This story was the result of a genre smash contest. I had Altered History + Fantasy. This story is told by Henry’s faithful servant, Thomas Cromwell. A short tale to lighten your day during the pre-Christmas rush. Take a five minute break, and enjoy.
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The door to my office slams back against the wall as the page rushes in, his eyes wide, his face pale, fear shaking his limbs. “The King. The King,” he stammers “He wants you, M’lord.” He points into the passage. “He’s coming. He’s in a rage.”
Henry bellows, his voice bouncing off the stone walls as he approaches my office.
“Cromwell. Where are you? Damnation! Cromwell, how dare you not be at my elbow when I need you.”
I lay down my quill and close the ledger on my desk, then rise, ready to face Henry’s wrath and endeavour to calm whatever crisis has upset him, real or imagined. It doesn’t do to cross His Majesty, Henry VIII, known for his bad temper. He’s also known for his tendency to throw opponents into the Tower of London and chop their heads off—as easily as ordering stuffed quail eggs for high tea.
“Your Grace,” I bow low as he enters. “What can I do for you? I’ve been busy with affairs of state, as my position as Lord Privy Seal demands, but they are mere trifles.” I point to the papers on my desk. “Everything can wait if you need me.” Flattery and a subservient attitude will always mollify him.
“It’s these damn wives of mine. Demanding. Demanding. Demanding.” He folds himself into a nearby chair and we wait for his breath to return. Excessive drinking and eating have not been kind to his figure. The page and I stand silent and respectful, but I shoosh the page away with a flick of my wrist and he scuttles around the door and pads up the passage as fast as his little feet can carry him. Good, now we have privacy and no gossiping servant to tittle-tattle our conversation.
“Sire?” I offer a small glass of wine, which Henry accepts and downs in one gulp.
“These women will be the death of me, Thomas. Six of them, all wanting more money for gowns, for more servants, more money for jewels, silks, and brocades – not to mention the upkeep of their residences. I swear each is trying to outdo the other.”
“Except for Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard,” I offer. “They are cheap to keep, both presently restrained in the Tower, at your pleasure.”
His forehead creases with a scowl. “True. But even so, there are guards to pay, and food and fire to keep them alive.” He runs his hands over the heavily embossed jacket wrapping his paunch and tucks his large fists into the hidden pockets. “Beheading them would save a large expense each month.”
“But it wouldn’t be a good look, if I may offer my opinion?” He nods, so I continue. “You have achieved wonders, Your Majesty, with religious reform within the Kingdom. The general populace understands your desire for an heir and they admire your patience with your wives. By leaving the Papists, establishing the Church of England, and allowing divorce, you have eased the burden on many a man. At least a man can rid himself of a harpy—should he need to.”
“True, Thomas. But this doesn’t solve the problem I have created by having six wives, even if five of them are legally divorced. Only Catherin Parr is behaving. Even so, she too makes demands on my time, my husbandly duties and my purse. Perhaps all this reformation wasn’t such a good idea?” He raises his eyebrows and there is a flutter of fear in my chest. I thought it one of my better ideas, at the time.
“Leave it with me, Sire. I will see if I can find a solution that doesn’t require more expense or violence. Perhaps I can research how other men are faring with multiple wives and properties to upkeep.”
He stands with care, no longer the strong young man he portrayed when he came to the Throne. Affairs of State can be exhausting, not to mention his over-indulgences in wine, women and the odd song.
“It’s not the houses that cost the money, Thomas. I’ve acquired quite a few of them through marriage. It’s the occupants that demand the upkeep. Everyone is so concerned with image and fashion.” He leans forward and pokes me in the chest. “Even you are a little tempted by the baubles of office. Are you not?” I resolve to wear unadorned brown from this moment on. He chuckles, enjoying his veiled threat, and waddles his weight down the hallway to terrorise someone else in the Court.
The need to research men with multiple households and wives becomes more pressing by the day. Eventually, I track down a soothsayer who refers me to a seer, who in turn recommends a man who has been heard to boast of having eight wives. I presume this man has come to London for peace and quiet. Not wishing to scare him with my position and power we agree, through an intermediary, to meet in an ale house in Putney. The air is dense with smoke and the smell of spilt beer, an odour so thick it would do for the base of a rich soup. We find a gloomy corner in which to have our discussion and once the ale mellows him, he tells me he’s a time traveller from another century.
Disappointment hits me like a clod of dirt. All this effort and I end up with a nutter. However, the more he talks the more I think there is a kernel of truth hidden in his wild tale. He either has personal experience, or a vivid imagination. He can’t be shaken from his tale and when I mention I have a client who could benefit from first-hand knowledge he pauses and considers.
“It would require a journey to the future. There’s so much to see that I cannot explain it all. Besides,” and he raises a finger, “I suspect you don’t believe me.”
“It’s not me, so much as my employer, who will need convincing.”
