The Thornless Rose (18 page)

“I’d like to start taking walks with you,” she said.

Jonathan’s smile reappeared. “I should like that very much, Annie.”

Chapter Eighteen

After leaving the Strand thoroughfare, the carriage jolted over a rough road, the tooth-jarring wallops making Anne wish they had journeyed by barge. When she felt she couldn’t stand it anymore, the bumps and grinds finally smoothed out.

“Jeez, I’m glad that’s behind us,” Anne muttered.

“We’re on King Street now,” Jonathan said. “Nearly there.”

She pressed her cheek against the window, straining to catch a glimpse of the royal residence. “Oh, my.” The heavily carved portico and immense gray stone façade of the queen’s principal London residence overwhelmed her. Whitehall.

Rising before her, spanning King Street with three elegant arches, an enormous gateway linked both sides of the palace. The old Holbein Gate. Anne recognized the structure from historical drawings, with its octagonal spires rising four storeys high on either side, the central corridor linking them, two storeys high. The entire façade was filled with long, narrow windows and the stonework was completed in a bold, checkered pattern. Dotted here and there were small statues, zodiac signs, and bas-relief plaques that looked to Anne like over-sized cameos.

She sat back in her seat. “London’s first sky bridge.”

“That’s a charming way of putting it,” Jonathan said, glancing outside. “I heard the queen sits in a gallery in the gate’s upper storey, watching jousting tournaments.”

“Whoa,” the driver called out, and the coach drew up abruptly, just beneath the central arch.

The left door opened, and the footman hurried to lower the foldaway steps, then raised an arm to assist Anne. She took the proffered assistance, pausing briefly to look back at Jonathan as he stepped from the carriage. The footman led them to the court gate on the east side of King Street, which opened to a large, pink-graveled courtyard.

Armed with pikes, helmeted soldiers stood guard. The footman bowed to Jonathan and Anne, then swept his hand toward the palace. “Lady Leticia Knollys awaits your presence.”

Footsteps crunched on gravel, and Anne turned. A young, auburn-haired woman bustled forward, concern shading her face.

“Dr. Brandon, Mistress Anne, I recognize you from the affair at the royal box.” She looked from one to the other. “I am Lettice Knollys.”

A true beauty for any age, the noblewoman had lustrous ivory skin and perfect features. Anne’s gaze was drawn to her forehead. Although startling, her high, shaved hairline didn’t mar her extraordinary looks.

“’Tis good of you to come on such short notice,” Lettice went on. “Dr. Brandon, the queen suffers terribly from head pains and hath hope thou art in possession of some exotic knowledge in these matters that her own barber-surgeons do not retain.” Her blue satin gown rustled with every move as she motioned for them to follow.

They passed through the courtyard and into the great hall of the palace, its vaulted ceiling gilded and hung with beautiful chandeliers, the walls covered with rich tapestries and Elizabethan portraiture. Yet, Anne was astounded as she sniffed and wrinkled her nose—the odors of mildew and sewage mingled with a haze of perfume! The whole place smelled musty and foul, like a dirty outhouse laced with potpourri.

Keeping pace with Lettice, Anne and Jonathan crossed the full length of the hall and then reached a spiral staircase. The noblewoman sped up the steps, never looking back to see if they were with her still. Her gown kicked up slightly in her haste, revealing the rich fabrics of her underskirt, farthingale, and multiple petticoats.

Looking closer, Anne realized the shimmering garment told another tale. The hem was stained, dusty, and darkened along its edge from constant contact with the ground. They reached the top of the stairs and then passed through a series of chambers with tall windows overlooking the Thames.

Anne tried to take in the wonders surrounding her—the stunning views of the river, the beautifully dressed courtiers—but Lettice was moving too fast.

“Her Majesty has suffered from unholy pains of the head all her life, as is commonly known, but she hath little patience left for it this day. The nausea of it hath quite set her off.” The noblewoman looked back at them. “I fear she is ready to see her healers’ heads served up upon London Bridge, if naught can be done.”

Anne and Jonathan exchanged anxious glances.

“Ah, fear not, good doctor. She doth but threaten in her pain,” Lettice reassured. “The queen admits as much—she’s bawdy, brash, and her father’s daughter—but her heart is noble and true.” She chuckled affectionately. “A goodly poet hath called her England’s golden lioness. ’Tis an apt description, to be sure.”

Lettice stopped at a set of double doors, flanked by tall sentries wielding pikes. She allowed one of the men to open the door and then stepped over the threshold. With a nod, the sentry motioned for Anne and Jonathan to follow.

