The Thornless Rose (33 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

It was late afternoon when Norfolk slid from his charger, handed the reins to a stable boy, and strolled toward The Fighting Cock. Nell stood at the door, her fawning, gap-toothed smile a study in false politeness.

Yet, her eyes revealed her true nature, glittering as they were with avarice and unbridled cunning.
Just my sort o’ wench
, Norfolk mused as he tipped his hat in her direction.
Aye, Nellie Trent, thou art the bitch o’ bitches, and a sinworm t’ boot. ’Twill be a black day in heaven afore I find another such as thee
.

His mood was surprisingly light, despite the fact Robert Dudley had slipped through his fingers. He guessed it was just a matter of time before the bastard’s head was on the chopping block.

And as for the Brandons...

Norfolk began to whistle, which made Nell smile even more.

“Good eve, my lord. Thy man Bly has been here fer nigh on three days, waitin’ fer thee. He’s out an’ about jes now, though, gettin’ a bit o’ air.”

“When he returneth hence, do inform him that I have arrived, and tell him to wait. Make certain no one disturbs me for the next two hours.” He glanced through the door, at the stairwell. “Is Sheba about? Art thou still saving her for me, as I requested?”

“For certs, my lord. No one hath touched her since thy last visit. Fresh as the daisy, she is, and still occupyin’ the same room.” Nell curtseyed, then turned to go.

“I’ve not said all, woman.”

She turned back, right eyebrow lifting. “Aye? Wot else will thee be needin’, sir?”

“I’m fearfully thirsty. See that a jug of ale is brought at once to Sheba’s room.”

“Aye, I shalt see t’ it.”

Nodding, Norfolk stepped inside. The tall whore—Alice, was it? —stood at the top of the landing, bending from the waist, fussing with a shoe buckle. She stopped and gaped at him, face paling as he took the steps toward her two at a time.

He swept past, feigning indifference, then glanced back to study her shapely rear, remembering how he had used her when she’d first arrived the year before.

Reaching out, he ran his hand across her buttocks. She jumped and glared at him, but he only grinned and moved on.

Stroking his beard, calculating, he thought,
Mayhap Bly wouldst like a taste o’ that.
He halted before Sheba’s door, raised his hand, and rapped hard. “Look alive, wench.”

“
Un momento, por favor
,” a muffled voice called from within.

Norfolk frowned, but forced his impatience aside. Turning, he watched Alice stalk past him, slamming the door of a neighboring room.
Still a pretty thing
, he decided,
but a bitch
. He was reminded of Geoff Bly’s most secret desire, to kill a whore after he’d finished with her.

Smiling, Norfolk rapped once more on Sheba’s door.
Why not?
Alice. ’Twill be Alice who dies.
A fitting reward for Bly
, he thought,
for all he hath accomplished
.

…

Norfolk’s heart beat slow and hard, the aftermath of climax. He paused to catch his breath and then rolled off Sheba, flopping back onto the bed, heaving a deep sigh of contentment.
Things are wondrous good
, he decided, groggy from sex and an abundance of ale.
Aye, indeed. Or mayhap too wondrous?

His eyes opened wide. Did this portend a calm before the storm?

He stared into Sheba’s eyes. “I am a’feared,” he said, surprised he could admit such a thing.

Sheba came up on her elbow and studied his face. “A’feared?” she repeated slowly, as if reluctant to say the word.

“I warrant you, ’tis a delight t’ be me at the moment, but I am a’feared that mine own good fortune shalt fade away.”

“Remember,
señor
, that I learnt from me mama the art o’ tellin’ what the future holds?”

“Aye, wench, and I beseech thee now. Tell me of mine own fate.”

“What’s it worth,
señor
?
”

Norfolk’s eyes narrowed at her cheek, but he felt desperate. “Gold,” he snapped. “Enough to buy thy way out of here.”

She stared back at him for a long moment, then sat up and nodded crisply. “I’ll be needin’ a chicken, a live chicken. An’ a sharp blade.”