“Supporting many wives is expensive. I speak from experience. The very reason I travel back in time is to earn gold. Gold is worth far more in the future than it is in London today.” He looks around before adding in a softer tone, “My fee will need to be paid in gold angels or half angels. None of these new-fangled sovereigns, with a reduced gold content that the King is issuing.” He leans closer. “Can you do that, Mr. Cromwell? If you can I will give your client an example of a well-run multiple marriage. And that in itself is a treasure any man of sane mind would wish to attain.”
As Lord Privy Seal I have access to coins of the highest carat. I also keep the ledgers so can hide the expense among other disbursements. “I can do that,” I assure him and we arrange a place and time to meet, far out in the countryside, in a residence he rents when on one of his trips. With eight wives I think anyone would want a break quite often.
The following week His Majesty and I, arrive on horseback at the said residence, having assured the Court we are taking a private ride to discuss secular matters of State. We are staying with Anne of Cleves at Hever Castle. Henry continues to grumble that it is my fault he is lumbered with this ugly woman. I too was fooled by the painting I viewed when I duly recommended her as his fourth wife. Both of us were disappointed, but Henry more so. After all, I didn’t have to bed her – and he refused to. Despite the subsequent quick divorce, they remain good friends and she has a fine mind. I am tempted to share my excitement for our trip but I doubt even her intelligence will accept what we are about to do.
Convincing Henry to remove some of his purple clothing, his embroidered doublets and padded shouldered jackets has been wearying. He insists on keeping his hose, which only emphasises his stocky legs, and he refuses to wear the breeches of a lower-class courtier.
He rides his black stallion to the meeting place, while I ride an elderly bay gelding, in line with my new dulled-down look. If Henry draws strange looks or even laughter while on our trip, his demand to have the offender decapitated will probably be ignored. I doubt beheading is allowed as freely in the future as it is now, under Henry’s rule.
Brigham Young, for that is the time-traveller’s name, waits at the cottage door. I hobble the horses to prevent them wandering and Henry ducks his head to enter. We both stoop, and find the low ceilings difficult. Mr Young blanches when he recognises my client but stiffens his spine and acts as if Henry is no more important than he himself is. I admire Mr Young’s daring. I slip him his bag of gold and he leads us through a door, missing the cue that Henry expects to go first. For a moment the doorway is crowded and then the three of us fill the small sitting room. A fire smoulders in the grate, more for effect than warmth, and the smoke-laden air causes my eyes to twitch. My heartbeat increases and I wonder if this is a stupendous folly which will cost me my head.
We link hands, stand within the designated circle that has been chalked on the stone floor and Young incants what sounds like a prayer. Henry opens his mouth, no doubt to utter some insulting oath at all this witchery, when we are swirled into a vortex.
I gasp. The swirling light makes my stomach churn and I close my eyes. The sensation of rising then falling is like being in a boat on a rough sea. Henry’s grasp of my hand crushes my knuckles but I’m unable to protest, too busy swallowing my rising bile. There is a thump as my feet hit solid ground and I stagger to regain my balance. Henry stumbles for a moment beside me and curses. The swirling ribbons of light around us fade to reveal a barren landscape. Not a building in sight in any direction. The sandy soil reflects the sun’s heat. The breeze is slight with a crispness that cleanses one’s nostrils. We walk through tufts of grass toward a contraption sitting by a creek. Like a box on wheels, the thing sits in the shade of a lone tree and there is not a horse nearby to be harnessed. If we are to walk to view Mr Young’s multiple wives then the deal will be off. Henry’s legs will not take him far.
“Where, in God’s name, are we?” Henry roars. Shock and I suspect fear, has paled his complexion under the ruddy lines that web his cheeks and nose.
‘Utah!” Young says, with a sweep of his arm. “Miles of space and I own all the land you see.”
“Nothing to be proud of. It’s barren.” His Majesty is not impressed and I think he has a point, but I intend to keep my opinions to myself. Henry’s displeasure is not pleasant.
“There are enough pickings amongst the tussock to feed several thousand sheep, and a thousand head of cattle. Plus, my wives are industrious. They spin and weave to make clothing to wear and sell, as well as producing many children.” Mr Young refuses to be cowed. “Follow me,” he says gesturing at the horseless box on wheels. It sags with Henry’s weight and once we three are seated, it begins to rumble, and then moves across the land at speed, as if by magic. Over several hillocks and down a worn track we travel. Henry is stunned into silence by this new mode of transport. I can see him demanding one to take back.
A collection of houses come into view, double storied with large verandas and balconies. They are surrounded by verdant shrubbery, trees and vegetable plots. Each house is set apart from the next, yet as a whole they form a village-like community.
“It’s Sunday, there will be other families arriving to worship. You will be welcomed as honoured guests.” Mr Young stops the contraption and we exit. Henry stands, stretches to his full six-foot height and rubs his eyes. “The women are dressed like common serfs,” he mutters. “My wives won’t put up with that.”
“You can dress them how you wish,” Brigham Young says, obviously having overheard. “I have full authority over my wives. They do as I say and would not dare to argue.”
“How do you keep them in a willing manner?”
“There is always the threat of pregnancy,” and Mr Young smiles, inclines his head in a man-to-man understanding with Henry. “Also, an element of jealousy keeps them submissive and willing to please me. I reward their good behaviour with delights and treats, but these are hard earned.”
We are feted as honoured guests and introduced as friends whom Mr Young has met on his travels. The other men, and all the wives, defer to him with reverence, except no-one curtseys. I expect Henry to shout about this lack of respect, but he too is stunned to silence by these foreign surroundings. Plus, he overeats again. Mr Young’s wives vary in age from adolescent to middle age, and some are sisters.
The atmosphere is cheerful, the food plentiful; fresh lamb roasted on a spit and huge piles of vegetables, some unknown but tasty. The bread is crusty and soft centred, freshly baked, with huge pats of butter to be spread on it. While Henry is plying Mr Young with questions, I am watching the children. They point at Henry and me, giggling behind their hands. I note our table manners are a little different, but at least the meal begins with a prayer, which not only praises God for his blessings but also admonishes some distant deity for his failings regarding the country’s debt. I am reassured this is a common complaint by the masses, and has been carried forward in time.
Some hours later Henry states he wants to leave. Nothing will persuade him to linger. He stands, legs astride and glares. The children mill around us, so many you can’t count them, many stamped with either Brigham Young’s blond hair or his distinctive nose and chin. I am impressed. His Majesty, I suspect, is suffering pangs of jealousy at Young’s fertility.
We set off again in the contraption, back to the tree by the creek. Mr Young says he will return with us but can’t stay. Under the shade of the lone tree, we once again hold hands to form a circle, and before we can experience a feeling of stupidity the swirling ribbons of light take us back to the cottage. This time my stomach is more tolerant and our landing is more restrained. All three of us are upright and I for one, much relieved to be back in that cramped room. The fire is still struggling to flame, but the room seems warmer.
We have an hour’s ride to return to Hever Castle and within moments of arriving Henry is out the door and calling to his stallion. Mr Young speaks and I turn to clarify his comment and to thank him, but his essence lifts like a wisp of smoke and vanishes into the late afternoon sunlight that pierces the glass rectangles between the mullions of the window. A man of his word, he has returned to his wives.
I trail Henry as he rides, always ahead of my old horse. No doubt His Majesty wishes to return to familiar comforts. I admire the green pastures and the sounds of familiar birds. Even the wildflowers on the roadside delight me, after the vast Utah landscape. At the castle gates Henry doubles back to my side and leans over. My chest tightens, but I hide my unease with a smile.
“I hope that little trip didn’t cost you too many sovereigns, Cromwell.”
He is cross. I am no longer Thomas, but Cromwell. I don’t tell him I raided the Privy Purse for the gold angels which Mr Young insisted upon. We walk the horses up the long drive.
“Did you gain the knowledge you looked for, Your Grace?” I cross my fingers under my cloak.
“I learned that keeping women submissive takes skill, no matter what century you are in. Also, Cromwell, it taught me that my wives are spoilt. I shall demand more pious behaviour and less extravagance. Piety and prudence—or I shall behead the lot of them. I envy Young his fertility, but that many children would turn a man into a pauper within a decade.”
“It was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon,” I risk this personal thought, then add, “What plans do you have for this evening, Your Grace?”
“Some honey mead and perhaps a good discussion with Anne. I’d like her opinion on what I’ve learned today, and her thoughts for the future. Perhaps we should have taken her with us.”
While Anne of Cleves is a clever lady, she is also close to all of Henry’s wives. Perhaps she can rein in their spending. If not, the Privy Purse will be hard to balance and I’m running out of monasteries to plunder. I could well become the target of their collective ire when cuts to their wardrobe expenditure are enforced.
I run my finger around the neck of my surplice. A choking sensation persists. Have I made a terrible mistake? What was it Mr Young said to me before he returned to his wives? His remark, half-heard, clarifies and I remember. He said, “Mind your head, Thomas Cromwell.”
His tone had been well-meaning, a comment which I thought meant ‘mind the low lintel’, but perhaps he meant it literally?
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If you fancy a light romantic novella to take to the beach, try my latest release: (or read by the fire, if you are in the Northern Hemisphere)
Guardian’s Game: A sweet romance with the meddling of angels.
Link: https://geni.us/Izxe2
May your hearts be full, your home warm and noisy and may next year be kind to you and yours. Thank you for reading my work over the past year. I have more pieces tucked away to entertain you in 2025. Best Wishes, Deryn Pittar