The Thornless Rose (37 page)

Chapter Forty-One

Cecil, Henry Hastings, the earls of Arundel, Pembroke and Sussex, Dr. Lopez, and others from the queen’s Privy Council stared across the table at Brandon.

Shifting on his stool, he felt hunted, condemned, and didn’t try to hide his feelings. Tired and dirty, he returned each unfriendly gaze with piercing defiance, until he looked into the eyes of his friend, Lord Henry, and caught the depth of his worry.

“I do not poison, my lords,” Brandon reiterated. “I heal, and strive to do so without inflicting further damage or pain.” He looked pointedly at Lopez. “It makes no sense that I should poison the queen, since she has been extremely generous toward my wife and me, and even if she had never taken notice of us, I would never,
never
have wished her harm.” He paused. “It was she who brought us together, and I couldn’t have asked for greater kindness or generosity of spirit than what she has shown us over the last few months.”

“But all know,” Cecil spoke, “that thine elixir poisoned the queen.”

“No!” Brandon cried out. “It wasn’t mine! It must have been tampered with, for there were ingredients to calm and ease pain only, nothing more.”

“But thy wife assured us thou wouldst allow no other to touch thy work.”

Brandon closed his eyes. The thought of Anne being questioned was too much to bear.

“Doctor?”

Nodding, he opened his eyes. “That is true,” he asserted, “but there were several bottles of my medicine at Windsor to be given to the queen in measured doses. As I said a moment ago, one of the bottles could have been tampered with after I left.”

Heavy footfalls sounded in the outer hallway, and the door swung open. Norfolk entered with a smirk, bowed to the room, and took his seat.

Brandon glared at him.

“Forgive my late arrival,” Norfolk said. “I had to attend to matters pertaining to the poor, distraught family of my deceased bodyguard, Geoffrey Bly. You may remember ’twas Brandon’s wife who leapt upon his back as we tried to prevent them from escaping to sanctuary. We were about to arrest them in Her Majesty’s name, when the wench didst slit his throat.”

“Liar!” Brandon sprang to his feet, knocking over his stool. The guards on either side grabbed his arms and tried to restrain him. “Murderer!” he yelled. Enraged, he struggled with the men holding him, shouting to the judges, “It was
Norfolk
who killed the bishop—whether by his own hand, or by giving orders to Bly, it matters not! And he was not arresting me; Bly was about to kill me, too, and Anne was only acting in my defense.”

Norfolk laughed. “Doth he then need a woman to fight his battles?”

Brandon heaved against his captors’ grips, wanting to feel his fingers sinking into the flesh of that vile face.

“Jonathan!” Hastings rushed around the table and came to within inches of him. “Stop this! Thou dost thyself harm accusing the duke of murder. Be it true or no, thou cannot say it here.”

With difficulty, Brandon swallowed his rage. When he was reinstalled on his stool, Hastings regained his seat. They exchanged grim looks.

“’Tis a sorry business, my lords,” Norfolk continued, “but obvious, nonetheless. The man and his wife plotted against the queen from the outset. Alas, I also bear the gravest concerns as to his ministrations with respect to the tragic end of Lady Dudley. Remember that she, also, drank of Brandon’s elixirs, and we all listened when ’twas him alone that pronounced on her cause of death.”

Brandon’s anger flared again, just as Hastings leapt to his feet and shouted to Norfolk, “How dare––!”

“Lord Henry! Sir! Sit thee down!” Red-faced, Cecil turned to Norfolk. “That case has been investigated and adjudged already. Let us not wander from this day’s set course.”

Norfolk shrugged. “’Tis also my contention the Brandons practice darker sciences than those of healers. They were both raised abroad—though they tell us not where—and have no real ties to this realm. Mayhap, she was sent by François of France.”

“No, my wife is innocent,” Brandon insisted.

“Ye will recall, my lords,” Norfolk continued smoothly, “that her hands were much stained when first she was brought in. Obviously, though they both deny it, she works with potions every bit as much as he. Ye have afore you the jar I found at St. Bart’s, the one filled with foxglove and labeled in Brandon’s own hand. Also, ye have examined the strange blade Anne Brandon wielded against my man. ’Tis a blade of such peculiarity that all who see it pronounce it as witchly gear.

