The Thornless Rose (30 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Elizabeth had been plagued with head pains for nearly the entire day. She rubbed her temples, hoping Dr. Brandon would soon arrive at Windsor. The royal barber-surgeons had no real answers. The lot of them were as worthless as lowborn butchers, despite having the advantages of high and mighty educations from places like Oxford and Padua.

Placing her fingers upon the keys of her virginal, she looked out, gaze unfocused, mindful of the eerie quiet on this, the day of Lady Amy’s funeral. She sat alone in her music gallery, as was her custom, seeking privacy, attempting to shun the melancholy plaguing her soul.

“Oh, Robin!” She lifted her fingers and crashed them down onto the keyboard. Her head pulsed with an agony that matched the pain in her fingertips. “Oh, Lord,” she cried out, “what will be my Robin’s fate? Is he to be found guilty? Is he?”

Help us! Save us! Please, please, have mercy upon us! Oh, Lord! Lord!

…

Bouncing along in the queen’s carriage, Anne gazed at fields and hedgerows lit with the last rays of the sunset. A crescent moon hung above the little town of Windsor. The coach turned onto a dirt lane lined with tall elms, oaks, and grazing sheep.

The trees suddenly thinned and the view opened wide. There stood Windsor Castle, an impregnable Norman fortress, hulking, siege-proof, feudal. It was a far cry from the fanciful Gothic façade Anne was used to seeing.

The carriage pulled up and a liveried servant holding a rush-light ushered Anne and Jonathan inside. Their footsteps echoed as the man guided them toward the queen’s chambers.

Like Whitehall, Anne noticed Windsor was extremely aromatic. Thankfully, braziers burning juniper wood were scattered about, masking the odors with a Christmas-like scent.

“Jonathan,” she whispered, “the paintings, the furniture, it all looks so much like I remember it from when I was a kid, before the fire––”

“A fire at Windsor?”

“Oh, it was huge. In the winter of ’93 or—no, late ’92.” Anne searched her mind for details. “This end was gutted. Fortunately, they got most of the artwork out. They rebuilt the whole thing, and it’s gorgeous now.”

They continued down a long corridor, to an area of the castle Anne had never seen on tour. Doors opened before them without question, and soon they arrived at the anteroom of the queen’s chambers.

Cecil stood there, grim and brooding. Jonathan quickly introduced Anne to the secretary of state, who escorted them inside.

A few candles set in a bronze candle stand flickered at the perimeter of the queen’s canopied bed. Anne recognized the figure bending over Elizabeth as Rodrigo Lopez, one of the physicians who had been kicked out of the sickroom at Whitehall. Katherine Ashley kept vigil at Elizabeth’s side.

Sitting down, Anne was put off by the Portuguese doctor’s dark, oily looks. He was like a villain in a silent film. All he needed to do was twist his mustache and sneer.

“Dr. Lopez,” Jonathan said, “what is the diagnosis?”

Anne thought she could hear an undercurrent of tension in her husband’s voice.

Elizabeth opened her eyes and mumbled, “Ah, Dr. Brandon.”

Lopez looked down his nose at Jonathan. “My diagnosis? The queen’s humors are upset, ’tis plain enough to see.” His accent was thick, his voice just shy of snide. “In her normal state, it hath long been observed that the queen’s humors tend toward a preponderance of blood, occasionally building toward surges of yellow bile, thus easily explaining her natural passion, which gives way to fury from time to time.”

Anne stared at Lopez, not surprised by such a ridiculous assessment, but astounded, nonetheless, to actually hear the words. Thank goodness Jonathan had so much more knowledge. She gauged her husband’s reaction; his jaw muscles were flinching, he looked ready to blow, but he was holding on, being deferential.

“I see.” Jonathan’s voice sounded strained.

Lopez rummaged in his medical bag. “’Tis child’s play to determine, because of the melancholy and head pains, that, as her humors have a tendency to do when the stars are badly aligned, the black bile hath increased to dangerous levels. She must be bled to reestablish her normal balance.”

“You can’t be serious,” Anne cut in.

Lopez didn’t respond, but looked across the room at Cecil. “Mayhap the
doctor
hath not the learning to follow along. Let me explain more slowly.”

“I understood very well.” Jonathan moved to the edge of the bed. “It occurred to me, however, that––”

“Aye?” Lopez asked, seemingly bemused.

