The Thornless Rose (12 page)

Suddenly, she heard the
clop, clop, clop
of hooves. Forgetting her hunger, Anne flattened herself against the roof and watched as two mounted men emerged on the road, leading a third horse by torchlight.

The man in the lead wore a feathered hat. The duke of Norfolk.

The horsemen moved slowly, peering down every alleyway, then disappeared around a corner.

What can I do?
Anne thought in misery. The roads were obviously too dangerous to cross and the darkened rooftops now impossible to traverse. With a sudden desperation, she knew she wouldn’t be able to get to St. Bart’s that night.

Her heart fell. Another day away from Dr. Brandon.

Finally, glancing around, Anne noticed this rooftop was nearer to the ground than the others had been, and looking over the edge she could see a side street with several pedestrians. Across the way, an old wooden sign hung on rusty chains.

Anne squinted hard, trying to read in the fading light. “Cheapside Inn,” she whispered. “Clean. Nightly and Monthly rates only.”

Spirits lifting, she waited a few minutes until no one was about, dropped the short distance to the street, and hurried to the inn. She knocked on the front door and pushed it open, rushing inside without a backward glance.

A plump, rosy-cheeked woman came from the back, holding a rush light, the stink of its burning grease filling the air. She looked Anne over, but gave away no hint of her assessment. “How may I help thee?”

“I need to eat a meal and take a room for the evening, please.” Anne reached into her bag, fumbling. “I have money, er, coins.”

“Art thou alone?”

“Yes, although I’ll be meeting with a family friend first thing tomorrow,” Anne explained, then continued, warming to the threads of a tale. “He’s a doctor at St. Bartholomew’s. I’ve only just arrived in town and would like to present myself looking fresh.” After glancing down at herself, she opened up her arms in mock dismay. “Please, ma’am, I wouldn’t want to show up in such a frightful state, after all.”

The innkeeper looked closely at Anne’s jaw. “Which doctor would that be?”

“Dr. Brandon, ma’am. Dr. Jonathan Brandon,” Anne replied. She touched the swelling on her face, glad the spasms had eased. Desperately trying to think of a reasonable explanation, she blurted, “I was robbed on the way into town. Luckily, the highwaymen did not take all of my coins.”

The woman furrowed her brow. “I know the good doctor right well. We think very highly o’ him ’round here. He’s done well by us, and there’s not a one o’ us would not give him the shirt off our back if he asked fer it. C’mon in, and we’ll see thee put t’ rights.”

“Thanks, er, thank you, ma’am.” Anne held out her right hand. “My name’s Anne Howard.”

“I am Mistress Pennywaite. I know not thy birthplace, Mistress Anne, but ’tis only men as shake hands in London town.”

Embarrassed, Anne withdrew her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

The innkeeper clucked her tongue, turned, and held the rush light before her. By flickering flame, she led Anne upstairs to her room.

Removing a ring of keys from her pocket, she unlocked the door and entered. “Now, Mistress Anne,” she said, lighting the room’s only tallow candle, “I’ll be back shortly, then thou may sup, snuff out thy light, an’ be off t’ bed.”

After the innkeeper left, Anne looked around the room, which glowed in the pale yellow light cast by the single candle. The bed looked soft and inviting, the walls whitewashed, the room sparsely furnished, yet comfortable.

Hurrying to the window, she peeked outside, then closed the heavy woolen curtain, shuddering at the thought of prying eyes.

An upholstered chair near the fireplace beckoned, and Anne wished she could curl up by the hearth with a good book and let the outside slip away.

She tossed her cape over the back of the chair, sat down, and closed her eyes, but the moment Anne slumped back into the chair, she heard a tap at the door.

“Here. I’ll just put the food beside thee. Wouldst thou fancy a fire?” Mistress Pennywaite placed the tray on the table and nodded toward the hearth. “The tinder and bit o’ wood ought t’ set thee up nicely for the night. I’ll get it goin’, but be sure t’ bank it well afore turnin’ in.”

“Thank you.” Anne smiled as the woman bustled about her. Soon, the warmth of a small blaze caressed her cheeks and outstretched hands. She felt relieved, protected.

“Sleep well.” The door shut behind Mistress Pennywaite, leaving Anne in solitude.

She rested her head against the back of the chair, feeling tired, almost too weary to move. Her stomach growled with hunger. The tray beside her held a large wedge of meat pie, golden crusted and decorated with pastry leaves, as well as a hunk of yellow cheese and a wooden tankard.

“Finally, a drink.” Anne took a big gulp of ale, savoring its nutty flavor. She sampled the pie, which turned out to be ground beef and onions.
Delicious!
She took a bigger bite.

