The Thornless Rose (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

The reply from Henry Hastings arrived on Sunday morning, while Brandon was putting the finishing touches on another batch of elixir for Amy Dudley. Letter in hand, he hurried along the pathway to the Lady Chapel, intent on finding Anne.

Pushing on the door, he nearly fell into the room as she pulled from the other side. “Up and about, I see,” he said, pleased to find she felt well enough to have bathed and dressed. She wore one of her new gowns, courtesy of the queen, of deepest emerald silk, edged with ivory lace. “You look beautiful, Annie.”

“It’s a bit much for around here, I know,” she said brightly, touching the bodice, “but I couldn’t resist trying it on. I feel like Cinderella getting ready for the ball.”

With a physician’s more discerning air, he studied her pale features and noticed how the gown hung loosely on her frame. She had to start eating three square meals a day, he decided. And exercise. He’d start taking her on short walkabouts.

Brandon remembered himself then and excitedly waved the letter from Hastings. “I do believe after you’ve read this note, you’ll not wish to change your clothes.”

“Are we expecting company?”

“No,” he said, handing her the letter.

Anne read.

Dr. and Mistress Brandon,

Please accept our sincerest congratulations on your marriage. My wife and I wouldst be most honored with your presence at a late lunch on Sunday, this, the eighth of September, at three o’ the clock, to fete the happy event.

I thank thee for thy kind offer of bilberry jam, Doctor. I look forward to having more of thy most wondrous cure and shall endeavor to repay thy skilled ministrations in kind.

Henry

Anne looked up. “Great! Who’s Henry?”

Brandon smiled. “He’s the heir of the earl of Huntingdon, the queen’s cousin, and a wonderful chap, full of gab and good cheer. His footman awaits our answer. Do you feel up to it?”

“Sure. I feel great. No headache.”

“Jolly good. I rather think you’ll like him. Lord Henry’s married to Dudley’s sister, Catherine—and his surname is Hastings.”

Anne gaped. “Hastings? As in the Hastings’s Bible?”

“Yes,” he replied, grinning ear to ear. “It’s in their library. I’ve some books to return, so he’s sure to take us there. He’s very proud of his collection.” Brandon pulled her close and looked into her eyes. “There’s no doubt he’s your ancestor, Annie. He’s got your eyes, the exact shade of green.”

She playfully batted her lashes. “I hope you don’t look at him the way you’re looking at me right now.”

He laughed and shook his head, then thought how wonderful it was to see her happy again.

“Not at all,” he said. “Your eyes are far more captivating and thankfully in no need of treatment.”

Anne frowned. “What’s wrong with his eyes? Is it hereditary?”

“I’ve no idea, but I have a cure. He suffers from a lack of night vision, and my bilberry jam is an excellent remedy. We used it in the RAF for our pilots.” He kissed her lightly on the brow. “Think about what you wish to write to your grandmother whilst you ready yourself for a ride to the Strand. I’ll inform the footman we accept, and the Hastings’s coach will come for us later today.”

…

Geoff Bly had been lurking in the forest near Cumnor Hall for two days, getting the lay of the land, looking for a way inside the manor house.

He shook his head in frustration.
Blast Amy Dudley and her servants, the mammering harpies! How do I get in without raisin’ the alarm?

The duke of Norfolk’s plan seemed doomed to failure. His lordship had never anticipated there would be so many servants about, day and night. It seemed as if the woman was being guarded against the very thing Bly had been sent to do.

He idly scratched himself. He’d seen her just past dawn this morning, standing in the doorway, her skin a sickly yellow. Surrounded by her maids, who clucked like hens, she’d been helped to walk about the garden. Then, they went inside, the front door closing with a
boom
.

He forced a smile.
Have faith
, he told himself,
thou hast patience enough to wait them out
. They wouldn’t be able to keep the fox from the henhouse forever. But what to do? How would he get to the damnable wench? He glanced about, feeling the urge to piss.

The front door suddenly opened wide and dozens of laughing servants streamed from the house.

Bly strained to listen to the chatter, the call of nature momentarily forgotten. He caught the words, “Sunday... Abingdon Fair.”

