The Thornless Rose (36 page)

Norfolk screamed when soldiers took him by the arms. Brandon felt a surge of raw revenge.
Payback
, he thought, assessing the man’s injuries.
A bloodied nose and blackened eye, perhaps a few ribs broken
.

“Unhand me! Know ye who I be?” Norfolk reared back, despite his injuries, and tried to lunge at Brandon, but the soldiers held him fast.

“Stand down!” The queen’s captain of the guard moved into view, and Brandon gasped—he held Anne!

Brandon felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. “Anne, why—how are you still here? Why didn’t you escape?”

She didn’t answer. He saw defiance in her eyes, and then, just beyond Bishop Wright’s corpse, another man lying on his back, staring blankly at the sky.
Bloody hell!

“What goes on?” A small, white-haired gentleman elbowed his way through the crowd. He surveyed the scene in disbelief. “I am William Bill, Dean of Westminster,” he said, directing his comments to the captain. “By mine own count, two art dead. I demand to know what––”

“My manservant hath been killed!” Norfolk blurted.

Muttering, the crowd shifted restlessly as a tough-looking man stepped forward. “I saw the whole thing. The old feller lyin’ there came after His Grace with a sword, wild-like, and was struck down by the big bloke in self-defense. Then the wench slit his throat just fer the hell o’ it. She did it, murdert him!”

“Nay, nay!” someone else protested.

Brandon spotted the young cleric who had admitted them to the Abbey.

“I didst witness the entire incident,” the cleric said, “and by God’s truth, ’twas the big man as committed murder! And the woman stopped a second killing, for he was also about to stab that man,” he pointed to Brandon, “in the back.”

For the first time, Brandon grasped the magnitude of what had happened. He studied the thug’s body again, then saw Anne’s switchblade lying at her feet in a puddle of blood.

Jesus, she killed him. She saved my life!

A rush of gratitude, mingled with relief—and pride. He caught Anne’s gaze and signaled with his eyes.
Thank you.

Norfolk continued to struggle. “I am Thomas Howard, duke of Norfolk. I demand you release me and arrest them both, for they are traitors to the Crown and murderers to wit.”

“You’re the murderer, Norfolk,” Brandon snarled. “You killed Bishop Wright in cold blood!”

“Vile dog,” Norfolk shouted back. “’Twas my man who did it in self-defense––”

“Silence!” The captain signaled for his men to release Norfolk, then handed Anne off to another soldier. He stared at Brandon. “Thou art Dr. Jonathan Brandon?”

Brandon looked straight into the man’s deadly serious gaze. “I am.”

The captain crooked a finger at another soldier, who brought forth two rolled documents sealed with red wax. “In the name of Her Majesty, the queen, I have a warrant for thine arrest, and another for thy wife, Anne Howard Brandon. The charges against you both are High Treason in the attempted poisoning of Her Majesty.”

Brandon heard Anne cry out. His knees quaked in response, and he would have fallen if the soldiers hadn’t held him.
Anne!
he thought wildly.
Oh, Anne!

He fought his shock and looked directly at the captain. “Not my wife! She’s not part of this.”

“Then who killed Geoff Bly?” Norfolk cried, cradling his right side. Wincing, he indicated the switchblade, then pointed at Anne. “God’s death, look at her hands! Look beyond the bloodstains. She hath the mark of one who brews deadly potions.”

The captain took hold of Anne’s right hand. “Mistress, explain these stains.”

To Brandon’s relief, her eyes narrowed, and she refused to speak. The captain frowned, but then dropped her hand and stooped to retrieve the switchblade.

“Her witchly gear, no doubt,” Norfolk muttered.

“Witchly gear?” The captain wiped the weapon on his sleeve, turned it over, and pressed on the blade, eyes widening when it retracted neatly into the case. “Never have I come across the likes of this.” He turned to his men. “See to the witnesses. We must question them.”

As soldiers escorted the onlookers into the Abbey, Brandon and Anne were separated. As he was patted down for weapons, Brandon strained to hear the conversation between Norfolk and the queen’s captain, but could not discern anything until the captain shook his head. “Nay, my lord.”

“Blast, man, I wouldst question the wench first! I shalt return her to thy protection in all haste––”

“No!” Brandon broke away from his guard and went down on his knees before the captain. “I beseech thee, sir. Do not let him near my wife. Please, thou wouldst be signing her death warrant!”

