The Thornless Rose (19 page)

“This elixir,” she said, pausing as she licked the foam from her lips, “is every bit as wondrous as the magic thou didst perform upon my feet, Mistress Anne. The royal physicians have never seen fit to concoct so delightful a brew. I pray ’twill succeed in its purpose.” She tipped the bowl up and drank the contents with relish.

Jonathan took the empty bowl and backed away. “Majesty,” he said, “the medicine will take several minutes to begin its work. Thou should be feeling much better before an hour is gone by. There is naught to do now but relax and let the potion take hold.”

“Forgive me, Doctor, if my belief in this flavorsome cure stretches not so far as my hope.” The queen smiled at Jonathan and Anne, then nestled back into her pillows. “I pray you await my healing, for should such a miracle occur, I wouldst have you close by to give thanks.”

…

“Here, ye both may take your ease within Cardinal Woolsey’s privy kitchen,” Lettice Knollys said, pausing as two footmen opened a set of doors. Anne and Jonathan halted behind her. “I will see to it food is provided, whilst ye bide your time for Her Majesty.”

“Thank you,” Anne replied.

With a smile, the noblewoman left. Jonathan followed Anne into a large room set up for dining, with open doors leading to a sun-drenched garden.

“I dare say this is a rather strange kitchen,” he observed as they glanced around the elaborately decorated chamber.

“Jonathan,” Anne put her hand on his arm, “I’ve seen this room before, in a painting of Henry VIII and his children. And you’re right about it not looking like a kitchen. It probably hasn’t been one for a long time. Woolsey’s been dead for years.”

Excited, she pulled him forward, stopping before a throne. Beautifully carved and gilded, with cushions of blue velvet, it rested upon a great Turkish rug. Behind it hung a tapestry with a complex floral design and a central royal crest of shield, crown, and lions. This continued overhead to form the throne’s canopy.

Columns, running in twin lines down each side of the room, were painted a soft, shimmering blue and were overlaid with a network of gilded carving that seemed to mimic the floral design in the tapestry. The ceiling was also richly embossed with carved red and white Tudor roses.

Anne gently fingered one of the columns. “I’ve always loved that painting. I just can’t believe I’m actually here.”

The door opened, and two servants entered carrying trays heavily charged with covered dishes. They served Anne and Jonathan a delicious meal of roast beef, crusty wheat bread laced with rosemary, marzipan sweets, plum pie, and a fine French burgundy, but after they finished the meal, time passed slowly. The angle of light coming through the doors shifted as the minutes dragged by, and Anne grew nervous with the delay.

“Jonathan.” Anne tilted her head and looked sidelong at him. “Back there you said you’d studied medicine in the East.”

“That was just a ruse, something I began telling people almost immediately to explain away some of my modern proclivities. No one has ever questioned it. I suppose they are ready to believe anything bizarre or exotic must come from those mysterious lands. Tell me, Annie... I’ve been anxious to know about what has happened, since I left, I mean.” He looked at her with concern. “The king, say. He must have passed away by your time, but how did he fare? He was such an honorable chap, thrown at the Crown like he was after his brother’s abdication.”

Anne studied Jonathan, thinking about how much there was to tell. “Well, he—King George, right? —passed away rather young. His daughter, Elizabeth, took the throne in the early fifties and is still the queen. Her mother died a few years ago.”

“You’re serious? Her mum must’ve been at least ten-odd years older than I! How could she live so long?”

Anne smiled. “She claimed it was her daily glass of champagne.”

“Ah, champagne,” he murmured wistfully.

“I’m pretty sure the Queen Mum was over one hundred when she died,” she went on, “and still really popular. Her daughter has been on the throne over sixty years.”

Jonathan raised his glass of wine. “Here’s to
my
Queen Elizabeth, as fine a war heroine as ever lived. She refused to leave her country during the Blitz, you know. They could have gone to Canada for safe haven, but she and the king stood with us—their daughters, too. They stayed at Buckingham Palace, even after it was bombed. I’m buoyed up to learn she lived a long life.”

There was a pause. Now what could she tell him? Anne was stumped. So many events had shaped the world since his vanishing. “You don’t want me to give just the headlines, do you? That would be kind of weird, and I doubt we have time right now. Maybe a rough sketch of the late forties and fifties?”