Inside was a large room, almost devoid of furniture except for benches and a few tables lining the walls. Several people milled about, including a haughty looking butler, who stood guard at the next set of doors.

“The privy chamber, which is the anteroom to the queen’s royal bedchamber,” Lettice whispered. She nodded crisply to the butler, who promptly opened the doors, then bowed.

She swept past him. Anne and Jonathan followed and stepped into a dim, hot room, lit only by scattered tapers flickering in tall, bronze candle stands. It took a moment for Anne’s eyes to adjust to the dark. The room was crowded with dozens of people. The smell of body odors, mingled with the stink of filthy, stain-spattered rushes on the floor, assaulted Anne’s sensibilities and caught at her throat. She thought back longingly to the nosegay from the fair, wishing she still had it.

In the center of the bedchamber stood a canopied bed, its framework massive and heavily carved. Upon it lay Queen Elizabeth, looking frail, a folded cloth covering her forehead and eyes.

Murmurs and heated whispers erupted from the crowd. Anne searched the room, spotting men dressed in black robes with red trim and wearing dark skullcaps. The queen’s barber-surgeons. Some looked at Jonathan with arrogant expressions, while others studied him apprehensively. Then, her gaze roamed on until it settled on the familiar face of Robert, Lord Dudley.

Dudley’s brow was creased, his lips tight with strain. He glanced at Anne, nodded, and then looked back at the bed. Clearly, his heart was held captive by Elizabeth’s infirmity.

Anne had seen the look before—in her grandmother’s stricken eyes during her grandfather’s last illness, in the harried glance of her father as her mother recovered from an auto accident. Love mingled with deep concern for a mate’s survival.

Lettice tiptoed to the bed, curtsied, and then bent down, whispering a few words to Elizabeth. She motioned Anne and Jonathan forward. “Kneel before thy queen,” she commanded and watched as they sank to their knees.

Head bowed, Anne heard Elizabeth moan. She looked up as the queen whispered, “Approach, Doctor.”

Jonathan rose and stepped forward.

Elizabeth waved her hand limply. “My head,” she groaned. “I am nearly blind with the pain of it.”

“I am sorry to hear it, Majesty,” Jonathan replied. “I have brought something to give thee comfort and some relief.”

“Praise God.” The queen twitched her fingers in the direction of her physicians, before reaching up to shove the folded cloth onto her brow. “Mine own barbarous surgeons are idiots!”

Anne tried to suppress her smile at the play on words.

“I have ordered them to desist in touching me, for they heal me not,” Elizabeth went on. “They are capable only of further distress and much aggravation, most especially Lopez, the irksome wretch. I should have known better than to entrust mine own well-being to a damnable Portuguese.”

Anne could sense the disgruntled shifting of the physicians behind her. She got to her feet and moved next to Jonathan, then curtseyed. “Majesty?”

Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to Anne. “Ever the bold miss.”

Anne bobbed again for good measure. “Jonathan—Dr. Brandon, I mean—has something wonderful for you, er, thee. I, too, have suffered with head pains from time to time, and this potion works well for me. I hope it will do the same for thee.”

The queen sighed. “Ah, indeed, Anne. I felt sure the good doctor wouldst have such a cure, for I have heard pleasing rumors of his work afore now, and ye both did much to gain my confidence at the fair.” She took a deep breath and said to Jonathan, “Do what thee must, Doctor. I await thy ministrations, though I have been bled once already.”

He pursed his lips, anger flashing across his face. “I don’t believe further bleeding will be necessary, Majesty. Wouldst thou give me permission, ma’am, to clear the room of people? The air is noxious and must be freshened.”

“Aye,” the queen said. “Out with them all—except for my dear Lettice. And as for Lord Dudley... Robin, go and take some refreshment, else thou too will end up in a sickbed. Dr. Brandon will care for me now.”

Robert Dudley bowed to Elizabeth, then turned and gave Jonathan a hard warning glance before he strode away. Anne heard Jonathan draw a ragged breath, then exhale slowly. She frowned. She couldn’t stand the thought of him being held responsible for situations beyond his control. And what if Dudley took things personally? What then?

Jonathan backed away from the bed. “Lady Knollys, might I have a word with thee?”

“Doctor?”

He looked past her to the thinning crowd. “Who is the queen’s lady of the chamber?”

“Lady Ashley, Doctor. Katherine Ashley.”