After finishing her meal, she got undressed, except for Alice’s smock. With a yawn, she crawled onto the lumpy, straw-filled mattress. Because of her exhaustion, it felt softer and more delightful than anything she could remember having slept on. Nestling her head into the pillow and closing her eyes, her thoughts turned for a moment to her grandmother and her parents, to Alice and Nell, then the two creeps and the duke of Norfolk.

Worried and overtired, she forced her troubles from her mind. Her last thought was of her fleeting glimpse of Dr. Brandon walking toward St. Bart’s.

Just as she drifted off, she imagined he looked at her calmly, protectively, and then he smiled and whispered, “Anne.”

Chapter Thirteen

Anne could have slept hours longer if not for the street noise filtering through the window. Rolling onto her back, she yawned and stretched luxuriously, opening her eyes.

The curtains let through a little sunshine, and Anne sighed, because everything looked quite different now, when compared with the candlelight of the evening before. The room was smaller, plainer than she recalled; the whitewashed walls were closer to gray, the sheets that had felt like velvet were thick and rough, the coverlet a worn patchwork quilt. The tallow candle stood on a nicked nightstand. Sniffing, Anne grimaced. The candle’s fatty scent hung in the air.

She got out of bed and reached for her clothing draped over the chair. Here, too, things seemed changed. The chair’s upholstery was threadbare and in need of fresh padding, no longer her cushy safe haven.

Anne put on the clothes, layering them as Alice had shown her. Since she couldn’t tie the corset in back without help, she did the next best thing by tying it in front and twisting it about. “Much better,” she muttered. “At least I can breathe a little.”

On to the hoop slip, petticoat, skirt, and vest, and she was ready to face the day—almost.

Anne looked at the washbasin, wondering about the cleanliness of the towel. She decided she couldn’t wait another moment; her face felt oily, and as for her mouth...

Pouring water into the basin, she splashed some onto her face and patted it dry, using one side of the cloth. Turning to the dry side, she wrapped one corner around her finger, wetted it, and rubbed it vigorously over her teeth. She regretted not having thought to put a toothbrush in her bag before she left for the Tate. With a frown, she remembered seeing breath mints when she’d searched for the chocolate. She rummaged about, quickly finding them.

Anne popped one in her mouth and reached for Alice’s makeup tin. She covered her bruise, then jumped when she heard soft tapping at the door.

“Art thou awake, then?”

“Yes, Mistress Pennywaite.” Anne opened the door a crack and peeped out.

“The fair will be gettin’ underway, and we’ve a need t’ square up afore we close. We’ll be spendin’ the whole morning there and will not be here t’ tend t’ our guests ’til the midday meal.”

Anne opened the door wide and smiled. “There’s a fair?”

The innkeeper nodded. “St. Bartholomew’s Fair. Comes ’round once a year an’ lasts a full three days. Why, the queen herself’ll be down this day.”

“The queen?” Anne asked, breathlessly.

“Aye, our Fair Eliza will be there, God bless and keep her. Saw her the day afore her coronation day, I did. We had a pageant here in Cheapside and she attended. She looked like an angel dressed in her finery, wi’ pearl earrings as big as quail’s eggs.”

Anne hesitated for a moment, trying to place the date of the fair, but Mistress Pennywaite must have thought there was another reason for her silence, because she patted Anne’s arm.

“If thou desires, come along wi’ me an’ me husband. Dr. Brandon will receive the tolls for the hospital this year—a great honor, what wi’ him being new ’round here. Methinks I know just where he’s likely t’ be found—at the toller’s booth on Cloth Street—and I can take thee t’ meet him straight away.”

“Wonderful!” Anne was delighted things seemed, finally, to be working out. “Perhaps I’m still rattled after what happened to me yesterday, but what is today’s date? I mean, the year and everything. I’m afraid I’m a bit confused, Mistress Pennywaite.”

“There, there, dear. Call me Maggie.” She patted Anne again, gently clucking her tongue. “Why, ’tis St. Bartholomew’s feast day, the twenty-fourth o’ August, in the Year o’ Our Lord, 1560.”

…

“St. Bartholomew’s Fair is the largest cloth fair in all o’ England,” Maggie exclaimed proudly. “An’ fine entertainment an’ shoppin’ as well.”

Cuth Pennywaite smiled at his wife, tipped his hat to Anne, then excused himself to join friends at a tent-tavern set near the edge of the fairgrounds.

“’Tis a better thing t’ shop without a husband.” Maggie chuckled, watching his retreating back.

As they entered the crowded fair, Anne lugged her leather bag, stuffed with her cape because of the balmy weather. People swirled about her, locals and foreigners alike, in a blur of pageantry, like a historical miniseries.