Jonathan glanced at Anne, then at the window, before taking a deep breath. “It has ever been my contention, Dr. Lopez, when the moon is in its crescent stage, it’s a better thing to heat my patients’ humors with chest balms, and to have them drink medicinal teas, rather than having them bleed out. Being a busy man, thou may not have had opportunity to check, but, as I observed upon our arrival, the moon is at its keenest edge.”

Wow, either he’s gotten really good at this, or he’s been here too long
.

Hiding her smile, Anne watched Lopez’s reaction. He seemed to be considering Jonathan’s words, but then he sniffed, “Balms? Teas? I’ve little regard for folk remedies.”

“I studied extensively in the East,” Jonathan continued. “I’ve learned bleeding is of little use in cases as plain as this.”

Anne looked at Cecil. He gazed back at her, eyes impossible to read.

“Thou hast charmed thy way to the queen’s bedside once afore, Brandon,” Lopez replied, “but ’tis a most serious matter this time, and thou shalt not question my treatments. I will bleed her from arm and heel. Thou may assist if thou art so determined. Otherwise, leave.”

“Nay, Lopez!” Elizabeth took a shaky breath. “I have listened long enough to thy presumptuous drivel. Leave me. I called for Dr. Brandon. He will minister to me this day.”

Whoa, she nailed him!
Anne thought, suppressing another grin.

“Ma’am.” Face purple with rage, Lopez bowed crisply and stalked toward Cecil.

Ignoring him, Jonathan bent toward Elizabeth, his tone soothing as he caressed her arm. Anne kept her eyes on her husband, but tried to hear the conversation between Cecil and Lopez. They spoke in hushed, angry voices, the words garbled and hard to determine.

Finally, a few words floated clearly to her ears, the accent English—Cecil’s. “Stay here and keep an eye on the man, for I have misgivings about him. Just stand by and note his every move.”

…

Anne placed a cool compress on the queen’s forehead, while her husband worked at a fireside table where he’d laid out his supplies—a few of his blue bottles, a mortar and pestle, some dried herbs, and crushed aspirin. They’d been at Windsor for well over an hour, the sun had long since gone down, yet Elizabeth was not bouncing back.

Despite the fact the queen had been given aspirin dissolved in broth, as well as one of Anne’s foot massages, she was still wracked with a headache and dry fever.
Poor thing
, Anne thought.
She’s really, really sick.

Nearby, Lady Ashley paced the room, muttering and wringing her hands. “My dear little Lizbeth. Dear Bessie. Whatever causes such pains?” The woman daubed a watery eye, then ran a sleeve under her nose.

“Where is Lettice, Kat?” Elizabeth asked weakly. “Where are my ladies?”

Katherine Ashley rushed to the queen’s side. “There, there. All’s well. I beseech thee to sleep like Dr. Brandon asked thee to do. Lettice and the others...” She hesitated, glancing at Anne. “They will return soon enough.”

Elizabeth whispered, “Oh, aye. The funeral.”

In the far corner, Lopez stood silent, keeping an eye on Jonathan’s every move. This sent a shiver down Anne’s spine. Why had Cecil demanded such vigilance? She could think of no real reason.

Jonathan backed away from the table and then motioned Anne to his side. “I believe Her Majesty’s had a nervous collapse. She’s worked herself into a fever, with a migraine thrown in for good measure.”

“What about our coffee fix? She’s been begging me for it.”

He smiled grimly. “Although she begs, no coffee or chocolate this time, because of the migraine.”

Lady Ashley joined them. “Please. Why isn’t the queen up and about? Ye both had the touch the last time.”

“M’lady, she has something worse today. My new elixir will help, but time and a few good nights of sleep will be the only tonic that cures this sort of frailty completely. I’m sorry.”

Lopez came to life. “Tonic? What tonic is that?” He crossed the room to Jonathan’s side. “I wouldst know what thou art planning to give Her Majesty.”

“Of course, Doctor,” Jonathan said calmly. “’Tis a simple elixir made from chamomile, lavender, valerian root, and yarrow.” Turning back to Lady Ashley, he indicated the stoppered blue bottles. “Each contains three doses. I would ask thee to measure out one dose into a cup and then heat it for a medicinal brew. The yarrow will encourage sweating, to rid Her Majesty of the dry fever, whilst the valerian and chamomile will soothe her nerves. As for the lavender––”

“I wouldst have a taste of this concoction,” Lopez cut in.