“Right. Ask her to stay as well. She must make certain the windows are opened and kept that way for the next hour. This room needs to be aired.”

Anne followed the path of Jonathan’s gaze. An elaborate, satin covered contraption stood nearby—a small set of stairs with a round hole cut into the top.

“When was the last time the queen’s close stool was emptied?” he asked. “It stinks worse than the Thames.”

Lettice snapped her fingers and a few servants hurried forward to clean the portable toilet. Then she spoke to an older woman with a kind-hearted expression, whom Anne assumed was Lady Ashley. As Lettice turned to go, the woman began quietly ordering the servants to open the windows, the fresh air making an immediate difference.

She watched as Lettice ushered the last bystanders out of the room.

Jonathan turned to Anne. “Heat the coffee, and I’ll check the queen’s vitals.” He nodded to a nearby charcoal brazier. “There should be plenty of embers. Just bank them around the pot. When it’s ready, I’ll mix in the chocolate and aspirin, and we’ll let Her Majesty drink. That should set her up nicely.” He paused. “Will you be all right? I’ll deal with this if you feel uncomfortable.”

Anne shook her head. “I’m okay,” she whispered back.

He smiled. “Quite right,” he said, opening his medical bag. He handed Anne a stoppered flagon of brewed coffee and a small pot.

Jonathan bent over Elizabeth and touched her wrist, checking her pulse. With a look of satisfaction, he felt the glands in her throat, and then carefully manipulated the back of her neck, asking questions in low, soothing tones.

Anne walked over to Lady Ashley. “Pardon me, would you please get rid of these rushes, too? Sprinkle some water on them first, so they don’t kick up too much dust.”

The woman blinked at her. “We leave for Windsor in but two days’ time, and the rushes will be cleaned away when we go. ’Twould be a waste of effort to bother with––”

“Lady Ashley, I think the smell and dust are making the queen’s headache worse,” Anne insisted. “Please, do it now.”

The woman glanced at the queen, then nodded and backed away. As the servants went to work, Anne heard them grumbling, but she ignored it. She poured the coffee into the pot, pushed it into the embers, and sat back to watch Jonathan.

He removed a long, stiffened, leather cone from his medical bag and placed the wider end against the queen’s chest.

“Pray, Doctor, what confounded contraption is this?” Elizabeth demanded in a raspy voice, her eyes narrowing at the homemade stethoscope.

“It was given me by a physician who studied in the East, Majesty. With it, I may hear the sounds of thy heart. Please inhale and hold thy breath.”

As he listened, Elizabeth’s face turned red, as if she were about to burst.

“Thou may breathe now, Majesty,” Jonathan said, as she voluminously exhaled.

“And what sayeth the sounds?” the queen snapped.

He smiled. “That thy heart is strong and healthy—no worry in that regard.”

“Of course ’tis strong, good sir. ’Tis a Tudor heart!” Elizabeth relaxed into her pillows, wincing, but attempting to smile back.

Anne returned to the queen’s bedside as Jonathan prepared the medicine. She curtsied. “Accept my apologies, Majesty, but might I be so bold as to ask permission to touch the queen’s person? Well, actually, the queen’s feet? It’s something my father always did for me when my head hurt.”

Elizabeth frowned. “If thou must.”

Lady Ashley hurried forward and gently pulled up the covers, exposing the queen’s feet. A light, lemon-orange perfume wafted from the bedding.

Anne took a royal foot in hand. “Please tell me if I’m too rough, Majesty. I know your whole body must ache.”

“Aye, get on with it,” Elizabeth grimaced, her tone tart.

With soft, tender fingers, Anne massaged, barely touching the skin. As the queen’s blood flow improved, Elizabeth relaxed, her tension ebbing away.

Anne worked quietly, glancing at Jonathan now and then. He caught her eye and smiled. She placed a small pillow under the first foot and took up the second, working it as she had done the other.

After several minutes, she looked again and saw Jonathan stir the chocolate into the pot, then pour the mixture into a bowl. Placing the second foot on the pillow, she covered both with the blankets, and moved to the head of the bed.

“Wonderful,” the queen murmured.

Jonathan returned, bowl in hand. “The medicine is ready, Majesty.”

“Thy betrothed hath nearly made me forget I have need of it.”

He raised the queen, while Anne reworked the pillows behind her, so she could drink without spilling. Once settled, Jonathan handed Elizabeth the bowl. Raising it to her lips, she smelled the concoction, then, eyes widening, she smiled and took a sip.