Fuck your mother, Warren!”

  I tried again. “I am very confused!”

  “Nice, Karen. Reeeeal nice. Did they ever mail your diploma, or did the online college just send you an e-card?”

  “I am very confused right now!”

  Karen’s response, which seemed as if it would have been acerbic, was cut off as she stared. They all stared. I didn’t want to be left out, so I returned the gapes. Things to remember: to get their attention, shriek until if feels like you tore something in your throat.

  “Holy shit, this one came back,” Karen—a dainty, big-eyed blonde all but swimming in a lab coat too big for her—managed in a voice that sounded like she was losing all her air.

  “Damn right! Wait, ‘this one’?”

  “What happened? Who did you see? Where did you end up?”

  I stepped down from the dais (later I was to learn it was called, without irony, the launch pad). “I was really hoping you guys would be answering that set of questions.”

  Another lab wretch darted into the warehouse-sized, frigid room from somewhere, skidded to a halt when he saw me, and said, “Holy shit, this one came back.”

  “That is a worrisome phrase I don’t like hearing one bit,” I announced. “Certainly not twice.”

  While I whined, I was looking around the lab which, even if it hadn’t been chock full o’time travel tech, would have been interesting. I was in the middle of an enormous circular room and hadn’t a clue what all the machinery around me did, but it looked impressive. There were at least three short flights of four to five stairs leading up deeper into machinery, there were red and purple lights coming from … somewhere … and everything was blinking and beeping. I could see enormous flat screens dominating the far wall and it looked as if they were all set to different news channels around the country, covering disappearances, accidents, the Tower of London, and … the Medieval Festival at Herstmonceux Castle?