“
Achetez ici—les plus belles dentelles du continent
.” Buy here
—
the prettiest continental lace.

“Gloucestershire wool
—
none better!”

“
Bella donna
.” An Italian merchant with dancing eyes bowed to Anne.

She smiled at his come-on.

“Bartholomew babies! The finest at the fair!”

Anne turned and gawked at a booth overflowing with small, beautifully dressed wooden dolls, tiny Elizabethan ladies in all their finery. “Oh, they’re lovely,” she said to Maggie.

“Indeed. Those babies be most marvelous comely.” Maggie pulled at her sleeve to move her along, but Anne stopped again at another booth and ran both hands over a bolt of deep, plush, midnight-blue velvet.

“How beautiful––”

“An’ the cost’d put thee back a year’s wages, so pay it no mind.” Maggie wrapped her arm around Anne’s waist and coaxed her onward.

Nearby, in the open commons, children squealed with delight. Anne looked up, shading her eyes. Three jugglers in brightly colored silks walked on wooden stilts. Soaring overhead, they threw their pins and balls, calling out, laughing at the people below.

The crowd pushed apart as acrobats leaped. In their midst, a fire-eater blew flames several feet into the air.

“Hen’s feet fer luck, darlin’? Just a ha’penny a pair!” A hawker held up a tangle of bright red claws.

“Eeww!” Anne grimaced.

Maggie pulled her along. “Come. There’s other things t’ see.”

Rounding a corner, a horrible smell hit Anne and she gagged.

“The stink is somethin’ else here at Smithfield,” Maggie said, noticing Anne’s reaction. “’Tis a meat market an’ there’s been butcherin’ an’ blood goin’ on for hundreds o’ years. The ground is soaked clear through with it. Come along, an’ we’ll buy nosegays.”

Anne followed her to a stall selling little herb bouquets.

“Tuck it in thy bosom.” Maggie nodded to Anne’s nosegay. “So ’twill be ever under thy nose.”

Anne laughed. “It tickles.”

“Aye, it does at that.” Maggie pointed down an alleyway. “The toller’s booth is just ahead. Surely most everyone has paid up by now, so the doctor may be about an’ free t’ meet thee.”

Anne’s heartbeat quickened, seeing a booth with a red and yellow striped canopy. Across the front hung a banner that read
TOLLER
, with three coins painted in an arc above the word.

She searched the faces nearby, but saw no one familiar, no one tall, with beautiful, blue eyes. A bookish, middle-aged man stood in the booth, looking bored.

Disappointment stabbed Anne. “I don’t see Dr. Brandon.”

“Nay t’ worry,” Maggie reassured. “He’s ’round here somewhere.”

Dozens of stamped ribbons, mostly green, gold, and blue satin, hung from the canopy poles. Maggie approached the toller. “Is Dr. Brandon about?”

He shook his head. “The queen come in last hour for the show, an’ the good doctor hath gone t’ present his toll accounts.”

“Thank thee kindly, sir.” Maggie took Anne’s arm and guided her on.

“Make way!” a man suddenly called out. “Make way for the queen’s horseman. Make way!”

The crowd parted for the liveried man, his black and white costume heavily decorated with ribbon and gold braid, his beard dyed with matching streaks of black and yellow. He marched forward, carrying a long staff topped with a bronze horse’s head.

Anne could not take her eyes off the man. Fashion was one thing, but this guy was really out there.

“Who is he?” Anne asked Maggie as Cuth rejoined them.

“A lordly peacock, he is,” Cuth said, smelling like ale and spiced sausage. “One Sir Henry Mason.” He gave Maggie a hearty kiss on the cheek, then turned to Anne. “Sir Henry oversees the breeding and care at the queen’s principal stables, under the watchful eye o’ her horse master, Robert, Lord Dudley.”

Anne’s eyebrow arched as she remembered her Hampton Court escapade with the handsome Dudley.

“But at the fair,” Cuth went on, “Sir Henry goes a step further. Different breeders come and show their best offspring for the year, and he chooses ten from among them, t’ be presented t’ Her Majesty. Whichever one she chooses for her own will bring a handsome purse t’ his breeder, as well as great renown.” He pointed down the lane. “Stand quiet now, here they come.”

A parade of frisky colts approached, each being led by a nervous but proud owner.

The colts were led into the arena, the Pennywaites and Anne following closely behind.

“Over this way, ladies.” Cuth motioned to them. He pushed through the throng like an expert, making way for the women to follow, and managed to gain entrance to the stands. People were packed together, allowing for little hope they would find seats.

But Cuth continued to cajole and elbow, until he convinced two large women to move over. “Here, ladies. The seats may be cramped, but I’ve two for ye.”