…

With a languorous stretch, Alice Potter rubbed her eyes and rolled off the bed. She opened her door and headed down the hall, intent on getting a glass of wine, wondering if the cullies had started to assemble downstairs for the evening round.

A sudden commotion of flapping and squawking echoed through the wall.

Christ’s bedclothes, the vo-du!
Alice swiftly made the sign of the cross. Sheba had been warned about practicing her dark arts. There’d be hell to pay, and Nell would whip Sheba if she found out.

Then Alice recalled Norfolk was visiting Sheba. Was he still with her?

Alice placed her ear against Sheba’s door. She could just hear cadenced muttering through a bird’s squawks and clucks. Then Norfolk’s voice burst forth with shrill impatience, “So, we shalt fall to fisticuffs in future. What of it, wench? Tell me what happens after that! What of Brandon’s fate? Of Anne’s?”

Cripes!
Alice fell back, wide-eyed, then swiftly regained her courage and pressed her ear against the door once more. The squawking continued for a moment longer, followed by a screech, then silence.

“The blood is dark,
señor
!
Murder! Poison!” Sheba gave a banshee wail. “
¡Si, yo conozco, porque es verdad, verdad!
”
Yes, I know, because it’s true, true!

“Thou speaketh too loud!” Norfolk blared.

“Oh cursed be, cursed be. I... I see a bottle, blue as the Carib Sea. A draught o’ poison!” Sheba’s voice broke and she groaned, as if in agony. “His eyes—oh, such beautiful eyes—blue as his bottle. Brand... Brandon’s neck ’twill be stretched by a rope for poisonin’ the queen, but he’s innocent!”

Horrified, Alice backed away from the door.
Sweet Jesus, Dr. Brandon’s t’ hang? Oh, Lord! I don’t understand! What to do?

Her thoughts veered when a man suddenly shouted from the direction of the stairs, “What’s all this abou’?”

Alice stared into the dark gaze of the duke’s henchman. Rivulets of cold sweat ran from her breasts to her waist. “Bly, isn’t it? I... I was jes wondering,” she managed a shaky grin, “if His Grace would like another wench in bed wi’ him. I... I heard the French whores pair up fer a cullie, takin’ turns. ’Tis called
ménage à trois
.”

Bly took a moment to digest this, but then, to Alice’s relief, his eyes came to life and he smiled back, clearly intrigued. “Two wenches––?”

The door abruptly opened and Norfolk stood there, stark naked except for the feathered hat gaily cocked on his head. Alice ignored his sneer and looked past him, finding Sheba sitting cross-legged on the floor by the dead chicken. Knife in hand, her pink palms and dark arms were blood-spattered and plastered with stray feathers.

But it was the woman’s gaze that struck Alice hard, for it was vacant, dead, staring blankly into space.

Bly’s eyes went round upon seeing the gore, but Norfolk spoke affably to Alice, “The wench was good enough to slay a chicken for me. Methinks I’ll have Nell prepare it quickly, for I am rather famished.” He tipped his hat. “I wouldst imagine my man here is famished, too. And thou shalt be the dish he’s in need of, Sweet’ns.”

Sheba suddenly came to life and waved the blade in the air. “Alice, they mean t’ kill thee!
¡
Dios mio!
Run, run! Warn
Brandon
what they’re plannin’!”

Jesus save me!
Alice stood frozen. Bly and Norfolk simultaneously lunged at her, but she couldn’t move a muscle. The men collided with a
thud
, the impact knocking off the duke’s hat and soundly bashing him against the wall. He stood for a moment, shaking his head, muddled.

“Holy shyte!” Shocked, Bly watched as Norfolk slumped to the floor.

Alice immediately regained her wits and raced for the stairs. Bly grabbed at her but missed, swearing at his empty hands. He heaved himself after her, but then tripped over Norfolk’s motionless form and fell flat. “Curse thee, woman! Halt!”

Alice didn’t turn around to see what happened next, but she heard the banshee’s terrible keen soar again, then the sound of footfalls, grunts, and another violent thud.