“Suit yourself, old chap,” Jonathan replied, reaching for a bottle. “Of course, the lavender is a wonderful remedy for headaches. However, thou might wish to remember the, er, lassitude valerian may cause in men under such concentrations, should thou be planning to entertain a woman this evening.”

Frowning, Lopez sniffed the bottle and then poured a little into a bowl. He dipped a finger in the liquid, hesitated, then tasted it and made a face. “Most foul,” he pronounced.

“Ah, the valerian makes it so,” Jonathan explained. “I shall have Lady Ashley mix the tea with honey. That should help with the taste.”

Jonathan turned to her. “Have care. The valerian can cause severe depression if taken to excess. The queen must be given but a small cup of the tea at regular intervals of once every four hours—no more often, whether she wills it or no—and over the course of the next day thou must make certain...”

As Jonathan gave his instructions, Lopez whispered to Anne, “Thy husband wouldst do well to remember himself and keep to his place.”

Anne scowled at him. “What? How dare you! You’re just jealous because my husband is an excellent physician—better than you.”

She detected an unexpected glint in Lopez’s gaze.

“Mayhap,” he said, “but Brandon’s presumptions, and thine own, have been noted by some at court. Ah, yes,
well
noted.”

She felt a chill. Then the silent movie villain did sneer, smug in his insinuation. “As I said afore,” he told her, “if I do not bleed Her Majesty from the arm and heel, the imbalance in her humors will cause much harm, mayhap irreparable damage.” He glanced at the queen, then raised his voice, “Come tomorrow, she couldst be in her winding-sheet. The astrologer predicted she will die young.”

Anne was shocked by his callousness. Jonathan’s conversation with Lady Ashley ended in mid-sentence. A sharp creak from Elizabeth’s bed told Anne she had heard, too.

How dare Lopez say crap like that
, Anne thought furiously,
and purposefully loud enough for the queen to hear!

The tension in the room crackled.

“Stinking cuss of a Portuguese!” the queen croaked. “Wouldst thee spread the winding-sheet afore mine own eyes?”

“Majesty, it is not I who makes such predictions.”

“Enough!” Jonathan exclaimed to Lopez.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and glared at Lopez, eyes brimming. “Thou art cruel and base to remind me of that dreadful horoscope. Never mention it again, else thou shalt feel my wrath, as did Dr. Dee. I shalt banish thee, as I did him. Dr. Brandon says naught is writ in the stars for bleeding this night, and I do believe him. I wouldst have him and his good wife treat me alone!”

Lopez gasped. “Please, Majesty. I must make mine own mind known to thee, lest thou be further beguiled by these dangerous upstarts.”

“Sniveling wretch!” The queen’s voice was faint, yet firm. “Be gone, Lopez!”

Anne studied the man’s face, the slackness in his jaw, the blank, unfocused gaze of sheer disbelief. He had gone too far, and he knew it.

Lopez shot a look of icy fury at Jonathan. With a low, unintelligible curse, he spun on his heel and stalked away.

Anne heaved a sigh of relief and then smiled grimly, sending her thoughts like daggers into his retreating back.

Jealous bastard. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass
.

…

The duke of Norfolk saw Lopez coming toward him, swearing as he stormed down the long, dimly lit corridor. “
¡Bastardo!
¡
Charlatão
!
As if I am to blame!”

Norfolk immediately stepped back into the shadows, watching and listening. He knew enough of the Latinate languages to realize the man was whipping himself into a lather over a perceived insult, probably from another doctor, and he didn’t wish to become involved.

Lopez swept by, still spitting venom. “
¡
Brandon!
¡
Imbecil
!
”

What?
Norfolk could barely contain his excitement, for if Brandon were the enemy of Lopez, then he might have a most powerful ally in his quest for revenge.

Purposely keeping his voice neutral, Norfolk called out, using the man’s nickname. “Ruy!”

Lopez whirled about, his gaze narrow and battle-ready.
“
¿Quem está falando?
”
he asked.

Norfolk stepped forward, hands up. “Ruy, ’tis I, Thomas Howard.”