The captain stared at Brandon, frowning thoughtfully. “Rest assured, Doctor, ye shalt both stay in my care. We go forth to the Tower.”

“God save thee, sir. Couldst thou spare me a moment with my wife? Please, I must speak to her.”

“Fool!” Norfolk glared at the queen’s captain. “Let not the witches consort, one with the other, for they will surely cast a spell against thee.”

The man gave the duke a withering look. “Aye, Doctor,” he said, turning to Brandon. “Thou shalt have a moment.”

…

Anne shivered as Jonathan approached. The expression on his face was bleak, terrible. He placed his bound hands against hers, then raised them to his lips. Slowly, tenderly, he kissed the exposed parts of her wrists, her palms.

“Why did you stay?” His blue eyes misted.

“I couldn’t leave you, Jonathan.” She had never seen him look this way. The very effort to keep from weeping caused her heart to burn, to ache.

“You saved my life.” He pulled her close and kissed her brow. “What happened to Daniel?”

“He decided to go when I refused.” She heard his breathing catch, but held tightly against him, burying her face in his chest. Daniel didn’t matter; neither did the future. She had nothing but this moment. Would he ever hold her again?

“Darling, do you remember what I told you once? That I would protect you by any means available?”

Blinded by her tears, she could merely nod.

“I’ll do whatever it takes.” He slipped his bound arms over her head, then embraced her again.

“But, Jon, you can’t––”

“Hush.” He drew back and stared into her eyes. “It’s all right,” he whispered, pulling her close again, rocking her. “I won’t allow anyone to harm you.”

Through her sobs, she managed to ask, “What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t––” he faltered, “Jesus, Anne, I don’t know.”

…

It was nearly midnight when the hospital wagon reached the gate of St. Bart’s. Obliged to seek treatment for his injuries, Norfolk opted to accompany Bishop Wright’s body back to the hospital, curious to see if he could gather more information about Brandon and Anne.

Pain-crazed and angry, he cursed the men who helped him from the wagon, then limped inside as one of them went off to rouse someone to care for his injuries. After a time, a small, plain-faced wench was brought to him, to bind his side and tend to his wounds while he swigged from a bottle of wine.

“I’ve two questions for thee,” he said when she was done. “Where’s Brandon’s office, and where doth he sleep with his wife?

She frowned. “Why wouldst thou be needin’ t’ know that?”

“Do not question me,” he threatened, “else I’ll give my man leave to force the answers from thee as he sees fit.”

Face paling, she glanced at the bullyboy standing watch, who grinned and nodded. “The doctor works yonder...down the hall,” she stammered. “The door’s got a big, iron lock. The Brandons make their home in the Lady Chapel.”

“Very well. Now get thee gone,” Norfolk said, waving her away. He waited until she left before turning to the man. “Thou hast still got the keys?”

“Aye, sir.”

Norfolk took another pull from the bottle, then motioned for them.

“Shall I come along, my lord?”

“Nay. Stand guard.” With a grunt of pain, Norfolk struggled to his feet, took a candle and the wine bottle, and walked to Brandon’s office.

Once inside, he studied the room by dim, wavering flame. He noted two bowls of crushed berries and remembered Anne’s stained fingers, then spotted a few papers strewn on the table. He leaned over to peruse the doctor’s bold script and precisely inscribed signature.

Norfolk straightened. The shelves held bottles, jars and crocks, all labeled in the same hand. Coltsfoot, rosemary, leeches, balm, foxglove.

He looked closer. Foxglove? Brandon possessed the very thing Lopez used to poison the queen? Norfolk resolved the men of the Court of Treason would see this most convenient and damning evidence on the morrow.

He was about to turn away from the shelves when he caught a sparkle, a flash of gold and green fire, not inches away. An emerald ring—Anne’s ring. He remembered seeing it on her finger that day at the Stews.

Perfect.
Chuckling, Norfolk slipped it on his pinkie. With wine bottle and candle in hand, he headed off to find the Lady Chapel.

…

“When didst thou last take her, Doctor?”

The question hung in the air as Norfolk stood beside the bed. He gazed at a host of sundry items scattered over the coverlet: a leather bag, a boxwood comb, a pot of pomade, and a few green, silk ribbons—the same color as Anne’s eyes.

He took a last swig of wine, spilling some down his shirt and onto the bed in the process. Belching, he tossed the bottle aside, then tugged on the stained coverlet, scattering the bag and other things on the floor. He eased himself onto the soft mattress and stared at the emerald ring. Suddenly, he imagined Anne lying there, legs spread wide, moaning and groaning, as Brandon’s bare arse heaved and rammed.

