The Thornless Rose (39 page)

“You despicable bastard!” Brandon strained against his bonds just as Norfolk punched him in the stomach. Pain. Breathless. Shocked agony. Brandon’s legs buckled, and he sagged against the wall, held up by the wrist shackles, gasping.

Suddenly, he felt something soft, ticklish, against his throat. He opened his eyes.

Norfolk laughed coldly. “Dost thou know what the meat maker will do this day?” He slowly drew the quill down to Brandon’s navel.

Cursing, Brandon fought against his involuntary shiver.

“Art thou a’feared, Doctor?”

“God damn you to hell!”

Norfolk snorted. “The meat maker’s going to hang thee, Jon, choking thee to within an inch of thy life, castrate and gut thee whilst thou still breathes, burn thy privy parts and entrails before thine own eyes, then cut off arms, legs, head.” He added lightly, “’Twill be a monstrous sight.”

Images of post mortems crowded into Brandon’s mind and he gagged.

“Hast thou ever seen someone die the traitor’s death?” Norfolk grinned. “I’ve seen men lose their wits at the first sight of the blades to be used, whilst others piss and shyte themselves in fear. One poor creature seemed quite surprised when his bowels spilled out. Christ, how he stared at them, all pale yellow and glistening.” He licked his lips. “Once, I saw an executioner so adept at his trade, he was able to keep the man alive for nigh on a quarter hour after the gutting. He used vinegar to awaken the victim when he fainted. I have secured just that man for thine execution.”

The feather came up against Brandon’s right cheek and touched his scar. “I’ve always wondered about the story behind this,” Norfolk whispered into his ear. “A duel with a jealous husband? A tavern brawl?” He paused and then added sarcastically, “Nay. Thou art a hero, the good doctor, the fine man. I wouldst imagine ’twas in battle, mayhap in future––?”

“World War II,” Brandon interjected flatly.

Norfolk stared. “World War...?”

“Two,” Brandon repeated. “I know what’s going to happen for the next four hundred years, you bloody, fucking bastard, including the circumstances and exact hour of your own miserable death.”

“What?” Norfolk asked in a small voice. Then his eyes widened. “Jesus God, tell me! Thou must tell me!”

“Never.”

Norfolk backhanded him and pain exploded in his head, intense, blinding pain. He heard Norfolk shrieking. The blows became wild, landing against his ribs and chest, his right shoulder.

“Tell me of my fate! Tell me!”

The door crashed open. A clergyman stood there, gaping. “What goes on here?”

Norfolk’s arm flailed out, catching Brandon on the jaw. “Tell me! Tell me!”

Brandon shook his head, seeing stars. Finally, for the first time in days, he felt a measure of satisfaction. As he watched two of the guards pull Norfolk away and heard the cleric direct the others to remove the shackles, he spat out blood, slowly worked his jaw, and said, “No, you son of a bitch. Never.”

…

Hours passed with growing fear as Henry Hastings paced relentlessly outside the queen’s chamber doors. A swelling number of courtiers now fretted and whispered beside him. On Dudley’s orders, only Lettice and Lady Ashley, then Cecil, and finally a young doctor, were admitted inside.

Hastings ground his teeth. The queen suffered from more than a bellyache, that much was certain. Elizabeth’s collapse haunted his thoughts. Was she still suffering from the confounded elixir? And what of Brandon? What of his fate?

“Christ Almighty!” Hastings racked his fingers through his hair in frustration. Time was of the essence. The queen could be dying. Brandon would surely die if he did not act. He needed another audience with Her Majesty straight away. With a low curse, he glared at the closed doors.

“Ahhh!”

“God’s blood, man! Do something!”

He froze at Dudley’s terrified plea coming from inside.

The doors opened, and Cecil emerged. Pale with shock, he swept past Hastings and the others.

“Cecil!” Hastings caught up, placing a firm hand on the lord secretary’s shoulder, forcing his attention. “What goes on?”

“The queen wouldst have neither Lopez,” Cecil said, “nor her other surgeons. Dr. Burcot seems incapable of dealing with this situation. ’Tis a catastrophe! She is severely spasmodic, Henry, convulsing with stomach pains, unto the death, I fear.”

Sweet Jesus
.

Cecil shook his head. “I can do nothing here. I must see to the security of the realm. Stand aside.” With that, he shrugged off Hastings’s hand and left.

Blast, I cannot stand idly by!
Hastings rushed back, shouting to the guards, “Cecil gives me passage. Move aside!” He charged into the sickroom.