“This witch uses her dark arts, casting enchantments on God knows who.” Norfolk slapped his palms on the table. “Ah, that is it! She spends much time huddled with Dudley, also. Think ye not she may be jealous of our queen? Look at this!” He waved his right hand before the assembled crowd, a glint of gold and green flashing in the light. “This ring was Dudley’s, as ye will recall. He wore it for years.”

Brandon gasped at the sight of Anne’s wedding ring on Norfolk’s finger and surged off his seat, only to be held more firmly still, by his guards. “That is my wife’s ring. Lord Dudley gave it––”

“As he freely admits!” Norfolk shot back. “I found it among the potions and jars at the hospital, secreted away lest any should find it. This ring is proof of more treachery. Anne possessed Dudley’s ring and ruled him by it. ’Tis my firm contention Dudley hath been bewitched, forced to mount the woman to satisfy her lusts, and now she is with babe!”

With a roar of anger, Brandon again tried to lunge, but the guards were ready this time and held him fast. The interrogators shouted and seethed, questioning this revelation.

When he was resettled, and the last of Norfolk’s words penetrated his mind, he could only stare, struck dumb by the news.
Annie
—
pregnant? Pregnant!

He glanced at Hastings for confirmation, but the man could only raise his eyebrows and shrug. How would Norfolk know such a thing? How? And could it be true?

A sense of wonder filled Brandon, a glimmer of hope, before the commotion around him finally interrupted his thoughts.

“Why, ’tis as I said,” Norfolk continued. “I heard it said from a court physician Anne Brandon is mayhap six weeks gone with child. Further, I believe she tampered with the potion without her husband’s knowledge, because she would have Dudley for her own.” He pointed to Brandon. “Why, this poor wretch was probably next on her list.”

“Liar!” Brandon thundered.

“I tell you,” Norfolk insisted, “I have people—two witnesses—who didst see her practicing her dark arts in Southwark, months ago. They were walking along the banks and suddenly she appeared out of the mists. When she found they’d witnessed her black magic, she attempted to murder them, but they escaped. That is why I have kept a vigil upon the woman these many months. ’Tis her we must question, for she is a witch, a sorceress, and must be burned, burned along with her babe!”

Brandon felt ice-cold.
Oh, bloody, bloody hell
—he had to do something, anything to save his wife and child! Grim determination anchored his decision. “No, Anne loves the queen. She is innocent and didn’t know what I planned. It was I—I who put the foxglove in the potion.”

“No!” Hastings bellowed.

Brandon doggedly continued, “I wanted to show the world how I could cure, but,” he searched his mind for a plausible story, “but I had to make the queen sick with something I knew I could fix. I wanted prestige and power—and money! I—I––”

Brandon shrugged off his guards and rose. He felt empty, curiously hollow, but he gathered himself and said in a clear, strong voice, “I poisoned the queen.”

Henry Hastings gaped. Everyone else was silent, staring at Brandon, stunned.

Eyes narrowing, Brandon searched the faces of his enemies. Lopez shifted uncomfortably beneath his stare, but Norfolk grinned back triumphantly.

…

Anne wiped her eyes. Two more weeks of crying and worry. Catherine Hastings had written, telling of Jonathan’s confession in the face of Anne’s condemnation by Norfolk.

It was the twenty-fifth of October, and she was to be taken to the Great Hall of the Tower to witness her husband’s sentencing.

Trembling, Anne dressed as carefully as possible. This would be the first time she’d seen him since that terrible night at the Abbey. Perhaps it would also be the last.

She pressed a cool, wet cloth against her face and tried to stop crying so the red blotches and puffiness would fade. Putting down the cloth, she ran a hand over her flat belly, wishing there was a little bump to show him.

But she was two months along, at most, and there was no outward sign to indicate his baby was there.

A sharp rap sounded on her door, then keys clanked in the lock and it swung open. Lady Catherine burst into the room and enveloped Anne in her arms.

Anne closed her eyes, the feeling of human touch, Catherine’s empathy, overwhelming. She hugged her, weeping despite her earlier resolve not to do so.

“Anne, darling,” Catherine whispered, “I am so very sorry. We have tried, pleaded.”

“I know, I know. I’m so glad they let you in.”

“I begged the queen’s mercy, to be able to accompany thee. Henry is with Jon this morn, and––”

“Time!” the guard barked at them. “Follow me.”