God’s blood!
Norfolk seethed. Lust, hate, mingling, flaring. He waited for the wine to lessen the pain in his ribs, the ache in his groin.

He had never wanted soiled cunnie, another man’s property, but this time he felt differently. Anne was a beautiful woman, and she had priceless information.

If I can get to her whilst Brandon’s still alive, mayhap rape her in his presence
—he chewed on this thought with a smile—
then my vengeance shall be doubly sweet. That will surely wound him more than any other torture
.

I must find a way to save her, however, and see him dead. Then, once he is gone, I’ll have her knowledge
—
and her body
—
to myself
.

He paused, mulling the first threads of a plan to bribe his way into their cells. But he was tired, too tired to concentrate. After a moment, he stretched across the bed, pressed his face to the sheet and sniffed, smelling her cream.

Someday, witch
, he vowed, catching a hint of musky sweetness.
Someday, I’ll have thee where he’s been, and I’ll know everything about thee. Everything
.

Chapter Forty

Ripped from her husband’s grasp, Anne sat shivering in total darkness, huddled in the dank, musty holding cell beneath the Tower of London. How long had she been here? Several hours? A day? Was the sun up? There was no way of knowing, since she had no candles and the cell had no windows.

Anne tried to recall the rush of events at the Abbey, tried to make sense of it. She clenched her teeth, seeing moments like snapshots: Jonathan, leaving her with Brother Daniel when he heard the cry for help; seeing herself from a different time and then being pulled back to the Confessor’s tomb; Daniel, disappearing into the future; Bishop Wright dead, dead; and finally, that horrible man lunging at Jonathan.

She covered her face with her hands, trying not to remember...

Killing him.

Anne wiped her hands on her skirt, recalling the last frantic moments when Jonathan said he would do anything to protect her. What did he mean? She slumped against the damp wall, feeling the weight of his possible plans.

Stay calm
. The queen wouldn’t forget how they’d cared for her, saved her life. She couldn’t be that callous, could she? Until this moment, Anne had never dreamed Elizabeth would question their loyalty. But now, she wondered, would the queen give credence to Norfolk’s lies?

She grasped her knees and rocked. There were no defense lawyers here, no “one phone call allowed,” no “innocent until proven guilty.” Arrested. 1560. Bloody Tower. Treason.

Tears welled in her eyes. “Where are you, Jon? What are they doing to you?” she whispered over and over as she sat in the dark, cold and hungry, until a wretched sleep overwhelmed her.

…

The cell door opened abruptly, tearing Anne from evil dreams. She squinted, blinded by the sudden light.

“Up, prisoner!”

She shielded her eyes against the glare. A bulky figure was framed in the doorway, lit from behind by the glow of a torch. “Water. Have you brought me water? It’s been days. I’m so thirsty.”

“Get up. I’m takin’ thee off fer questionin’,” the guard said gruffly. “Now don’t give me no trouble, else I’ll have t’ lay thee one upside the head.”

Anne rose and quietly slipped past him into the torchlight. She saw he was a yeoman warder, a Beefeater. But this man was no tour guide. He gripped a wooden cudgel.

Stumbling to keep ahead of his brusque nudges, Anne felt weak and dizzy. They entered a small room, where several unknown faces wavered before her. The warder jabbed her, making her sit. She swayed slightly in her chair, her mouth like cotton, her craving for water nearly driving her mad.

“Could I have something to drink?” she whispered hoarsely. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Silence, woman. Thou shalt speak only when questions are asked of thee.”

“But I’m––”

“Silence!”

The harshness of the response pierced her daze, and she sat up, gripping the arms of the chair, attempting to concentrate. Soon, though, she lost focus again, her gaze blurring, her head lolling against the high back of her seat.

A hand slammed onto a table and she jumped. “What?”

“Birthplace...whence came?”

The man’s words were garbled.
Careful, careful
, her mind screamed.
Why?
She tried to recall the need.

“Ch-Chesapeake,” she croaked.

“Speak up, woman!”

“Chesapeake. I was born there. It’s by Norfolk,” Anne responded, confused.

“Norfolk?” the questioner asked, incredulous. “Do you refer to the county or the duke?”

“Huh?”

“We heard it said thou claimed to be from the East.”

Oh, what did I say?