Fair?
He held his breath, considering. Exhaling slowly, savoring the moment, he watched the servants leave. Searching their faces, he was pleased when the last of them disappeared down the path; Lady Dudley was not among them.

Aye. I’m in
. Confident, he rose to his feet to relieve himself, for he knew he couldn’t do his job right if his bladder was full.

Especially
, he mused,
since I’ll be lendin’ my special touch here, a bit o’ cock sport wi’ the lonely lady
—
afore I kill her.

…

Amy Dudley sat at her writing desk, facing her faithful companion and housekeeper, Elizabeth Odingsells.

The woman’s cheeks puffed out as she tucked a warm wrap around Amy’s shoulders. “M’lady, why must I go if I haven’t the desire?”

“Lizzie, please,” Amy implored, “thou shalt be back long afore I notice thine absence, since my only plan is to work at my desk and then to sleep. I’m feeling much better, due to Dr. Brandon’s elixir, and can certainly manage that much on my own.”

Mistress Odingsells held her lips tight in frustration, but then she nodded. “Aye, ’tis a marvelous elixir, m’lady, but ’tis Sunday. No day fer a servin’ woman t’ be makin’ merry at a fair, nor a gentle lady t’ be alone.”

“Worry not, Mistress Owen will be about and promised to sup with me at noon. Until then, I shall be fine. Take some time for merriment. There has been little enough of it since my illness began.” Amy smiled, grateful for the respite from pain. “I must see to my letters,” she added. “If no one is about, I shalt have no distractions.”

“Please, m’lady, let me stay wi’ thee.”

“Nay, my dear. I’ll hear no more about it. Go on with the others, and tell everyone to have a most wondrous time.”

“Humph!” Frustrated, Mistress Odingsells curtseyed and left, her muttering dying away as she stomped down the stone staircase and exited the house.

Amy waited until she heard the front door shut, then reached into a drawer and pulled out a stoppered flask of blue glass, the doctor’s blessed tonic. She uncorked the bottle and took a mouthful. Honey and comfrey, and something else, a syrupy sweetness she could not identify. She let it linger on her tongue before swallowing. After a moment, a gentle, soothing warmth spread from her stomach to her spine, then on to her extremities.

She took up her quill, dipped it in ink, and slowly wrote.

Dearest Husband…

She hesitated, staring at her cramped scrawl, her sickly-pale hand, and grit her teeth. How different she must look to him when compared with the queen, who brimmed with good health. Elizabeth! How she loathed everything about her!

Nay, nay! Thou shalt not succumb to the devil’s will!

Bowing her head, she prayed to God for forgiveness. It was too late for jealousy, for hatred. Ever too late. But what to say to her husband? What now?

Reaching into a pocket, she removed the miniature of their dead son and stared at his blond curls, his angelic blue eyes.
It seems but yesterday that I held thee, Sweet Robbie, but it’s been years, hasn’t it? Many, many years
.

Yet, even now, she could feel the weight of him, as though she cradled him, as if he had never died.

Still there, ever there.

Shaking her head to dispel the image, she reminded herself the time for grief was almost over. She had overheard Dr. Brandon at Whitehall. She knew she was dying, had sensed it long before that, but...

But now, she had the elixir and a little time to set things to right. A sudden surge of bliss filled her and gave her the courage to go on, to face what was to come, for Robbie would be in her arms again soon.

“Anon, Robbie darling, anon.”

Turning back to her letter, Amy said, “Well, husband, do I tell thee of mine own impending death? Wouldst thou care?” She visualized the dashing, recalcitrant Lord Dudley, held the memory of that dastard’s sensuous smile.

For a time, he smiled that way at her exclusively, when she was a young bride of seventeen, and he was besotted with her charms. But now, he saved that look, those feelings, for another.

For his queen.

Amy closed her eyes, willing away the hurt and shame, striving to rise above the pain of this world.
So, husband, do I inform Her Majesty directly that thou shalt soon be free to pursue her hand? Will thy Elizabeth appreciate the gesture, of one wife giving her blessing to the next? More importantly, will such charity get me through St. Peter’s Gate, that I might join my Robbie in heaven?

Nodding, she crumpled the letter addressed to Dudley and tossed it aside. Quill poised over a fresh sheet, she gathered her thoughts, then prepared to write.