Just as she reached the stairwell, Sheba called out, “Run, Alice, run! Never, ever come ba––”

The woman’s voice cut off neatly, cleanly, and Alice feared—oh God, how she feared! —Sheba was dead, dead, dead.

Alice stumbled, fell, slid down the steps. Two of Nell’s bullyboys leapt over her, heading upstairs. She staggered to her feet and then pushed past the drunken men loitering in the doorway.

Racing outside, desperate for an escape, she looked left, then right, then left again.
Smithfield.
Go to Smithfield
, she ordered herself.
Find Dr. Brandon! Find Anne!

Find Robert Hope!

She took off, weaving past horses, carts, and men, running down the road, moving as fast as she could.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The daily routine at St. Bart’s had quickly reestablished itself. Anne tried to find her place in the ebb and flow, but Mary would not allow her to help with the household chores, and Jenny seemed to disapprove of her caring for the ill and injured.

With nothing to do, Anne was thankful when Jonathan came up with an idea.

“I need help in my surgery, Annie. You could assist me with the preparation of my elixirs. I dare say it’s rather like working in the kitchen and not particularly glamorous, but come, I’ll show you around and then you may decide.”

Never a big fan of cooking, she reluctantly agreed to accompany him. They walked through the hushed hospital, candles in hand, before finally halting by a heavy oak door. Jonathan removed a ring of keys from his pocket, fiddled with the lock, and then held the door open for her.

Anne stepped inside, catching spicy-sweet aromas, straining to see beyond the perimeter of flickering flame. She could just make out row upon row of jar-filled shelves, groaning with all sorts of herbs and medicines. Beyond them stood cabinets holding a variety of medical instruments.

Jonathan followed, lighting a few tapers on a long, oak worktable. Anne found her way to a shelf and softly read some of the labels, written in her husband’s hand. “Rosemary, marshmallow, sage, castor bean, horehound, motherwort, rue.”

“You’re familiar with herbs?” he asked.

“Not really. What’s all this used for?” Anne replied, amazed by the variety and colors surrounding her.

“Hmm, just about anything. If it doesn’t cure, most of the lot will go a long way toward easing symptoms.” He pointed to a jar filled with dried leaves and golden flowers. “That, for example. Rue. It relieves the symptoms of rheumatism and may be used to inspire menstruation.”

Anne stared at the jar.

“Rue should be avoided by pregnant women, of course,” he went on, “else there could be grave consequences, perhaps miscarriage. Fortunately, one does not often see rheumatoid patients who are still able to conceive.”

Anne backed away from the shelf.
Okay,
I need to tell him I’m late by at least two weeks. No more avoiding this. Tonight, when we sit by the fire. Yes, I’ll tell him then.

“Come, Annie, I’ve something for you to do. I think you’ll find this task interesting.”

If it has anything to do with rue, then I’m outta here.

“You may help me prepare the last of the bilberries for Lord Henry’s elixir.”

Relieved he hadn’t noticed her edginess, she moved toward him.

He draped her with a leather apron. “Here,” he said, placing a mortar and pestle in front of her. “You’re my new bilberry masher.”

Anne grinned. She took off her delicate emerald ring, placed it on a shelf for safekeeping, and followed his directions. She was surprised at the pleasure derived from working at his elbow. Trying to match his expertise, she found herself laughing in delight at her purple-fingered clumsiness and at the prospect of learning how to make more complicated medicines.

“You’ve quite a knack for potions, m’lady,” Jonathan said, smiling at the stains on her hands.

Anne laughed and wiggled her fingers. “I love this, but I could sure use an electric blender. What a mess!”

“Indeed,” Jonathan replied, smile broadening. “A bit of a worry, that. Mary will think you’ve got into the medicinal libations.”

…

Will Dawkins hid in the shadows, trying to stifle a yawn as he watched the front gate of St. Bart’s. Wrapped in ill humor for having to take on this dreary, clammy watch alone, he grumbled curses against Jack Stubbs. The foul bellyache that had kept Jack abed and puking these last days seemed altogether more appealing than this rotten haunt.

