How to Say No to Henry VIII Without Losing Your Head

8/9/2019 How to Say No to Henry VIII Without Losing Your Head

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How to Say No to Henry VIII Without Losing Your Head

by Cindy Ash


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How to Say No to Henry VIII Without Losing Your Head

by Cindy Ash

Two-seventeen a.m. My favorite time of night.The house was quiet and my bed was cozy and warm. I snuggled further under

the covers, easing my feet under my husbands bare warm legs and adjusting the

biography of Henry VIII that I was reading into the small circle of lamplight as I rolled

onto my side.

Youd better put it up , I warned myself. Only four hours till the morning rush.

Youre going to be hurting as it is.

Ah, but old Henry had just married his fifth wife, the teenager Katherine

Howard, and this new bio promised to give better detail on precisely how her fall had

transpired, and whether he had really been so surprised that she had come to him as

used goods. It was the beginning of the end for the great king, the time when he really

became the fat old tyrant that so dominates the way Americans think of one of the few

English kings they know by sight.

Of course I couldnt just leaveHarry hanging there.

I snuggled closer to my husband, who grunted a bit as he snuggled back, and

promised myself: Just till 2:30.

But it had been a long day, and as much as I love all things Tudor, this really was

familiar territory. I flipped again to the center of the book, where the portraits were,

and looked at Henry and Katherine, wondering what it had been like for him to be

married to her, and for her to be married to him. Certainly she hadnt kept the lamp ontill all hours of the night, reading a book and warming her feet on his legs.

I sighed and gave up, closing the book and switching off the light. But for a few

moments I thought of his scowl and her wide-set eyes. Then my brain gave up and my

eyes drifted shut


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I had the falling dream.

I startled awake as one always does at the end of the falling dream, feeling wide

awake and annoyed, belatedly concerned that in less than four hours I would be

herding my four little savages out of bed and into the school day. It took me a momentto gather that I wasnt in my bed resting my cold feet against my husband. In fact,

though my feet and legs werent cold, the rest of me felt vaguely chilled. I was dressed

in what felt like about fifty pounds of clothes, most of it resting on my hips, and when I

turned my head I saw a thick stone wall with a leaded-glass window set in it, opening

onto a gray day, a lot of other stone buildings, dust, and, beyond, empty, lush green

countryside.

Looking down at my own feet, I saw a wide expanse of dark blue velvet, very

fine. I reached down to touch it and realized it was a dress, and I was in it. I sagged

against the wall, then sprang up again at the thought of that lovely velvet snagged

against the stone. The dress was very heavy, and I found that the straighter I stood the

more easily the weight hung on my body. As I adjusted my posture to this strange

burden and looked out the window on the dusty scene outside to see men in what

appeared to be Tudor clothing crossing the yard below, I giggled a little. I had no idea

how I had gotten here or how I would get home, but somehow I had landed in a place I

had always wished I could visit.

A Connecticut Yankee in King A rthurs Court , I muttered.

I beg your pardon?

I jumped. The noise outside and my own fidgeting had masked the sounds of

footsteps on the rushes beneath our feet, but a woman stood before me. She looked to

be roughly of an age with me, in her late thirties or so, though I realized that in my own

time one rarely saw a woman who had aged at the same pace as her face, and so I

should take nothing for granted here. She was frowning slightly at me, and I wondered

uneasily with whom I was dealing. Great though my twenty-first century enthusiasts


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knowledge might be compared with that of my fellow Americans, I understood at this

moment that I lacked almost all basic knowledge of how to manage myself in this time

and place. D ear Lord I hoped I could get out of this with my head still attached. Dear

Lord, I wondered if I would get out of here at all.The unknown womans frown began to deepen to a glare.

First things first.

Strange to see no snow today, is it not? It is cold enough for it. I blurted out,

horrified to hear those absurd, inept words that served so little in any century, but

powerless to come up with anything better.

She was definitely glaring at me, though the glare was somewhat softened whenshe looked at the lovely velvet gown. I thanked my lucky stars that whatever weird

force had landed me here had landed me in fine clothes.

I suppose you are a connection of Her Majesty? the unknown woman asked

coldly.

Her Majesty. Well, if this were Tudor England, there was a long list of women

that title could refer to. If it were Mary or Elizabeth then saying yes would be bad,because posing as a friend of the monarch was probably not too bright but then

again, Mary and Elizabeth would most likely have recognizable guests, right? So not a

likely question, or a safe yes. Must be one of the wives, though which

Would that be a good thing? I asked, in what I hoped was the light, jesting

tone of Tudor bantering.