Lopez’s brow lifted in surprise, then he relaxed his stance and bowed. “How might I be of service?”

“I think ’tis time we spoke.”

“About what, my lord?”

Norfolk smiled. “About an upstart doctor and his brazen bitch of a bride,” he glanced around, then lowered his voice, “and the settling of scores.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Two hours had passed since Lopez stormed out of the queen’s chamber.

Anne shook her head, trying to stay alert. Jonathan refused to leave the queen until he saw some marked improvement, something beyond the raw fury she’d displayed toward Lopez. Her husband looked haggard from the long day. Dark circles marked his eyes, heavy stubble covered his jaw.

With a tired sigh, Anne’s gaze traveled to the queen’s ladies, recently arrived from Amy Dudley’s funeral. Most had fallen asleep on cushioned benches scattered around the royal bed, but a few, including Lettice and Blanche Parry, were bent over their embroidery, struggling to stay awake.

Anne wanted to go home. Her back ached from too many hours in an unrelenting corset. Her hips hurt from supporting her immovable body, and she could think of nothing more inviting than relaxing by the fireplace in the great room at St. Bart’s. She could see herself curling up in one of the chairs, wearing her sweatpants and her oversize University of Virginia sweatshirt, sharing a cup of coffee with Jonathan.

How she yearned for the softness of her sweats!
It’ll be a while before they get those little treasures invented and stitched together
, she thought.

Then Anne saw what she had been longing for. Elizabeth stirred, and Jonathan quickly moved to her side.

He felt her brow and then looked into her eyes. “Jolly good. The fever broke an hour ago, Majesty. However, it shall take a few days before full strength returns.”

He patted her hand, then gathered his supplies. Anne rose, too, ready to help, when the queen motioned her over.

“Bold miss,” Elizabeth whispered.

Anne approached her bedside, curtsying quickly before bending to listen.

“Robin. How doth he fare?” the queen asked. “I am told thou didst spend much time at Kew. Didst thou have an opportunity to speak with him?”

“Yes, Majesty. We spoke several times.” Anne looked squarely into Elizabeth’s eyes, wondering how much truth this woman really wanted to hear. “Well, I think, uh, to be brutally honest...” Her voice faltered when Elizabeth’s eyebrows lifted.

“Honest?” the queen said, mulling the word. “Few are honest with me, and fewer still wouldst yearn for frank discussion. But
brutally
honest?” She smiled faintly. “Alas, the king’s curse is to be surrounded by toadying sycophants and arse-kissers, yet ’tis something I must bear. Now tell me of Robert. In all honesty, how fares he?”

Anne searched for the best way to describe Dudley’s state. “He worries, because he fears he has caused permanent injury to his queen, and that torments him. He also regrets his treatment of Lady Dudley and is taking her death hard. He understands why he must stay at Kew.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Aye, ’tis a cruel necessity.”

Anne hated what she had to say next. “He’s been drinking quite heavily. My husband advised his sisters to hide all strong drink. Lady Mary agreed and––”

“Nay, that will not do. ’Twas much the same when his son died. My Robin drowned his sorrow day after day. When he was cut off from his cups, he prowled the house day and night and finally found perfume instead.”

“Oh, how awful.”

“Indeed. He became violently ill after imbibing it. I believe his present drunkenness should be allowed to run a natural course.” The queen turned. “Lettice, send a note to Mary Sidney to hide the perfume and let the man drink. My Robin will cease this madness once he gets drunk enough, or tires of grieving.”

Elizabeth grasped Anne’s hand. “He doth esteem thee and thy good husband highly, as do I. I thank thee for thy excellent skills and brave candor.”

Anne nodded.

The queen released Anne and relaxed back into her pillows, just as Jonathan approached the bed. “Majesty,” he said, “Lady Ashley hath been given instructions and will take over for me now. Sleep as much as possible, as time and rest will be the surest cure.”

“Doctor, once again, I—and mine own head—are in thy debt. The royal barge shalt be placed at your disposal. Go home peacefully by the river, you two, and be blessed in your homecoming.”

…

Several minutes later, a liveried footman led Anne and Jonathan outside to a large terrace. Anne breathed in the night air, brisk and sweet from recent rain. She took her husband’s hand and together they walked down the stairs. A torch-lit path of crushed oyster shells cut a pearly swath through the velvet-dark lawn.