Even so, she had a hard time generalizing, touching on the Marshall Plan, Europe’s post-war recovery, and the Cold War.

Jonathan shook his head, his brow furrowed. “Good Lord, what I’ve missed.”

“I hope I haven’t thrown too much at you.”

“No,” he said, looking up. “I’d quite like to know everything that happened––”

A light tapping on the door interrupted him. Jonathan and Anne turned as a footman entered and bowed.

“Her Majesty,” the man announced, “requests your presence.”

They followed the footman back through the corridor leading to the queen’s bedroom, but before reaching her private chambers, the man turned left. He guided them down yet another hall, until they stood before a new set of double doors, flanked by more sentries.

The footman bowed. “The royal presence chamber.”

The doors were opened for Anne and Jonathan, then shut again, leaving them alone. They stood for several moments, turning in every direction, trying to take it all in. The ceiling was high, their footsteps echoing around them as they moved toward the center of the chamber. But seeing details here proved nearly impossible, for several windows ran floor to ceiling along one wall, allowing the late afternoon sunlight to spill across the vibrantly patterned wood floor, nearly blinding them to what was lying in the darker recesses.

“Look here,” Jonathan finally said. “It’s another painting of Henry VIII.”

“What’s that?” Anne turned to look. “Oh, my gosh, yes! It’s Holbein’s painting of him, his parents, and Jane Seymour.” She gazed in wonder at the huge mural. “I just saw this out at Hampton Court. Well, it was a copy actually, because,” she lowered her voice, “this one was destroyed when Whitehall burned down.”

“Blimey!” Jonathan said with a smile. “Shouldn’t we be getting out of here?”

“Funny. No, it didn’t burn down until the late seventeenth century.” She paused, searching her memory. “I want to say, er, 1698?”

“I would never have remembered. You’ve certainly a knack for dates.”

Anne shrugged. “I should hope so. It’s my field.” She patted him on the back. “Since you’ve managed to become a physician, I’ll let you off easy for not knowing your dates. To each their own expertise.”

Suddenly, there was a great clamor in the outer hallway, and Elizabeth’s voice rose above the din, “
C’est un miracle! Extraordinaire! Je suis
guéris
je vous dis!
Now get out of my way, or thou shalt have my footprint upon thy brow!”

Anne braced herself against the coming onslaught.

“Mother of Christ, what can the queen be screaming about?” Jonathan turned toward the commotion, his frown deep as Elizabeth burst into the room, Dudley close on her heels.

The queen beamed, looking especially indulgent as she waved her hands, beckoning to Anne and Jonathan. Golden-red hair fell over her shoulders in wild abandon, her green taffeta skirts flying about her swiftly moving ankles. “There thou art, my good doctor—and Anne. I am cured! Absolutely cured! I feel as though I shan’t have another pain in my lifetime.”

Anne and Jonathan knelt. Elizabeth strode forward, pulled them to their feet, and pumped their hands happily. Then she stood back, fists on her hips and chin high, looking them over. Smiling courtiers and physicians filed in behind the queen.

“I owe thee both much, for ye saved me from death and suffering, twice now, and in as many days. Which part of my kingdom wouldst ye claim, then? Name it!” Elizabeth threw her head back and laughed. “Ha! God’s blood, Brandon! Man in his wretched state hath never felt so wondrous.”

Anne couldn’t believe her eyes. The queen was higher than a kite! Could her heart stand all that caffeine?

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled as she leaned in. “Whatever ye wouldst wish in payment,” she whispered, “I will grant you both, but one thing further I would ask. Do not give the secrets of that potion to any of my healers. They are a pompous lot and insufferable. It would please me to hold this mystery over them for as long as I might draw breath.” She paused. “When art thou to wed, Doctor?”

“We haven’t set a date, actually, but––”

“Well, sir, I leave for Windsor in but two days’ time.” The queen turned to her courtiers, then smiled at Dudley. “Robin, thou art aware, art thou not, that I do enjoy the pageant of a beautiful wedding, now and again?”

“Indeed, ma’am.” Dudley winked.

Elizabeth spun back to Jonathan and Anne. “My thanks will be your wedding day! Such a one as you would never have dreamt.” She took Anne by the shoulders. “Thou shalt have a gown of surpassing beauty, not unlike thee. And as for the good doctor,” the queen turned to Jonathan, “thou shalt have a suit of fine quality and fashion.”

Laughing, she glanced at Dudley. “And should they not marry here, Robin? Why yes! In the Chapel Royal! We shalt have music and a feast, then they will have their first night under mine own roof, in a bed of softest down.”

Elizabeth beamed at Anne and Jonathan. “And since I cannot possibly wait until I return from Windsor, and since the weather is fine beyond measure, I have determined that your wedding must be held on the morrow, on the very eve of my departure.

“Two o’ the clock should be perfect for the ceremony, which will leave us plenty of time, I shouldn’t wonder, for banqueting and dancing and bedding the two of you.”

The queen smiled grandly. “Ah—
l’amour!
This will be the perfect beginning.”

Stunned, Anne barely remembered to curtsey as Elizabeth turned to leave.
Tomorrow
, she thought, casting a glance at Jonathan.
Tomorrow!

Chapter Nineteen

The duke of Norfolk usually spent his mornings alone in his study, with no interruptions save Percy’s delivery of the typical summertime breakfast fare—a bit of cold egg pie, some Wallfleet oysters, sliced melon, and a goblet of watered claret.

A light knock on the door interrupted his breakfast. “Husband, art thou about?”

He swallowed an oyster. His wife rarely visited the east end of their home; he had made it clear she was not welcome in his
refugium privatus
. Grumbling, he put down the oyster shell and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“Husband?” She peeked around the door.

Gaze narrowing, he stared at her horsy features, then flung the napkin onto his plate. “Aye, Margaret?”

She stepped into the room, her violet eyes darting about, avoiding his.

“What is it?” he pressed.

“We have received an invitation of some urgency from the queen.”

Excellent!
Apparently, Elizabeth’s displeasure regarding his actions toward the Howard woman was a thing of the past.

Yet, the time traveling witch was still much on his mind—at any moment he expected new information on her activities from Will Dawkins—but the queen’s invitation was welcome news, indeed. Had they been asked to attend Her Majesty at Windsor? Or perhaps even join her on a hunt?

“Glad tidings, that, Margaret,” Norfolk finally said, noting her smile. Her sparkling eyes almost made her face pretty.

“Indeed, my lord husband. We are invited to a wedding pageant at Whitehall. I’ve heard they’re marvelous fun.”

“A wedding pageant?” he muttered. Elizabeth loved to dress up pig-faced peasant brides and oafish grooms in courtly wedding attire and have marriage ceremonies for the amusement of the jaded nobility. This invitation was a crumb, not worthy of his time. “Decline the invitation, Margaret. Make some excuse. Plead a headache.”

She swallowed. “But I wouldst dearly love to attend. Mayhap I could take Philip? Surely, he is old enough for court functions. As thy heir, ’tis important he attend Her Majesty.”

Norfolk stared into space, absentmindedly stroking his beard. Philip was five years old. Since the death of his mother, some two years past, the boy had been withdrawn. Margaret could have a point, he supposed, for the boy was old enough to assume his role as heir.

Her voice was low. “My husband, what say thee?”

He glanced at his wife. “Aye, take Philip to Whitehall. Thou hast my permission. Tell the queen I am abed with sickly humors.”

She clapped her hands, a smile once more lighting her face. “Thank you.”

“Thou hast been a fine and goodly stepmother to the boy. For that, I am most grateful.”

Blushing, she gave a slight curtsey. “Thou art kind, my husband.”

Another crumb. Thrown, this time, by him to his horse of a bride. She had wide hips and a strong constitution, unlike his first wife, the pale and delicate Mary.

Sons. He needed sons. Margaret could provide a brace of strapping sons, but only if he fought his aversions and reentered her bed. Norfolk sighed. The differences separating this woman from his beautiful, tragic Mary were vast.

He waved Margaret away. Will Dawkins would arrive shortly, and he’d rather the duchess of Norfolk have no contact with that despicable, yet necessary, little thug.

She paused in the doorway. “Wouldst thou like to hear of the wedding pageant when I return?” she asked softly.

“Mayhap.” He held her gaze. “I shalt visit thy chambers anon and thou shalt tell me of it then.”

She swallowed once more. “Tonight?”

Norfolk’s glance slid away from her. He reached inside his pocket, found the bit of leather hide, and began to finger it, stroke it.
Blast!
He did not relish mounting her big-boned frame. How oft had he swived her since their wedding night a half year ago? A dozen times during the onset weeks, dwindling to one unenthusiastic session before he left for the Scottish battles. And nothing since his return. He sighed again
. I must get sons
, he resolved,
in the event Philip proves to be as fragile as his mother
.