The woman relaxed slightly and smiled. In truth, if you are a guest of Queen

Katherines you are wise to ask the question. Her Majesty would have done well to

follow your circumspection.

Queen Katherine well, there were three Tudor consorts by that name, but the

first and the last had circumspection running through their veins, so Her Majesty must


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Our heads both snapped toward the sound of the screaming; understanding

dawned simultaneously as well Katherine, protesting her innocence to the hard-

hearted Henry. Foolish little girl, Lady Rochford muttered contemptuously.

Foolish woman, I retorted sharply, and as her attention snapped back on me Ifelt a certainty that had eluded me ever since I found myself in the blue gown. Youll

be in the Tower with her before Christmas, Jane Boleyn, and youll be two steps behind

her on the Green before spring comes. You should have protected her from herself, not

pushed her head off her neck, as you did your husbands. Youll not escape twice.

Her face white and taut with mingled fury and terror at my prediction, she

turned on her heel and strode away without a word.

Two things kept me where I was as the heavy footsteps came nearer. The first,

and more immediate, was a complete ignorance of where I was and what a reasonable

course of action might be. The second was a curiosity, nursed over twenty-five years of

reading everything I could get my hands on about the Tudors. Uncertain as I was

whether I was only dreaming or if I had actually been transported bodily to England

circa November 1541, there didnt seem any harm in waiting to let Henry VIII bump

into me. If I actually was bodily present at Tudor Hampton, I wasnt sure how to getmyself back to my husband and my cozy twenty-first century bed, so why not make the

most of the experience? And if I were only dreaming, well, then certainly I should hang

out with Henry VIII perhaps Id even do the Twist with him before I woke up.

Alas, I had forgotten how passionately furious hed been on discovering the

worm in his Rose Without a Thorn.

A group of men came into view. I gaped at them, drinking in the details in their

rich costumes and trying to sort out who they all could be. Henry towered above them

all, his girth just as impressive as his height. The red Tudor hair had thinned and

dimmed and I realized I was in the presence of the king, who had paused to gape at

me standing stupidly staring. I fumbled awkwardly into the deep curtsy one of my


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daughters had learned in her after-school ballet class; not knowing what else to do with

my hands I grabbed the sides of my skirts and spread them wide, hoping I looked more

like Cinderella than like my daughters imitation of their favorite cartoon.

A man snorted. Well, I didnt expect to impress anyone with my natural grace.

I tottered there for what felt like a long time. The seconds ticked past and my

thighs burned, all my weight held up on one bent leg, the other stretched behind me

aching from the awkward pose. I thought how the trainers at my gym could use this

with their clients, and then what a waste it was that court women would never have the

opportunity to show off what must have been phenomenal legs thanks to the Curtsy

Plan.

My thigh began to quiver, sending shudders down to my toes and up to my

shoulders. My eyes were stinging with the effort. Without intending to, I slowly raised

my eyes to look at the king, hoping for an indication of when he might relieve me.

His eyes widened, and the entourage generated another contemptuous snort and

a few disbelieving gasps. My thigh gave another shudder and I realized there was an

immediate choice in order: either topple to the floor in a heap of navy blue velvet and

endure the laughter of these unknown men (not to mention Henry himself), or rise

unbidden in the kings presence and take the consequences.

I rose.

The cloud of disbelieving gasps wasnt grounded this time by the contemptuous

snort. With such a blank of expectation to guide him, Henry again seemed stymied to

inaction. I seized the opportunity.

I beg pardon, Your Majesty, for rising so abruptly, I said, wobbling a little on

my throbbing, tingling legs, but I am new to your court and unfamiliar with your

customs.

Henry stared at me disbelieving, but happening to glance at a young man

standing near who was rather less flamboyantly dressed than the others, a shadow fell


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You dare to rise before your king? he shouted at me. You are like yonder

queen what was, thinking you can behave before the doddering old man as you would,

without consequence? Mayhap you also played the bawd?

No, Your Majesty, I am a married woman with four children. Just as you have.I love my husband. I have no reason to stray. But even if I had, that would be no

matter for you.

Nor had she! he bawled, spittle flying out of his mouth. Nor had she! I loved

her. I gave her more care than any of the others, even with the howls of Spain and the

Holy Roman Empire; even with Cleves threatening war, I gave less than I gave to that

nothing little hoyden, whose house craves my throne.