“Most Gracious Majesty,” she whispered to the air as she touched pen to paper.

…

Bly watched as a lone serving woman trudged down the road, then waited for any further sign of life in the manor house. Moments passed. Nothing.
So
—he fondled the hilt of his dagger—
she’s inside, waitin’ for me. Lady Amy.

His mind chanted, sing-song and light.
Lady Amy, Lady Amy…

Rising, he stretched, then crept around hedges, through the kitchen garden, and on to the back of the house. Hanging bundles of herbs dried in the sun. A Dutch door stood with its top half open. Sniffing, he swatted at the thyme and rosemary that stunk up the air, searching instead for a lady’s perfumed tang.

He turned the knob and the lower half of the door swung wide. Entering the house, he spotted several loaves of bread cooling on a long, oak table. He took a loaf, tore off a hunk with his teeth, and chewed.

Wheat bread, laced with currants.

Dropping his hand to his crotch, he loosened his codpiece, stroked himself, then moved deeper into the house. Checking room after room, he found no one.

Not a fobbing soul
. Bly cursed and headed for the staircase. Halting at the bottom, he studied the right-angled flight of stairs divided by a square landing.

“Where art thou, Lady Amy?” he whispered, then he smelled something new—perfume, yes—but with a difference, a strangely sweet odor that clung to his tongue.

“Ah, there y’ar, darlin’.” He began to climb.

Lady Amy, Lady Amy…

…

Amy heard a door open, listened as a man’s boots pounded on the stairs.
Bowes
, she thought, noting the heaviness of the step.
Why hath he not gone with the others?

She glanced up and froze. A stranger stood in the doorway, a huge, evil-looking man, gripping himself and his dagger.

“Lady Amy,” he said, his gaze cold.

She gasped. He crossed the room in two steps and yanked her to her feet. Pushing her against the wall, he ground himself against her skirts, his hand at her throat. Amy tried to claw his face, but he was strong, too strong. He took hold of her jaw and forced his tongue into her mouth, violently twisting her neck.

Snap!
A sharp pain ripped through her spine. She couldn’t feel her body, couldn’t move or breathe, as if she were dead from the neck down.

Sweet God, help me! I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!

He must have sensed the change, too, for he drew his head back and stared into her eyes.

A spark of horror leapt in the air between them.

“Jesus!” he said, letting her drop to the floor. “What in Christ’s name happened, that thou art still alive? Stop lookin’ at me! Stop it! Stop!”

Terrified, unable to move, she stared up at him, trying to form words, trying to breathe or scream. He stood over her, panicky, then grabbed her and dragged her out of the room toward the staircase. He heaved her body down the steps. The room whirled, and she hit the middle landing.

Jesus save me!

Through her terror, she barely heard the loud footfalls, the bestial grunts, while she was hauled up again and flung down the rest of the stairs.

Her head whacked against the floor and she heard a voice...

“Mother––!”

Then she knew nothing more.

…

“Mother of Christ! Didst thou die yet, she-devil? Mother of Christ!”

Geoff Bly grabbed the banister and slid-tripped down the steps before halting in front of the body, the woman’s brow bloodied by a gash. Trembling, trying to stay above his panic, he kicked her head to make certain she was dead, opening another wound, then leapt back to avoid her blood. He stared into her eyes. Nothing. No response. No sound or movement.

She was dead, at last dead, his job done.

He studied her disheveled clothing, her ankles exposed. With a leer, he bent down and lifted her skirts, when suddenly, from somewhere deep in the house, a timber groaned, causing Bly to drop the fabric and any notion of further delay.
Get thee gone!
He bolted for the back door.

The duke had told him to lay low for a few weeks, and he intended to do just that. There was a little town up north, in the lake country. A fat widow lived there, an unusual woman who liked her sex rough, who could take it and give it back as good as she got.

On his way out of the kitchen, Bly grabbed the loaf of bread, tore off another hunk, and smiled.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The weather was fine at Windsor that Sunday afternoon, suggesting only a hint of the coming autumn. The hawking party had been out for hours and had much to show for their efforts: ten pheasant, a pair of grebes, three hares of tremendous size, and a brace of quail.