“Norfolk brought thee to London?” another man inquired. “But His Grace claims to have no knowledge of thee afore the Smithfield Fair.”

Anne stared at him, baffled.

“Mistress Brandon, he accuses thee of deceit, treasonous mischief, and the murder of his manservant. How dost thou respond?”

“Who accuses me?”

“His Grace, the duke of Norfolk.”

Anne’s spine stiffened in anger. “That pig. What a liar!” She heard a few gasps. Blood pumping, she shook off her lethargy and looked straight at her accusers. “Ask the queen. She knows me. I saved her life at the fair.”

“It matters not what thou didst at the fair. The queen became desperately ill at Windsor, after taking potions administered by thee and thy husband.”

“No, the queen was given wonderful medicine that cured her headaches,” Anne countered. “My husband prepared it himself.”

One of the men leaned forward. “So, thou dost admit he made the brew?”

“He’s a doctor. Of course he did. He wouldn’t leave it to anyone else.”

“But the stain upon thy hands wouldst speak otherwise.”

“Oh.” She glanced down. “That’s the bilberry.”

“Thou dost admit thee helped concoct his potions?”

“He’s teaching me, but...”

The interrogation went on and on, different faces, different voices, same questions, around and around. But there were never any responses to her worries.
Where is Jonathan? What have you done with my husband? I have to see him.
Once again, her mind clouded from fatigue and thirst.

Her throat tightened, and her head and stomach seemed to spin. Anne slid off the chair onto her knees, gripping it for support. Nausea overwhelmed her and she retched two, three, four times, dry heaves.

Minutes passed, but no one came to offer support or comfort, until finally a new face, a stranger, knelt by Anne’s side. He gave her some ale, blessed, blessed ale, then spoke with the others. Not long afterward, she was taken to a new cell. The small room was clean and bright, but she hardly noticed and fell immediately into bed.

“Mistress, thou must drink more,” the man said with a German accent as he held a cup to her lips.

The cool ale felt so good on her throat, but, for some reason, she knew she shouldn’t drink it.
Why?

“Mistress, my name is Dr. Burcot. Hast thou any notion if there be anything other than thirst to cause thy collapse?”

Still woozy, Anne opened her eyes, trying to concentrate. He had a nice smile. Could she trust him? Or—or did he work for Norfolk? She didn’t let go of his gaze. This seemed to disturb him, and he moved to arrange the covers.

“Doctor,” Anne said, her voice gravelly. She took his hand, hoping to transmit some sense of who she was, of sincerity and worth. “My husband and I are innocent. Norfolk hates us...is trying to turn everyone against us. Please, don’t do anything to hurt me. I love my husband, and...”

Suddenly, she remembered why she should not drink ale.

Tears flooded her eyes. “Oh, please, please, help me! You see, I’ve missed my period, er, I mean my monthly courses are late, and I don’t want my baby to be hurt.”

“
Mein Gott im himmel!
” My God in heaven! The young doctor looked taken aback and delighted at the same time. “Mistress, I come at the behest of the queen and no other, and I regret that thou should have any disfavorable notions of my character. I shalt attempt to verify if thou art indeed
enceinte
, and see to thy proper care.”

He smiled warmly then, and Anne relaxed under his gentle care.
He’s okay
, she reassured herself.
He’s okay
.

…

Burcot whistled softly as he left Mistress Brandon’s cell. He resolved to get Her Majesty’s permission to have Anne moved to better quarters, with a fireplace and a real bed.

Contemplating how best to care for a woman and her unborn babe in the Tower, he turned a corner and ran straight into Dr. Lopez and the duke of Norfolk. “Pardon me!” he said as he stepped back and bowed.

“What brings thou hither, Burcot?” Lopez asked.

Burcot warily glanced at Norfolk. “I was called to treat Mistress Brandon––”

“
¡
O Deus
!
” Lopez exclaimed. “Thou hast been admitted to see her?”

“
Ja
, Doctor, I,” Burcot looked from one man to the other, “I came here at the queen’s behest. ’Twas she instructed the guards to admit me. I have no intention of overstepping my rank, my lord, but I alone am to treat Mistress Brandon—no other.”

“Tell me, Burcot,” Norfolk sneered, “how fares our lovely prisoner?”

Burcot recoiled.
Mayhap Anne spoke truly
, he thought.
Hath the duke some evil design?

“Speak up, man,” Lopez ordered. “How doth she fare?”