They strolled in silence toward the Thames, where the royal vessel was moored. The exterior was built of thick, sturdy planks, yet detailed with paler, more lustrous wood. A beautiful cabin stood at its center, the windows covered with rich tapestries, while brightly lit storm lanterns ran around its perimeter. The result was a glorious mix of light and dark, of richness and practicality, a cross between a modern party boat and the royal barge of the fabled Cleopatra.

Anne smiled. “Wow. What I wouldn’t give to have this for a weekend on Chesapeake Bay.”

Jonathan nodded and followed as the white-haired barge master took Anne’s hand and helped her over the short gangplank. Moments later, the barge slid away from the dock.

A soft
whoosh
of current. The black waters of the Thames flickered with swirls of silvery foam. Anne stared at the twinkling lights of Windsor Castle slowly receding in the distance. The air was colder on the river and damp, the clouds low, threatening a storm. Shivering, she moved under a canopied shelter, wishing she had her cape, but it was on its way to St. Bart’s with the rest of their luggage.

“Darling?” Jonathan’s arms encircled her shoulders, enveloping her with his warmth. “The steward told me the settee in the queen’s cabin has been made available. There’s also mulled wine and food. The servants will have everything ready in a bit.”

Anne yawned. “I’m so tired. I just want to sleep.”

“I know, sweetheart.” His lips brushed her hair, and they stood there for a long moment, content with the silence.

A sudden whiff of potpourri filled the air. Anne looked back as a deckhand sprinkled something into a brazier. The dank river odors vanished, replaced by the smell of sweet herbs. She nestled against Jonathan once more.

As the barge moved deeper into the countryside, Anne watched as sky, shoreline, and river all blended to black. No electricity, no reflection of city lights in the clouds. A world lit by flame alone. A different world.

“It’s so quiet,” Jonathan said.

“I keep expecting to hear traffic or planes.”

“That’s something I don’t miss. I hope I never hear the whine and buzz of the doodle bugs again.”

“The what?”

“Pardon me. The Yanks called them buzz bombs. They made a noise I’ll never forget.”

She nodded. “You’ve never talked about the war.”

He heaved a sigh. After a moment, he said, “I was in the south of England for the greater part of the war, although I was due to ship out to France after the D-Day invasion. At the time, we had no idea when that would be, of course, because the invasion day was kept top secret. One evening, our base hospital was bombed, and I received a badly broken arm and the gash to my face. I was in hospital for nearly two weeks, then rehabilitation for many months. It was dreadful for me to be the patient, not the doctor.”

“I can imagine.”

“Yes, well, my recuperation began a few months before D-Day, and I spent the duration of the war in England. The Jerries continued their assault on us right up to the end, the Luftwaffe bombing as they always had, but then the bastards started launching their new V-2 rockets at London. They came in faster than the speed of sound, so fast you couldn’t hear them coming. There was nothing to do but sit in the shelters all night long, waiting for death. Thousands were killed in those last months before VE Day, you know, including my mother. In her case, it was one of the old bombs, dropped from a plane. Perhaps one of the last to fall before the Jerries began to send the V-2s.”

“Oh, Jonathan, I’m so sorry.”

“That was how I met your grandmother, actually. She was at Mum’s funeral—they worked in the Women’s Voluntary Service together. They were bicycling home and just after they separated, the bomb hit.” He cleared his throat. “There was nothing left of my mother, no body, only an empty coffin at the funeral. She simply disappeared.”

“Oh, how awful! I’m so sorry.” She turned and looked into his eyes, seeing his pain. “Grandma never told me.”

“It was difficult. I believe my father got it spot on, though. He said Mum was looking down from heaven, glad to see something good came from her death—Catherine and me.” He hugged her. “But now, my darling, I believe it was much more complicated. Providence brought you to me through that fatal night, to a point in my life I could never have imagined, and when I most needed you.”

Anne gently rubbed her cheek against the hand resting on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Jonathan. What was your mother’s name?”

“Rose,” he whispered. “Her name was Rose Dudley Brandon.”

Gasping, Anne drew back and looked at him. “Dudley? Are you related to—do you realize what a coincidence that would be?”

“I know, I know,” he replied, “but I’ve no idea who my ancestors are.”