Complaining of heat and dust, the queen signaled they should turn back to the castle. Robert Dudley brought his mount alongside Elizabeth’s, then flicked open the lid of his gold sundial ring. He glanced at her, sitting gracefully upon her sidesaddle. “’Tis near four o’ the clock, Majesty.”

The queen stroked the leather-hooded gyrfalcon calmly resting on her arm. “Is not this falcon amongst the finest thou hast laid eyes upon, Robin? I believe he outranks even his forebears in hunting prowess. Father’s were wondrous good, but none were so quick and reliable as he.”

“Aye, he is a marvel to behold,” Dudley admitted. “Mine own harrier hath much talent, but he must hang his head in shame when thy falcon takes to wing.”

Suddenly alert, the queen’s body went rigid; only her gaze darted across the edge of the tree line. Dudley scanned the same area. What had she spotted?

“Take the bird, Robin, and give it to my steward,” she whispered. “Tell him to keep everyone here. We have a stag that needs inviting home. We shall signal them with my horn when we’ve got our quarry.”

Dudley quickly untied the falcon and handed it off. With a grin, he moved his horse back to her side.

The stag bolted, easy to see now in the sparse woods.

“He is off!” Elizabeth cried out. “Come Robin, we must fly!”

Dudley caught the familiar glint in her eyes, just as she sent her crop down hard across her horse’s rump. The animal leapt forward into a gallop, and Dudley dug in his heels in mad pursuit.

Their mounts flew over open ground, hooves pounding the dry earth, necks flat and ears hard back, loving the chase every bit as much as the riders. The stag sprinted on, leaping over fallen trees, veering left, then right and left again, to shake off his pursuers.

Hair loose and flying behind, Elizabeth leaned forward in her sidesaddle, bringing her bound waist up against her right knee, which wrapped tightly around the saddle’s hooked pommel.

Even on this wild run, Dudley admired the woman’s horsemanship, her courage, and recklessness. He thundered after her, watching her perfect form, unable to think of anything but her utter abandon.

At last, she reigned in, abruptly bringing her lathered horse back almost on its haunches. Dudley halted. The stag stood in a clearing just beyond, winded and dazed. How long had they been chasing him?

Dudley stared at Elizabeth. Already, he noted, she had bow in hand and arrow fitted into place. She raised her bow and leveled her sights, but he made no move to raise his own. He knew she wouldn’t need a second shot to back her up.

The old boy is giving the queen a gift this day
, he thought.
There he stands in the tall grass, left side showing, still as stone. She’ll have him down afore my next breath
.

Elizabeth loosed her arrow and it shot true to its mark—second rib visualized—and struck him full in the heart. With a single lurch, the great beast crashed to the earth.

Dudley nudged his horse close alongside hers, and she turned a beaming face on him.

“’Twas a fine chase,” she said, breathing heavily, “and most difficult...steadying my hand for the shot. I feel almost faint from lack of air after it.”

He looked behind them, then smiled. “As do I.” He leaned forward and kissed the soft mounds above her stays. “Thou perspires.”

“Robin––”

“The taste is sweet, but the heat of thy breast is unsettling. Perhaps we should find a dark corner where I might loosen thy ties.”

“In the woods?” Elizabeth asked, feigning shock. “Remember, sir, that you address a queen!”

“A queen—aye.” He kissed her neck, then moved up to her ear, tugging playfully at her earlobe with his teeth. “And regally sweet from the folds of thine ears to the folds of––”

“Robin!”

He threw back his head and laughed at her real consternation, taking her hand in his. “To the sweet tips of your fingers was all I was going to say! I do swear it, Sweet Eliza.”

“Sweet Robin.” Her gaze fixed on his, her mouth open, hardly breathing. “Aye! Find that dark place, Robin. My dark place—quickly!” Tiny beads of sweat had formed on her upper lip, and her eyes darted from his to the path they had followed, then back to him. “The others will stay put ’til we sound the signal horn.”

Dudley dismounted and hurried to assist Elizabeth. Instead of reaching for her waist, he slid his hands under her skirts, up her thighs, and pulled her down to his waist, gripping her across her backside, clamping her hips against his stomach.

“Quickly! I would drink in all of thee, even unto those two beautiful eyes that do cause me so much agony,” she gasped. “Take me now!”