He recalled when the duke’s man, Geoff Bly, had found him the other night at Nell’s, remembered how he was ordered to keep a close watch on the hospital and all comings and goings.

Thinking back, he shivered at the remembrance. “But Jack’s sick as a dog! I can’t watch by meself, day an’ night!”

“There’ll be hell t’ pay if thou plan t’ dodge this, maggot!” Bly had a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Hell t’ pay? May the devil blisterith thy soul, Geoff Bly. Thou art a fobbin’ yob!
Will’s fists bunched at the memory of Bly’s threat, but then an image of the thug’s beefy hands came to his mind, the huge fingers curling slightly in anticipation, as if eager to tear him apart.

He swallowed. A few drops of mist wetted his cheeks and he shivered in the dank air.
Cursed be
, he thought.
Cursed be
.

Suddenly, he heard footfalls on the cobbled street. Light, rapid steps. A woman.

Will grinned and made a quick decision to alleviate his boredom, then licked his lips in anticipation. He drew back against the wall just as a tall girl—a familiar girl—swept past.

Alice Potter?
he thought in amazement.
Wot’s she doin’ here?

…

Anne wiped her stained hands on her apron, then looked about the apothecary room. The bottles and jars seemed to hold secrets, magic, and lots of promise. “Jonathan, do you know anyone who’s a specialist, who could teach me about this?”

“Besides every housewife in London, d’you mean? Each has a favorite cure for whatever ailment––” Jonathan stopped as banging and yelling filtered through the walls.

“Doctor! Mistress Anne!” Mary’s tremulous wail rose above the clamor.

Anne and Jonathan hurried out the door and came face to face with the housekeeper, dressed only in her nightgown, hair loosely braided and flying about her face.

“Ye must come wi’ me!” Mary said. “A young woman, one Alice Potter, just come here frantic-like an’ cryin’, askin’ fer yer help.”

“Alice?” Anne exchanged a troubled glance with her husband.

“Bob was makin’ his rounds when she knocked at the gate,” Mary went on. “He’s in the great room wi’ her. She’s insistin’ on seein’ the two o’ you, straight away. She’s talkin’ murder, Doctor. Says someone’s been killed.”

“What?” Jonathan asked as Anne whispered, “Murder?”

After fumbling with his key ring, Jonathan locked the door and the three set off for the great room. When they arrived, Alice was in Bob’s arms, shaking, sobbing, a vision of hysteria.

“Doctor, Mistress Anne,” the girl wailed, “oh, Lord, Lord, he were talkin’ real loud an’ laughin’ wi’ Sheba—an’ doin’ the
vo-du
.”

“Voodoo?” Jonathan frowned. “Who in God’s name is practicing that?”

“’Twas Norfolk! Sheba’s been his whore for nigh on a month, an’ t’day they were doin’ the dark arts. Sheba said the queen’s been poisoned!”

Anne cried out, a grip of fear making her weak in the knees.

Jonathan started for the door. “I must go to Windsor. I may be able to help, if Her Majesty is still alive.”

“Nay, nay!” Alice shouted after him. “Sheba said she saw thee accused o’ the poisonin’.”

Jonathan spun around. “What?”

“Sheba said thou art t’ hang fer the crime, Doctor, but that ’twould be the fault o’ lies, all o’ it. Norfolk an’ his man know I heard what she said, an’ they might’ve murdert her besides! Lord, wot’ll we do?”

Anne stood gaping, stunned by the torrent of words.

“It’s begun,” Jonathan said, looking at her. “Norfolk’s making his move, although I’d never have guessed he’d use the queen to get to us. He’s probably on his way here now, but I’ll not turn tail and run.”

Anne found her voice. “No, we have to leave.”

“I’ve nothing to hide. I’ll face my accusers, whatever the cost.”

“An’ die!” Bob interjected. “Doctor, thine act o’ courage wouldst take down every poor soul here as well. We could hold out against Norfolk and whoever comes wi’ him fer a time, at least, but then what’d happen? Mistress Anne speaks the truth. Ye both must go.”