“She is much fatigued and worry plagues her.” Burcot swallowed. “And she hath some nausea.”

“Nausea?” Norfolk leaned in, inches away and breathing hard. “By what cause?”

Burcot’s gaze flicked to Lopez, then up and down the empty hallway.

“Answer him!” Lopez snapped.

“She is with child,” Burcot replied weakly. “Mayhap five or six weeks along.”

Both men stared at him for a moment, Norfolk’s mouth slightly ajar. But then, the duke smiled and clapped Lopez on the back. “Sweet Christ, Ruy, ’tis the answer to my prayers. I know now what to do.”

The men sauntered away, mirthful.

Mein Gott
, Burcot thought, staring after them,
what have I done?

…

Anne awoke to a tap on the door, rose on one elbow, and saw a note slip through the spy-slat. Excited, she threw back her blanket and rushed to grab the envelope.

She glanced around her new cell, courtesy of Dr. Burcot’s caring intervention. It had a small bed, a table and stool, and, most importantly, a tiny window. The first light of day filtered in and she could make out the words:
Mistress Anne Brandon.

She felt a stab of disappointment when she saw it was not in her husband’s hand, but it was her first communication since she’d been arrested. Fingers shaking, she tore the envelope open, pulling out a note dated 12 October 1560.

Anne tried to remember when she and Jonathan had left St. Bart’s. Late September, the twenty-fourth or fifth, she recalled. That meant they’d been locked up for over two weeks!

She scanned the note, embossed with the Hastings’s crest, then read.

Dearest Anne,

We are so very concerned for thee. I hope thou art not too distraught. Henry has made inquiries and found that Jonathan is well. Thy husband sends his love, as do we.

Be assured that Henry and I strive with every breath to secure the release of Jonathan and thee, but so far, alas, the queen hath refused to hear our pleas. “It must be had out in court,” she says. Her Majesty is much perplexed by the accusations against you, and has disallowed torture by any means, because of her lingering sentiment in your regard. She has graciously agreed, withal, that we may communicate with you, and provide anything ye may need or desire, be it food, medicines, or clothing. Please advise in this matter.

Her Majesty will not, however, allow visits at this time, and for that I am truly sorry. Also, everyone from St. Bart’s is well and cared for.

We pray daily for the good doctor and thee.

Catherine

Just as I seal this we receive word—Jonathan and thee shalt have a dual trial for High Treason against the queen’s person on the fortnight! Our earnest labor and prayers are yours! Anon! Spero in Deo.

Anne closed her eyes.
A trial! Two weeks!

Trembling, she stared again at Catherine’s note
. Spero in Deo?
What did it mean? Was it a code?

She got up, ran to the door, and knocked.

The tiny peep-slot opened.

“Guard?” she asked. “This note says
Spero in Deo
. What does that mean?”

“I know not.”

“Please, is there any way to find out?”

“A moment.” The slot closed.

The minutes ticked by as Anne anxiously waited. For some reason, it seemed important that she know what Catherine was trying to tell her.

The slot finally opened again. “It means, ‘Trust in God,’ which I may tell thee is highly advised for guests of the Tower.”

“Okay, okay.”
Spero in Deo.
She closed her eyes, relieved, hoping with all her heart things would go their way, then added, “Guard, this note says I’m allowed to write letters. May I have some writing material?”

“Aye, I’ll fetch it for thee.”

After a time, the larger door slat, used for serving food and drink, slid open. As paper, quill, and ink were passed through, Anne called out, “Please, guard, what day is it?”

“St. Edward’s Day.”

“No, the date. What’s the date?”

“’Tis Sunday, the thirteenth o’ October.”

Within moments, Anne was scribbling furiously
: I’m fine, Cath... Give my love to Jonathan... Norfolk is behind everything, so please get us out!

The Hastings were as good as their word. By the next morning, she had extra food, clean clothing, blankets, wraps, and charcoal for the room’s brazier, to supplement the tiny rations provided by the Tower. And, to the consternation of her physician, water, lots of it—boiled at her insistence, since she was pregnant and couldn’t risk drinking any more ale.

By the warmth of the fire, Anne quickly wrote another note to her friend, one of thanks, but she hesitated before sealing it, her pen poised over the sheet. Should she tell Jonathan about the baby and send the message through Lady Catherine? She shook her head. No, she would tell him in person. She had to find a way to see him, to let him know.

Anne sealed the thank you note and sent it along.