Dudley carried her blindly into the deeper wood, kissing her mouth, her neck, her breasts, as she moaned in his arms. Laying her in a secluded patch of bracken and fallen leaves, he pushed away her skirts and pulled off her pantalets, kissing and caressing as she lifted her hips against him.

“Sweet––” Her voice strangled with desire. “Come in me—thy shaft—now!”

Amazed by her unbridled passion, he quickly untied his codpiece. Trying to keep control of his own desires, he bent to kiss her breast again, but she grabbed his doublet, instead.

“Do not hesitate! I wouldst have thee plunge in, if ’twere possible, all the way up to mine own eyes!” she groaned, almost growled at him. Grabbing his breeches, she pulled him hard against her, and he thrust himself inside.

“Ahhh––!” She pushed herself against him.

Her desire overwhelmed him, and he knew he couldn’t hold out for long. He moved on her as rapidly as he dared, awaiting her release, denying his own.

“Ahhh—eyes! My beautiful two eyes! Robin!”

“Oh, my queen!” He closed his eyes, thrusting hard, groaning, and then, in the haze of his own climax, he heard her cry out in writhing ecstasy.

Slowly his sense returned, the haze receded, and he looked down in wonder at this woman he loved. Seemingly asleep, she looked as peaceful as a child, and they both smiled as he kissed her lightly about the face.

“Thou art most beauteous fair, Sweet Eliza,” he whispered.

She sighed contentedly.

Without warning, the sound of hooves thundered through the glen. Elizabeth looked up at him in surprise—and sudden amusement.

“Ha! They have come before we called and found us out at last,” she teased. “But thankfully, not before we came ourselves!”

“Don’t say such a thing,” Dudley hissed in her ear. “I will not see thy sterling character smeared and dragged through the mud. They shalt not find us out. We are hidden for the moment—here.” He quickly pulled up her undergarments and tied them off, hastily pulled down her skirts, then looked about for a course of action. “I can move through the trees and come out near the stag without being seen. Wait a moment, then come out pleading nature’s call. They’ll see naught to arouse suspicion.”

“Thou art ever my gallant knight, Sir Two Eyes.” Elizabeth grinned at him.

Dudley crept away to make his show of inspecting the queen’s kill. The hunting party broke through the trees and rode up, surrounding the two abandoned horses.

With a smile, Dudley rose from the wall of grass surrounding the stag and hailed the group with a triumphant wave of his arm. “Look at what our queen has brought down with a single arrow,” he crowed. “We shall feast well this night!”

The group did not move, but remained atop their horses instead, staring at Elizabeth as she emerged from the wood. Not three horse-lengths distant, Dudley could plainly see the dirt that smudged her clothes, the tousled mess of her hair—and worse—the impish grin on her face.

“Forgive me, good sirs,” she said as she tipped her head in their direction, “but the kill didst place the urge of nature’s call within me, and I could do naught but heed the call!”

Stepping lightly to her horse, she waited patiently as her steward dismounted. Without a word, he helped her into the saddle.

Then, from the back of the hunting party, a man rode forward, breaking free of the others. Looking up, Dudley was confused by the sight of Bowes, a servant in his wife’s household, coming toward him on a heavily lathered horse.

“Bowes! What news? Why art thou here?” Dudley asked.

Clearly fatigued, the servant slid off his mount, bowed to the queen, then stood at attention, looking straight at his master, Dudley.

He spoke with a loud, clear voice so that all might hear. “In the morning of this day, on the eighth of September, 1560, thy wife, Amy Robsart Dudley, was found lying at the base of a flight of stairs at Cumnor Place, her residence. My lord, she was already gone to God, and murder is feared to be the cause.”

Dudley stared at Bowes, then looked at Elizabeth, stunned. Her face was ashen, her hands trembling at the reins.

“God’s holy death,” she whispered, “what can this mean?”

Instinctively, Dudley moved toward her, but she turned to her steward and commanded, “Find me Cecil.”

…

Dust wafted around Elizabeth in the courtyard of Windsor’s Lower Ward, kicked up by the hunting party that had arrived close on her heels.