Jonathan kept looking at her, his gaze distant, unfocused, and she wondered if he had heard anything Bob said.

“He’s right,” Anne said. “We have to get out of sight until we can straighten this out.”

“Bloody hell.” Jonathan shook his head. “Bloody, fucking hell.”

“We need to go,” Anne persisted. “Maybe Lord Henry could––”

“No, not Henry. The bishop. He foresaw trouble such as this and already has a plan.” Jonathan’s eyes sparked as he settled on a course of action. “Bob, hitch the horses to the wagon and then bring my saddlebags to the surgery. Annie, gather your things, especially anything that mightn’t look good—you know what I mean. I’ll put them in the strongbox, but first I must find Bishop Wright.”

She started to go, but turned back when he said, “Anne, a moment. Get our cloaks, too. Jesus, what else do we need?”

“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “Go on. Go get the bishop.”

She saw unmasked worry, even panic in her husband’s eyes. As he dashed from the room, Anne turned to Mary, who covered her face, sobbing. Alice cried, too, although more quietly now as she followed Bob out the door.

“Mary,” Anne said, “please fix us some food. We’ll need ale, too, and boiled water for drinking. We could be in hiding for a long time.”

“But where’ll ye go?” Mary asked through her tears. “Whatever will ye do?”

So many questions, so many fears. Anne realized she had no idea what the next few minutes, let alone the coming hours, had in store for any of them. “I don’t know,” she whispered, then turned and ran from the room.

When Anne reached the Lady Chapel, her heart pounded with a throbbing rhythm, a roar of fear and menace in her ears. She grabbed their cloaks, then got her leather bag and dumped the contents onto the bed.
Lipstick…ball-point pen…antacids
. Anne’s hands swept through the jumble of odds and ends, looking for anything out of place.
Sunglasses…breath mints
.

She came upon the photo of Catherine and her at Covent Garden.
Oh, Grandma, Jonathan and I need help! If only I could talk to you!

Swallowing her fear, she threw her cape over her shoulders, then gathered her husband’s cloak and everything else into her apron and raced to the hospital. Passing by the great room, she was glad to see Mary once again in charge and packing a canvas sack with food, ale, and water skeins.

Anne tapped on the office door and entered. Bishop Wright stood with Jonathan by the table, examining something near the open strongbox. Her husband was already armed with his dagger, the bishop with his sword.

Jonathan nodded to her and scribbled something on a sheet of paper. She let everything fall out of her apron onto the tabletop and placed her incriminating items inside the box. Quickly, she closed the lid, then noticed the Tudor history book was lying on the table in front of the men. Startled, she wondered why Jonathan was so casual about it with the bishop.

She caught his eye and tilted her head toward it. “Jonathan?”

He followed her gaze. “Bishop Wright knows everything.”

“What?” Stunned, Anne looked from one man to the other. “When did you tell him?”

“Long before you arrived. We’ve had many conversations about time travel, actually.”

The bishop nodded. “’Tis true, child. The Lord works in mysterious ways. ’Tis a wonder sometimes just how mysterious, but we’ve no time to think on it just now.”

“Yes, well.” Jonathan picked up the book and pointed to a passage he’d flagged. “It says here Rodrigo Lopez was executed for attempting to poison the queen. Can you imagine?”

“You think Lopez is involved in this, too?” In her mind’s eye, Anne saw the Portuguese doctor’s sneer, and her shock turned to fury. What had that bastard done to Elizabeth? “When does it happen?” she asked.

“Years hence. Not until 1594.” Jonathan paused. “It also says he ran St. Bart’s, and he’s supposed to start as chief physician a few years from now.”

Anne gaped at him.

He nodded. “It seems my being here has changed the course of Lopez’s professional life, though not his true nature, which is selfish and conniving. It should not surprise us he’s in league with Norfolk.”

Opening the lid of the strongbox again, Jonathan placed the book inside and took out three small pouches and the switchblade. “Annie, here. