The Thornless Rose (13 page)

Out popped the morsel of food that had lodged in her esophagus, and Elizabeth gasped, finally able to suck in the air she’d been denied.

Anne gently lowered the queen into her chair and backed away. Breathing heavily, her eyes met Brandon’s incredulous gaze.

There was a sudden shout and the scraping of a sword leaving its scabbard. “Who dares touch Her Majesty’s person? Guards, seize and disarm them!”

Rough hands pulled at Anne, jostling her and knocking her off balance. She fell to her knees amid a rush of frenzied sounds, of yells, screams, and curses.

She saw others grab Brandon by his arms, his sheathed dagger in the hands of one of the guards. The doctor’s eyes were fixed on her face in powerful concentration.

Someone took hold of Anne’s wrist, yanked her to her feet, and twisted her arm behind her until she feared it would snap. “Bastard, let go of me!”

“Silence, woman,” the man hissed. His grip tightened as his sword pressed against her chest. He called out, “Where is the Warden of the Keep?”

Anne glanced around, pleading silently with the crowd.

Robert Dudley reappeared and with a look of surprise raised his finger and pointed. “I, I saw thee at...at Hampton Court. Thou art...Anne, Anne Howard.”

The man holding her brusquely removed his sword, wrenched her around, and looked directly into her eyes. “Anne Howard!” the duke of Norfolk exclaimed.

Startled, Anne made an effort to focus on the face beneath the splendid feathered hat. He stared her down, his brown eyes hard, ruthless. She felt her legs buckle, but he held her firmly and spoke quietly, “Make a bold show, witch, and thou shalt know the blade of a mortal foe.”

A strong, deep voice rang out, “Majesty, I am Dr. Jonathan Brandon of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. We were to meet this very day.”

“Indeed, indeed.” Pale and trembling, Elizabeth had recovered her voice sufficiently to speak with a scratchy tone. To the guards and Norfolk, she ordered, “Put away your swords, and release them. Return the doctor’s dagger to him at once.”

The guards holding Brandon did as commanded and moved aside, but the duke did not surrender Anne.

The queen turned a sour gaze on him. “Stand down, Norfolk. I owe her my life, and only a fool would not realize it. Let her go.”

He released his grip, and Anne moved away from him as quickly as she could.

Still, he argued his case, “Ma’am, I have reason to believe this woman––”

“Enough!” Elizabeth started to cough.

With a poisonous scowl, Norfolk sheathed his sword and made a curt bow.

Brandon bowed deeply before the queen. He looked at Dudley, then pointed to Elizabeth’s goblet, resting on a nearby table. “Is that malmsey? Please give her some, my lord.”

Dudley frowned, but did as Brandon requested, gently holding the goblet to Elizabeth’s lips as she took a few, tentative sips. The color in the queen’s face began to return as she waved the goblet and Dudley away.

Brandon moved to Anne’s side. “Majesty, the woman is indeed Anne Howard. I’ve known her family for many years.”

“Howard? Is she kin to the duke?” Elizabeth asked Brandon, while pointedly ignoring Norfolk.

Anne watched Brandon as he glanced between Dudley and Norfolk, undoubtedly grasping in his mind for a story that would satisfy. “No,” he said. “No relation. Anne is to begin work with me at St. Bartholomew’s. As thou hast noted, to everyone’s great relief, she possesses powerful abilities in the art of healing and is to begin her apprenticeship under my tutelage.”

“A woman in apprenticeship for a man’s work?” The queen’s voice was low, but Anne hoped she detected a hint of humor behind the words.

“Yes, Majesty. Due to her great natural abilities and because we are plight-trothed.”

Puzzled, Anne stared at Brandon.

“Methinks she hath greater abilities than thine own in certain things,” Elizabeth said with a now melodic laugh. “’Tis a wonder, to be sure, but not an unknown thing, that a woman may well discharge the duties of a man.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “And if you are betrothed and to be married, ’tis all the better.”

Anne’s chest constricted.
Married?

Brandon’s sharp-blue gaze slanted toward her with a look that warned:
Don’t say a word!

Dudley interjected, “Art thou aware, Majesty, that I saw this woman skulking about at Hampton Court dressed as a rat-catcher and acting unnaturally?”

“Robin, desist at once. However would she gain access to Hampton Court? ’Tis our pleasure to release this woman to the custody of the good doctor. If thou continues with this harassment, I shalt be most displeased.”

“Ma’am.” Dudley bowed, yet from his frown and tone, it was clear he was angry at the public rebuke. He exchanged a look with Norfolk, whose gaze was now impenetrable.

The queen considered Anne. “Dost thou wish to speak on thine own behalf, bold miss?”

Anne feared her life depended on what she did next. Swallowing hard, she curtsied deeply. “I am your loyal subject.” Looking at her hands, she added softly, “I’m sorry about touching you, Your Majesty, but there was nothing else to do, and no time to explain myself. I didn’t want you to die. You’ve still got far too much to do.”

The queen raised her eyebrows at this last statement and smiled. “Indeed, indeed I have.” She reached for her goblet and took another sip. Peering over the rim at Anne, she added, “Pray then, loyal subject, how came thee by such an accent? Thy words are queer, too, for thou misuses
you
for thou and thee. Never have I heard the like in my realm.”

Anne held the queen’s gaze, unflinching. “My mother’s foreign born, but my father’s a Brit.”

Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed. “Thou hast bold foreign manners, for certs, but I like thee well! Go with my blessing and my gratitude.” She faced Brandon. “Sir, take her home and treat her well. I should like to meet with both of you in future, for your medical knowledge intrigues me.”

Brandon bowed to the queen and reached for Anne’s hand. “Come on,” he said under his breath. “Follow me. Now!”

She drew a sharp breath at the electric pulse that came with his grasp, as their fingers touched for the first time.

Elizabeth smiled and nodded, then settled her gaze on her courtiers. “Sit ye down and be quiet,” she commanded in a mighty tone. “I have a horse to choose.”

…

Brandon’s grasp tightened on Anne as he led her away from the royal box.

“Wait. I need to get my things from Mrs. Pennywaite,” Anne said, pulling him to a halt as she glanced about for the innkeeper.

“Margaret Pennywaite?” he asked, releasing his grip.

“Yes,” she replied, immediately regretting the absence of his touch.

“I know her and Cuthbert well.”

“Yeah, they told me,” Anne replied as she spotted Maggie’s pale features in the crowd. The woman’s obvious shock didn’t surprise her. After all, how often does your companion run off and “assault” the queen?

“You must forgive my impertinent fiction about our impending marriage,” Brandon said, breaking her concentration as they set off toward Maggie. “I merely thought if we were declared to be plight-trothed, it would give you immediate protection from Norfolk.” His voice lowered, the strain he felt obvious. “I’ve a guess as to your identity. I must understand something... Did you get here of your own free will? Or did you suffer my fate? In the future, have they developed a way of traveling through time?” His mouth tightened with suffering. “Has Catherine sent you to take me home?”

“No, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice catching as she looked away. “This wasn’t my choice, and I have no idea how to go back. Not yet, anyway. I’m lost, too.”

Chapter Fourteen

The trip to St. Bartholomew’s took a mere quarter of an hour, but to Anne it seemed like an eternity. After retrieving her bag, thanking Maggie Pennywaite, and excusing herself, she and Brandon left the fair, neither one speaking. It was clear to her by the deep creases on his brow that he was stunned by her arrival, even though outwardly he seemed composed. Typical Brit.

Stiff upper lip
, she thought.

When they finally reached St. Bart’s front gate, he ushered her inside and then halted by the churchyard.

“I must check on a patient in my surgery,” Brandon told her. “Might I have a word with you in the Lady Chapel afterward? It is located just...”

“I know where it is, Doctor,” Anne cut in. “Just beyond the church altar.”

“Right.”

“Okay, then I’ll wait for you there.”

He nodded curtly. “Do use the side door. It’s much more convenient.”