She glanced at the Round Tower. Her colors were flying, the flags unfurled and held stiff by the breeze. As if in response, her own spine straightened. She passed through the Norman Gate, ignoring the sentries, intent on reaching the royal apartments of the Upper Ward before anyone attempted to speak to her, or dared to ask questions.

Turning a corner, Elizabeth felt an immediate rush of anger. The Spanish ambassador stood at the palace doors. She recalled their most recent conversation, his blatant attempt to gain information about Amy Dudley’s unexpected appearance at court and her most unwelcome attendance of the Brandon wedding. Elizabeth had been as shocked as any by the woman’s fragility, mingled as it was with her unrelenting glare.

De Quadra, ever seeking gossip for his king, had dared remind Elizabeth of Amy again, just the other day. In her anger at his cheek, Elizabeth tried to turn the tables on him, curtly suggesting the woman was not deserving of his untoward interest, for it was clear she had grown old before her time, even to the point of looking near to death.

Of course, never had Elizabeth dreamt her words would precede such grim tidings.

As she neared the Spaniard, her anger swelled, for she noted his piercing stare seemed far too inquisitive, noted too that a sneer played across his lips.
Come to gloat, has he?
Marching forward, she wanted to slap the smile from within the clipped precision of his black goatee.

She brushed past him as he bowed. She clenched her fists. The vultures always seemed to know when death hung in the air. She wheeled about and glared at him, then decided to bestir the quagmire that was his thinking.

“We know Dudley’s wife is dead, De Quadra, but speak not of it. I wouldst not have the place in an uproar, or thou pissing thyself in glee over the gossip this will foster.”

As she had hoped, his eyes rounded in astonishment. At her words? At her flippancy? She didn’t care.

Sentries held the doors open as Elizabeth burst into the deserted foyer and was immediately confronted by the brooding figure of her Secretary of State, William Cecil. He was her advisor, her mentor, her light in the political labyrinth. How he glowered!

The doors shut, and Cecil swiftly dropped to one knee, then rose again, his hazel eyes glinting with rage.

Terrified of no man’s opinion but his, Elizabeth stammered, then equivocated, “I—’tis good to have you returned from the North, Cecil. Your treaty with the Scots was masterfully wrought.”

“Lady Dudley is dead! What is this madness?” he seethed. “And do not give me idle chatter, nor perjure thyself with me, ma’am. I must have the truth of it, if I am to save thy head from rolling down the hill at Tower Green!”

“Cecil! I know nothing of it. I was told only moments ago, whilst hunting.” Elizabeth tried to look injured, instead of terrified, at his insinuations. “How can you suggest––?”

“Come with me.” Cecil stalked toward a small, private room.

Enraged, she brushed past him. “If thou dare turn thy back on me a second time, Cecil, I’ll––”

After shutting the door, he spun around, expression dark with anger. “Elizabeth, I have known thee for years. I have seen the friendship—nay—love develop betwixt Dudley and thee. I did not stop it, for I knew it to be the rarest of joys in thy troubled life. Yet, I like him not. The blood that runs in his veins is calculating, mercenary, and, above all, ambitious. Whatever his pretty words, his lofty ideals, family blood
always
tells.”

“Sir!” Elizabeth replied, her fists balled up in fury at her sides. “Robin was not involved, if that be thine implication. Think thee I have put him up to this? Is that the evil path upon which thy mind doth wander?”

Cecil didn’t reply, but considered her frankly for several moments, then raked his fingers through his wiry red beard. “’Tis not I, but every soul that breathes life within this realm, that will think it. Thou hast displayed him openly as thy favorite since the moment thy sister spoke her final
Paternoster
.”

“He hath been my faithful friend since childhood.”

Grumbling, Cecil walked to the end of the room, shoulders rounded under this new burden. “Every man alive will think you two plotted to have her killed, so he might finally, and legally, find his way into the royal bed.”

“But Robin was every bit as shocked as I, and, and he loved her.”

“Loved her? No one believes he loves anyone but thee.”

Her instincts flared.
Deny, deny, deny!
“No!” she exclaimed.

He pointed at her head. “Ma’am, look at the twigs in thy hair! Didst thou fall from thy horse, or have you two been frolicking in the hunting park?”

“Silence!” she thundered, her anger suddenly blazing white-hot.

Cecil blanched.