“Where will you sit, Mr. Pennywaite?” Anne asked.

“I’ll not be stayin’. We’ve customers we promised t’ accommodate back at the inn by eleven o’ the clock, and ’tis nearly that now.” He took Anne’s hand. “I’m sorry I won’t be here t’ see the look on the good doctor’s face when he meets thee, but thou shalt find him anon and then all shalt be well. So, I won’t expect thee back at the inn, though thou art welcome t’ stay wi’ us again, o’ course, should it ever come t’ that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pennywaite, for everything.”

“We’ll see thee again, have no doubt. An’ by the by,” he said, indicating the area behind him with a twitch of his head and a grin, “we trust thou shalt enjoy a most wondrous view o’ Her Majesty.”

Anne gazed over his shoulder and saw a woman, chatting and smiling, breathtaking in her youth and golden beauty.

Queen Elizabeth I!

Transfixed, Anne dropped to her seat, open-mouthed.

In a plush royal box, upholstered in crimson velvet, the queen sat among her female attendants. Elizabeth didn’t look any older than Anne, with a beautiful, glowing complexion and a quick smile. Her laughter was hearty and contagious, and everyone around her grinned at her
joie de vivre.

As the queen sipped from a gem-encrusted goblet, Anne saw her long, slender fingers were adorned with gold rings and on her right hand a huge sapphire flashed in the sunlight. Her pale rose gown shimmered with golden thread, while her strawberry blond hair hung loose, except for some softly coiled braids. Anne recalled her occasional sightings of the modern British royals, but they were drab in comparison to this woman of legend with her dazzling display of power and wealth.

Watching still, Anne saw the queen turn her head, just as a man stepped up from behind and bent close to her ear. She wondered what he might be whispering, for Elizabeth flushed slightly and smiled, then said something back, while touching his hand with the tips of her fingers. The man lifted his face, pointed to one of the horses, and then backed away.

Anne sucked in her breath, the shock of recognition hitting her body like a thunderbolt.

“What?” Maggie glanced at the royal box.

Anne could barely get the words out. “There’s Robert Dudley.”

“Aye, the Master o’ the Horse.”

“I know. I’ve met him before, and he kissed me!”

Maggie stared at Anne, eyebrows drawn down, shaking her head in disbelief. “Robert, Lord Dudley, I’m quite sure, does not go ‘round kissin’ ordinary folk. Thou mustn’t be so gullible when someone gives thee a name like that, just so he can make merry wi’ thee.”

“But...”

“Stay quiet now, the presentation is beginning.”

As the colts were paraded past Elizabeth’s viewing stand, the crowds exclaimed at the animals and lay bets as to which one she might choose. Anne paid little attention to this, however, continuing to watch the royal box, trying to catch another glimpse of Dudley. Dozens of beautifully dressed men and women sat around the queen, barring Anne’s view. A liveried servant presented a silver tray to Elizabeth, and she took a piece of food, popping it casually into her mouth.

The young horses nervously pranced before the queen. Suddenly spooked by someone’s loud laughter in the stands, the gray Percheron tried to bolt, rearing up high, nearly pulling his handler off the ground, then striking him hard with a foreleg.

The crowd gasped and so did the queen.

And then she began to flail.

Hands clutching at her throat, Elizabeth gagged, unable to speak or cry out. Some of her courtiers panicked and screamed, while everyone else stared horrorstruck.

The queen was choking and nobody was doing anything about it! Anne sprang to her feet and thrust her bag into Maggie’s arms. “Hold this,” she ordered. She climbed over people, shoving aside men, women, baskets, everything that got in her way.

A tall, dark-haired man suddenly pushed his way into the royal enclosure, knocking aside two of the queen’s bodyguards.

Anne glimpsed the scar beneath his left eye just as he grabbed Elizabeth, turned her around, and thumped on her back, once, twice, but still the queen could not breathe.

Oh, no
, Anne thought.
He’s making it worse
.

Pushing, jabbing, elbowing her way through the crowd, she finally reached the short partition surrounding the royal seats. She leaped, swinging her feet sideways over the barrier, and made for Elizabeth. No one stopped her, because no one was looking at her. Everyone—even the guards—stood flat-footed, mouths gaping, their horrified eyes fixed on the face of the queen.

Her skin was growing blue as her oxygen supply gave out.

Anne’s pulse raced. Forcing her way in, she thrust Dr. Brandon aside and seized the queen from behind. Clasping fists together just under Elizabeth’s rib cage, Anne heaved upward, grunting with the strain of moving against the restrictions of her own corset, and the queen’s, before anyone could stop or object.