As she watched his retreating form, a tingle ran through her. Was she attracted to his quick-witted daring? To his tall, well-muscled physique, and Saxon-blue eyes? Of course, she’d known she was drawn to him from the moment she’d first seen his picture.

Anne let the air out of her lungs in a long sigh. Handsome as he was, the betrayal of her grandmother would be too much to bear. Catherine loved him, and, by all accounts, he loved Catherine. No. She wouldn’t let herself go there.

Despite her self-admonitions, the memory of his touch still lingered on her hand. She rubbed her fingers together. Never in her life had she felt such a jolt of desire.

As she headed for the Lady Chapel, she realized she couldn’t bear the thought of Jonathan Brandon finding out about her foolishness
.

I need to keep a stiff upper lip, too.

…

Brandon bent over the sleeping form of Bishop Robert Wright. The man was snoring softly, his cheek faintly pink in the dim light of the shuttered room. Gently taking his patient’s wrist, he felt the renewed strength of his pulse.

The bishop’s right eye opened. “Drink,” he croaked.

Taking a mug from a nearby table, Brandon sniffed its contents. “I’m afraid it’s only water,” he said as he helped the bishop sip the liquid. “I’ll have Mary bring some mead for later.”

“Young woman,” Bishop Wright whispered.

“I found her.” Brandon paused. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“A man knifed me after she left.”

“As I thought.” Brandon patted the bishop’s hand. “You must rest now.”

The bishop sputtered, “But, but the lass...”

“All’s well, Robert. Go back to sleep. Doctor’s orders.”

Bishop Wright closed his eyes.

“Rest, my friend.” Brandon found himself staring at the door, his mind drifting past it and on to the Lady Chapel. There, he knew, stood a beautiful, auburn-haired woman with striking green eyes. Catherine’s eyes...almost. Catherine’s hadn’t been flecked with gold, nor had they ever looked so vulnerable.

Brandon took a deep breath. Despite her current unease, he had already sensed in Anne a keen difference from Catherine—an exciting, rebellious spirit. Unbidden, he recalled Anne’s full lips, so sensual and lush, and very different from Catherine’s Cupid’s bow. The thought of kissing this gorgeous stranger nearly brought him to his knees.

His heart was on fire, his emotions roiling. Closing his eyes, he prayed for strength, but couldn’t help asking himself,
Who is Anne Howard? And what in God’s name took hold of me the first moment I saw her?

…

The Lady Chapel looked different from what Anne had seen on tour. No modern pews or French doors, its floor now covered with a smattering of furniture and wooden crates. Everything but the crates was coated with a thick layer of dust, seemingly undisturbed for months.

“So sorry about the delay.”

Brandon’s voice roused her from her thoughts and she faced him expectantly.

“I’m well pleased with my patient’s recovery. He will survive. And he inquired after you.”

Startled, Anne asked, “How would one of your patients know me?”

“He’s the gatekeeper, Bishop Wright. He was stabbed after you were here yesterday.”

“How awful! I had no idea. Is he okay?”

Nodding, Brandon studied her face intently, then indicated a table and benches. “Please, do sit down. I would have a word with you, Anne.”

Anne. It was the second time she’d heard him use her name, though this time it wasn’t impassioned, but merely polite. She nodded to him and took a seat, placing her leather bag on the table between them.

“I’m staggered by what has happened.”

“Me, too, Dr. Brandon.”

“Please, call me Jonathan.”

Not Jonnie?
A brief pang of resentment. But no, she told herself, that was her grandmother’s name for him. After all, he barely knew her.

“You must have a million questions,” Anne said.

“Indeed, I do,” he replied firmly.

She studied his demeanor as he folded his arms across his chest. Remote, she decided, reading his body language. Was he feeling really ill at ease, or was he suspicious of her?

He cleared his throat. “You’re American.”

She nodded.

“How long have you been here?”

“I arrived two nights ago.”

“Two?” he asked, puzzled. “But I saw Dudley and Norfolk’s expressions. They recognized you, didn’t they? How is that possible? Was it a public...er, arrival? Did they see you?”

“No, well, sort of, but let me explain. I traveled back in time...a couple of times, briefly, and I ran into Robert Dudley at Hampton Court, but then I went back to my own time, and I never saw him again, until today. As for Norfolk, I don’t know how he recognized me. The day I arrived I came straight here, but since you weren’t around I was told to wait in the market. I was attacked and kidnapped before I got there.”

“What?” Brandon exclaimed, sitting up.

She lifted her chin, exposing her swollen jaw, hoping to discern empathy in his gaze. “These two thugs saw me the moment I came through and were after me all that first night. One of them hit me in the face and dragged me off to a brothel by the Tower of London.”

“You weren’t forced...?”

“No, I escaped before anything happened.”

“Thank heaven for that,” Brandon said. “If it was near the Tower, no doubt they took you to St. Katherine’s Docks. The place is crawling with people of ill repute. I wonder—might the other thug have stabbed Bishop Wright?”

“I don’t know, but the one guy knocked me out cold.”

His expression became straightforward as he reached across the table. “Do you mind?”

When she shook her head, he pressed the skin in front of her ears. “Open your mouth, close. Are you experiencing any clicking in your jaw, or pain in the joint?”

“No, not anymore,” she replied. His touch felt warm, soft, and she shifted uncomfortably when he drew closer still and checked her eyes.

Anne’s thoughts veered to that startling moment in Westminster Abbey, how he’d looked deeply into her eyes just before he’d kissed her. Now his gaze was clinical, without the least glimmer of personal interest.

“Any headaches?” he asked. “Fainting? Extreme fatigue?”

“No,” she answered, disappointed as she listened to his emotionless tone. “I was out cold for a while, maybe half an hour, but I was exhausted, too. I haven’t had any problems since. I’m okay, really.” He sat back, and she gingerly rubbed her jaw. “I wouldn’t have been, though, if Norfolk had his way. He was coming for me at the whorehouse—apparently he gets first dibs on all the new girls—but I managed to escape. Thank goodness, I ended up at the Pennywaite’s inn. They were so kind, and they brought me to the fair.”

“Where we met in the most extraordinary of circumstances,” Brandon finished for her. “What did you do to save the queen? I’d like to learn the technique.”

“It’s called the Heimlich Maneuver. I can teach it to you.” Anne hesitated. “I think before we speak about anything else you should see this.” She reached into her bag, rummaged about for a moment, and finally brought forth a sealed envelope and the Marmite. “Grandma wanted you to have this.”

“Grandma?” Brandon whispered, clearly not prepared to hear Catherine described as such. “Jesus, how old is she?”

Anne spoke gently, “She’s in her late eighties, Doctor. When I left, it had been almost seventy years since you vanished.”

The color drained from his face, and he didn’t say a word.

“I’m sorry. I know this must be a shock,” Anne said.

Several seconds passed before his gaze refocused and he returned to the moment. After giving the jar a cursory glance, he reached for the envelope.

Anne noticed his trembling hands as he placed two photographs on the table and withdrew a folded note. Her grandmother had included a letter! She realized she shouldn’t be surprised; this was Catherine’s last chance, her only chance to say good-bye.

He stared at the pictures, then tenderly fingered one. After a moment, he pushed it toward Anne. “That was our engagement photograph, taken at Brighton. As for the other...” His voice faltered, and she thought he might begin to cry, but he held himself together and whispered, “That’s you and Catherine, isn’t it? My God, she’s still beautiful. Is she well?”

“Yes, she is.” Anne’s eyes filled with tears.
But how is she doing now that she saw me disappear?

Brandon continued to stare at the photo and cleared his throat several times, as if trying to contain his emotions. Anne studied him. Gone was his self-controlled manner, the detached, business-like air. Her emotions were getting the better of her, too. They were both a mess.

“Would you like to be alone, Jonathan?”

“No,” he said quickly. “But...” He cleared his throat again. “Before I read the note, do tell me about her life.”

“She married my grandfather, Arthur Bertrand Howard, a couple of years after you disappeared.” Anne noticed how his body tensed upon hearing this. “They raised two sons in London, my Uncle Reggie and my dad, Richard, who is five years younger. In the late seventies, Dad moved to Virginia because of my mom, who is American. I’m their only child. Uncle Reggie lives in the Outback, in western Australia, with his wife and four sons—the Aussie posse, we call ’em...” Her voice trailed off in mild embarrassment, because Brandon had frowned at her last comment. “Sorry. I tend to ramble when I’m nervous.”

His expression softened. “All right, Anne. Go on.”

“Well, Grandpa was a lawyer, and he died a few years ago from heart failure. From the very start, Grandma told him about you. She said she’d been engaged before and that her fiancé had vanished. They spent a lifetime trying to understand how such a thing could have happened.”

“Your grandfather must have been a remarkable chap.”

“Yes, he was. He even investigated your disappearance on his own.”

“How’s that?”

“He went to The Bishop’s Crook. He studied the police reports. But no one really understood what had happened to you, until my grandfather heard about your letter.”

“Ah, it worked then,” he nodded, “but of course it did—you found me here.”

“Yes. Grandma got your letter from 1559. You’ll have to show me what you did. I want to let her know I’m safe. She told me she always wanted to know how you were doing, if you’re safe and happy.”

“I see.” He frowned and looked out the window. “I haven’t access to the Bible just now. The owner is away, but as soon as he returns, I shall endeavor to arrange a visit.”

“Thanks. It would mean a lot.” Anne pushed the Marmite toward him. “Grandma wanted you to have this, too. Said you loved the stuff.”

“After seventy years she remembered?” he asked, glancing from jar to folded note.

“Of course she remembered,” Anne said. “Do you want to read it?”

“Yes.” His tone held a hushed expectancy.

She made a move to rise. “I’ll make myself scarce.”

“No, do stay.”

“O—okay.”

He unfolded the letter. To Anne’s surprise, he read aloud, “Dearest Jonnie, if you are reading this, then my worst fears have come to pass, for Anne has been taken from me, just as you were so long ago. Please watch over her and protect her, for I love her more than anything in the world.”

Brandon lowered his head and cleared his throat again, struggling with his emotions.

Tears once more welled in Anne’s eyes, but she brushed them away. She couldn’t lose it. She had to listen.

He continued reading, his tone thick and grim, “I have lived a full life. When you disappeared, I was lost and devastated, for I had nothing left of you but a few gifts, letters, and photographs. Eventually, as difficult as it was, I moved on with my life. I met Arthur Howard and married him. I loved him very much, and we were blessed with two wonderful sons and five grandchildren.

“Now, a strange twist of fate has given you something of me, something tangible. I place my darling granddaughter, Anne, in your care. Keep her well and safe, Jonnie. With my deepest gratitude, Catherine.”

A moment of silence followed. Brandon’s eyes were red, his face pale and drawn, and Anne looked down at her lap. She couldn’t bear to see him hurting.

“Forgive me. I must leave you now,” he said, his voice sounding strangled and brokenhearted. “Mary has prepared a room for you here in St. Bart’s. I shall see you in the morning.”

Anne heard his bench scrape the floor and glanced up as he gathered the old Brighton photo and Catherine’s letter. She felt a jolt of surprise when he didn’t touch the picture of her and Catherine, or the Marmite. She looked at him, but his expression had grown inscrutable.

He left without another word, his footfall the only sound.

As the door of the Lady Chapel clicked shut, Anne studied the photograph of her grandmother standing with her at the Sundial Pillar at Seven Dials, in Covent Garden. The handwritten caption listed the date as “July, 2010.”

She remembered that day. They’d shopped for buttermilk bath soaps at Harrod’s first, then had lunch in the Food Hall, sharing a split of wine and some wonderful laughs. Afterward, they’d gone to Covent Garden, enjoying the warmth of summer. They’d been so happy just spending time together.