He ground to a halt. Dudley held Elizabeth’s hand—there was agony etched across his face—while Lettice and Kat Ashley wept. The queen lay exposed on the bed, her smock pulled up about her waist, the disheveled sheets barely covering her hips and womanhood.

Hastings averted his gaze and looked to Burcot. The young physician had stripped down to his shirt, sleeves rolled back and tied off above the elbow. Trembling, he removed one poultice from the queen’s abdomen and applied another.

Burcot’s eyes locked on his. “Art thou a healer?” Hastings shook his head, but Burcot seemed not to notice. “She cramps, and I cannot halt it. The usual interventions—oral infusions of valerian first, then basil, and salves of heated yarrow—have not calmed her womb. I fear she will lose the babe.”

Babe?
Hastings thought.
The queen is with child?

“Hush, Burcot!” Dudley hissed.

“Ahhh!” Elizabeth cried out, her body writhing as her hips rose off the bed and her fingers clawed at her stomach.

Blood! A small, clotted mass emerged, like a piece of raw liver. A sharp, coppery scent assaulted Hastings’s nose and he stepped back in horror as a swath of crimson soaked the sheets around the queen.

The women shrieked, clutching one another as Dudley stared, aghast.

“
Mein Gott
! She hath miscarried!” Panicked, Burcot grabbed wadding, which he stuffed against the queen, attempting to staunch the flow. “
Gott im Himmel! Gott im Himmel!
There is too much blood!”

“Robert,” Hastings seized Dudley’s arm, “Robert, Jonathan surely knows how to stop this calamity.”

Dudley looked at him, confused.

Hastings shook him. “Robert, you must send for Jonathan afore he is executed! He can save her. I cannot explain, but I am certain of it.”

Finally, Dudley focused. “How?” he whispered.

“Quickly, man! Get a pardon!”

Dudley nodded and ran to the queen’s bureau. Taking out quill, ink, and crested paper, he scribbled several lines and raced back to the bedside.

To Hastings’s surprise, the queen lay still, pale, but calm. He looked hopefully at Burcot, but the man would only shake his head in stunned defeat.

“She bleeds too much,” the doctor mumbled.

“Eliza,” Dudley asked frantically, “thou must sign a pardon for Jonathan. Henry says he can help thee, that he alone knows what to do. Please, my sweet. For the love of Christ, find the strength to sign this pardon.”

Elizabeth’s eyes flickered open. A tear rolled down her cheek. “The babe is lost, Robin.” She pressed her face into the pillow. “Ask nothing of me,” her voice was desperate, muffled, “nothing ’til morn.”

“She doesn’t understand,” Burcot said, his voice shaky. “I fear she may bleed out. There is little time. If thou knoweth of someone who can help, bring him in.”

“Eliza!” Dudley gripped her shoulder. “’Tis the morn already, and thou shalt not see another if thou dost not sign this now.”

“I would sleep.”

“Elizabeth, sign it!” Hastings shouted.

“
Ja
, Majesty. Please, I can do nothing more to stave off death,” Burcot pleaded.

The queen opened her eyes again and looked at the physician, then motioned weakly for the paper.

…

There is a pivotal moment in every man’s life when he finds his true self: saint or sinner, optimist or pessimist, coward or hero.

Brandon realized his strength, the depth of his soul, as he was given a ragged shirt and led from his cell. Hands bound behind his back, he was hauled away by wagon through the Tower gates. Though grim, he strove for detachment. His heart was filled with love for his wife, even with an unrealistic hope that somehow, some way...

The evil din along the crowded route pulled him back. People shouted at him, flinging rubbish, swearing ugly oaths.

He closed his eyes, numb to the noise, and chanted over and over in his mind,
I love you, Annie. I love you. I love you
.

…

Anne’s eyes flew open. Disoriented from a fitful sleep, she glanced about and then heard a distant roar.

“Oh my God,” she cried, rising from the chair, “Cath, oh God, look. They’ve started!”

As she clung to the windowsill, Lady Catherine joined her. They stared out, horrified, gazes fixed on Tower Hill.

…

Norfolk waited beside the platform, surrounded by soldiers armed with pikes. Brandon looked past the duke to the executioner and his two assistants, the men hooded, strong.

He fought the urge, but couldn’t help staring. Burning pyre near the scaffold. Gallows with its rope and noose. Butchering blades and axe leaning casually against the disembowelment table. And a bloodstained head basket.

The bile rose in his throat as Norfolk called out, “Meat maker, take thy time.” The duke flipped a gold coin to the executioner, who bowed and then faced the wagon.

“Bring forth the prisoner!” the man commanded.

Rough hands seized Brandon and dragged him from the wagon, forcing him up the steps. He frantically searched the raucous crowd for someone familiar, for empathy.

He was rewarded with a multitude of faces, a stricken sea of patients, his friends.

“Doctor, ’tis a black day, a black day for us all!”

“God save thee, sir. How can Her Majesty be so cruel?”

“I beseech thee! Someone, for the love of Christ, cease this madness!”

“For pity’s sake, mercy, mercy!”

“So, Jonathan, dost thou have any last words?”

Defiantly, Brandon stared into Norfolk’s sinister eyes. He felt his anger returning through the numbness. “You spineless, shameless, sodding shit of a man! You know I am innocent of treason.” He looked out into the crowd. “Never have I harmed the queen!”

His friends roared back in agreement, challenging the verdict, angry, seething. Nearby, Lopez gave Brandon a terrified look, then disappeared into the crowd.

A few voices rose above the clamor. “We know thee be innocent, Dr. Brandon!” “May God strike down thine accusers!” “I hope they rot in hell!”

Then gruff voices countered, “He’s guilty. Kill ’im!” “Aye, an’ the witch-woman, too! She deserves t’ die!”

“Rope!” Norfolk shouted. “String him up!”

“Now behold!” the executioner proclaimed. “This is but a taste of the queen’s vengeance!”

Brandon looked at the man, struggling to quiet his mind. Then the guards jerked him backward, and the executioner slipped the noose over his head.

Jesus, no!
Struggling against his bonds, Brandon strained for a last glimpse of the Tower.

The rope tightened, pulling him up, slowly, up, up, up, choking, dangling, gagging, coughing, gasping for breath, for life.

Anne! Oh, Anne!

…

Anne shrieked. “They’re hanging him, Cath! Oh, God! They’re going to cut him to pieces!”

“No!” Catherine took Anne by the shoulders and attempted to turn her away.

Anne resisted, gripping the windowsill, nails scraping wood, digging, clawing, but her fingers felt nothing. Tears rushed to her eyes. “Please, someone save my husband!
Please!
”

This last word hung on, rising to a high-pitched wail.

The room spun and Anne swayed, struggling to breathe. Catherine gathered her into an embrace, and they slumped to the floor.

Please!

…

Sweet Jesus
. Dudley saw Brandon hanging by the neck. “Halt, in Her Majesty’s name! Halt! Halt!” Sword raised, he galloped toward the queen’s guards, Hastings close behind.

The guards lowered their pikes and assumed battle stances around the platform.

Dudley caught sight of their lieutenant. “Arthur, ’tis me! I come in the queen’s name.”

“Stand down,” the man immediately ordered.

Norfolk raced forward, trying to bar the way. “Listen not to Dudley! Hold him back. He is disgraced and carries no––”

“Out of my way!” Dudley and Hastings forced their horses past Norfolk and surged up the scaffold steps, Dudley striking the rope with his blade.

Instantly, Brandon fell to the platform, rolling and violently coughing.

Hastings jumped down and removed the noose, while Dudley rode to the edge, heart thumping, holding forth the queen’s pardon for all to see. “Dr. Brandon is free,” he declared.

A roar of approval erupted from the crowd. The executioner and his men dropped to their knees and then prostrated themselves before him.

“Upstart! Thou art lying again, to save thy man,” Norfolk fumed. “’Tis an outrage! I willst see thee undone!”

Furious, Dudley thundered back, “Thou hast no more say. Get thee gone!”

The crowd’s cheers redoubled as Brandon struggled to his knees. Suddenly, Norfolk lashed out, kicking the prostrated executioner in the head.

Dudley urged his mount forward and pointed his sword at Norfolk’s throat. “Villain!” He lowered his voice for his enemy’s ears alone. “Be gone or die.”

The duke gaped, then stumbled backward toward the stairs.

…

Stars swirled before Brandon’s eyes, and it seemed the Earth roiled and heaved.

“Thank God, Jon,” Henry Hastings whispered, kneeling beside him and cutting his bonds. “Thank God.”

Giddy and ill, Brandon made an effort to stand and almost lost his footing, but Hastings grasped his elbow, steadying him.

“Where’s Norfolk?” Brandon coughed, desperately searching for, then spotting him. “That shit!” He pulled away from Hastings. Using all his remaining strength, he rushed Norfolk, landing a savage blow to his jaw.