Anne and Catherine were led through the labyrinth of the Tower to the Great Hall, where the Privy Council would preside. Several tiers of seats surrounded them, and the main floor held members of the Council, including the duke of Norfolk.

Anne avoided Norfolk’s stare, but she could feel his gaze on her, covering her like a filthy blanket with his evil thoughts.
I hate him, hate him!

She looked across the room. A slightly raised table opposite the doors would hold the officials of the Court of Treason, while interested guests and onlookers already crowded the upper tiers.

Anne and Lady Catherine sat where they were told; in front and to the right of the court’s bench. Guards stood immediately behind them.

Several moments passed before the sounds of shuffling came from behind. Anne tried to see past her guards. When they parted, she gasped. Pale, thin, and bearded, Jonathan stood with Hastings, desperately scanning the room.

“Jonathan!” Before the guards could stop her, Anne rushed into his arms. Weeping, she wouldn’t loosen her grip. Bones protruded from under his skin, but she reveled in the warmth of his embrace.

She felt his kisses on her hair and turned her face up to his. “Jon––”

His mouth closed on hers, and he lifted her off the ground. Moments passed as they embraced.

Anne touched his face, looked into his eyes. Pain was etched on his features. “Jonathan, please, please take back your confession. Please!”

“No.” He laid his cheek against hers. “Hush, Annie. Hold me. There was no choice. It was both of us, or me. Lord Henry will keep you safe from Norfolk. Don’t be afraid.” He trembled. “I heard that you...a baby.”

“Yes, my...oh, my love!” She fought back her tears, needing a moment to gather herself. “End of May maybe, or first part of June. I suspected about a month ago, but I didn’t tell you then, because... I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything.”

He gulped back a sob. “Hold off until the fourth, will you, darling? I’d like to think my child,” his eyes welled up, “might be born on my birthday.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll try.” Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the guards coming for them and braced herself.

Jonathan must have seen them, too, for his arms tightened around her, his breath uneven, his heart pounding as he clutched her to his chest and said in a rush, “Darling, I’ll always love you. Tell our little one about me.”

“Oh, Jon!” Hands came down heavily on Anne’s shoulders, abruptly pulling her away from his embrace. She struggled to stay with him, but he was also pulled back, and they were both propelled to their seats.

Tears blurred Anne’s vision, and she wiped her eyes; William Cecil and six other officials had taken their places at the raised bench.

Cecil looked grimly from one man to the other, then sighed and cleared his throat. “Rise, prisoner.”

Anne held her breath, barely noticing when Catherine grabbed her hand.

Jonathan stood tall, staring straight into Cecil’s eyes.

“This day has been signed by the queen a Bill of Attainder for the Act of High Treason perpetrated against the person of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England, Ireland, and the Isles. In accordance to our laws, the subject standing before me, one Jonathan Brandon, physician, shall not be accorded the blade, as is given to those of rank, but will be hung by the neck, drawn and quartered, his head to be impaled upon the ramparts of London Bridge. May it serve notice to all that treason and treachery shall ever be condemned within this realm. The sentence shall go forth on the morrow. Jonathan Brandon, may God rest thy soul!”

“No!” Anne cried, trying once more to get to her husband. But she was held back, and he was hauled away as he struggled to reach her.

“Mistress Brandon,” Cecil’s voice was almost lost in the din, “no sentence has been pronounced against thee. Thou shalt be released on the morrow after Dr. Brandon has been executed.”

“No, no! God, please, no! Jonathan, they can’t do this to you!” she shrieked, heart pounding. Bile rose in her throat.

With her last sight of her husband being dragged from the room, the terrible words rang in her ears. Drawn and quartered on the morrow.

Anne fell to her knees, wrapped in the arms of Lady Catherine, lost, hysterical, screaming.

…

Henry Hastings watched his wife and Anne. Both women were bereft, clinging to each other, captives of a shared misery.

He clamped his jaw, seething with rage.
What can I do? What...?

His gaze veered and he found Norfolk. The gleeful duke was speaking to Arundel, clearly riding high on the sentence of execution.

Norfolk stared straight into Hastings’s eyes, tipping his head with a smile of victory.

“God’s death!” Fists clenched, itching for a fight, Hastings took a step forward, but Anne began to wail.

“Isn’t there any way to save Jon?” she moaned. “I’m lost without him, Cath, lost!”