At last, he nodded. “Tonight.”

She smiled. “My lord husband, I shall await thy presence.”

…

“I found out somethin’ right queer yesterday, ’bout Dr. Brandon.”

Norfolk grew bored with Will Dawkins’s drivel. There’d be no more coin unless he came up with something useful. “And what, pray tell, wouldst that be?”

“I heard the doctor showed up in London town, ’bout two years ago.”

“And?”

“I’ll be needin’ two farthings––”

“Silence!” Norfolk’s voice was deadly. “I set the rules regarding payment. Get on with it.”

Will gulped. “There’s this tavern maid—worked at The Bishop’s Crook, she did—who claims t’ have seen Dr. Brandon pop out’a the air, jes as the witch-woman done, like a spirit, him bein’ lady-faced an’ wearin’ odd duds.”

Norfolk sat up.
He’s one of them?
So much about Brandon was strange, to be sure, but he had never guessed the doctor might be a time traveler as well.

Will rubbed his beard. “Right queer keepin’ a shaved face.”

“Get on with it.”

“As I was sayin’, the maid up an’ quit right then, fearin’ such a ghostly place.” Will smiled. “It’s jes like what me and Jack saw wi’ the witch-woman. She came through the same way, through thin air.”

“Thou must find out more about this, Dawkins.”

“Aye, sir, but how ’bout me coins?”

Norfolk reached into his pocket and tossed two farthings into the air. Will caught them, bowed, and hurried to the door.

“I want more on Brandon,” Norfolk said.

Will turned back, eyes gleaming. “Aye. Mayhap two’ll burn at the stake, then? Like a harvest bonfire.”

…

Enveloped by soft covers, Anne nestled, blissful, thinking of Jonathan’s face, of his eyes, his smile.

Muffled footsteps, then a soft knocking at the door. “Annie? Are you up?”

Jonathan?

“Annie? I’ve got something I wish to give you. A wedding gift.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered, coming fully awake.
The wedding!

“It’s past eight, and the queen’s coach is due at ten.”

“Yes. I’m up.” Bolting from bed, she tossed her shift over her head, stumbled across the floor, and opened the door. “Hi, Jonathan.”

He held a wooden box, tied with a big, green bow, in one hand and his medical bag in the other. “I thought it might be appropriate if I knocked you up this morning and gave this to you straight away.”

She burst into laughter. “I almost slapped a bellhop once when he gave me a wake up call with that line.” Her laughter trailed off to a giggle as she took the box, twirled about, and plunked onto the bed. She tugged the ribbon and opened the lid. There were a dozen bars of soap nestled inside, each wrapped in fine paper and sealed with crimson wax. A lovely aroma wafted through the air, clean, fresh, and familiar—Castile soap!

She looked up. “Where on earth did you find this?”

“Remember my patient with the Muscovy Company? He has contacts all over the world.”

“Thank you. I can hardly wait to take a bath.”

“Mary is drawing it as we speak. But first, I must check the inoculation.” Jonathan opened his medical bag. “Expose your shoulder for me, please.”

Anne did as requested, revealing a small, crusty eruption on her upper arm.

“Excellent,” he said as he placed his hand on her brow. “No fever. Now do let me bandage you up.”

“What about my bath?”

“I’ll change your bandage afterward, should it get wet. It wouldn’t do for Mary, or anyone else, for that matter, to see your pox.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, I did,” he said, smiling. “It’s a scramble here sometimes, but I do try to think of everything.”

She nodded, his words hanging between them. She knew he would protect her, because he’d been charged to do so, by her grandmother and the queen.

After cutting two strips on the end of the bandage, then tying them off, his fingers lingered on her skin.

“About today, Jonathan...” Her voice trailed off when she saw the emotions playing over his face. He stood abruptly and gathered his things, patently avoiding her stare.

Glancing at her soaps, she felt a twinge of guilt. “I have nothing to give you.”

Jonathan stopped in the doorway, then turned slowly to look at Anne. She was aware of something new, a sparkle in his gaze, and her heart pounded.

“On the contrary, Annie,” he said, just before closing the door. “You’ve given me back my life.”