Indeed you did, Your Majesty, I said softly, using the comforting tone I

reserved for my preschooler. But young women of seventeen dont always act out of

consideration or self-interest.

I suppose you are one of her friends, then, here to crave pardon for her base

usage of me, he answered bitterly.

No, sire, no. I do not believe anyone will speak for her.

No, they wont, he agreed. All her former connections will melt away as

absolutely as they did for the other one.

Since that is the case, wouldnt you do better to show her the mercy that failed

Anne Boleyn? I braved this question with the same reckless audacity though

considerably more risk that I had hurled at Lady Rochford a few minutes (was that

all?) before. But I knew it wouldnt matter.

You dare to confront me with the memory of that witch? he growled.

Not only I, but history sees that episode as a shabby exercise of tyranny. And I

say that it was a piss-poor way of treating the mother of your child. But caring for the

mothers of your children isnt exactly your strong suit, is it?


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The entourage emerged from slack-jawed amazement to give one mighty

collective gasp and a large step away from me. Henry flushed scarlet and seemed to

swell, then abruptly withered and slumped like a sulky teenager.

God has punished me in my wives, he whimpered.

Oh, for petes sakes, I huffed exasperatedly. Not that tired old whine.

The entourage had visibly thinned, though whether they had gone for the guards

or simply escaped an impending Tudor tantrum I couldnt guess. Two or three of the

most richly dressed men remained, quivering between hanging uneasily back and

protectively forward; John Lascelles remained as well, hanging back but clearly

unwilling to leave.Who are you? Henry demanded wearily. A witch? A prophet? Sent by one of

my enemies? Who is he?

I am Amy Jones, I answered. I stopped there, unsure what else to say. I

w anted to give him a lecture telling him to pull his head out of his ass; he had three

children who together would shape England with such force that an entire century

would be named for them, and even more, the greatest of these was the daughter of a

beheaded wife. But how do you say such a thing to the King of England?

Henry, as I had forgotten, had a short attention span. He was looking at me

appraisingly as I paused. My desire to lecture him evaporated in disgust as I realized

that he was checking me out. This was never part of my Tudor fantasies.

Four children? he said musingly.

And a husband, I reminded him.

Oh, husbands, he waved his hand dismissively. What matters that when you

might have a king? He winked and leered.

I had reached my limit. Your wives dont fare well, Your Majesty. I like my

head just fine where it is. I do not care to trade my husband for a man who wont let


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me speak my mind without risking my neck, and I do not care to abandon my children

for a King who neglects his daughters. No, and no, and no, and if you have to take my

head off to save your ego, then you can live with the consequences of letting Europe

know that you are a butcher and a tyrant.His face had grown darker with my speech, but it stuck on one word and I

finished my piece with the distinct impression that he hadnt heard the end.

Whats an ego? he asked. He turned to the rich men beside him, as though

they might have the answer handy. But Freud was almost four hundred years in the

future.

Your Majesty, we must receive the Spanish ambassador; the Catholic Howardshave great influence with their king and we must explain Mistress Howards behavior,

the nearest one said hastily. He looked at me intently, clearly communicating shut up,

now , and I sank again into a curtsy against the groans of my aching thighs, pressed as

close to the wall as I reasonably could. Henry flicked one more look at me, but was

willing to be led away.

As soon as the group turned the corner I stood in relief and crossed the corridor

to stand once more against the window, leaning my forehead on the cold, rippled glass.

I sighed deeply and closed my eyes. What next? I had a dress, but no idea if that dress

had come with court lodgings, or how to secure a place in the great machinery that

moved the court from one palace to the next. I didnt even know which direction to

turn in the corridor to go from exposure to safety, if safety could be found in Henrys

court. I had been pumped with adrenaline from the excitement of finally experiencing

Tudor life for a few minutes, and having my bearings for a time, but now I was at sea,

and wishing more than anything for the security of knowing where I was, how to talk,

and who to talk to. My hands gripped the window ledge as the enormity of my

predicament began to sink in.

And once again, I was falling.


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MOM! Were going to be late!

Elizabeth, Anne, and Katherine, my daughters, were lined up on the side of my

bed dressed for the day to varying degrees; three-year-old Peter bounced on my knees,

shouting Mommy wake up! Mommy wake up!

I pushed myself to sitting, ready and excited to jump into my day, but

wondering how I would weather my yoga class with such stiff muscles in my thighs.

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How to Say No to Henry VIII Without Losing Your Head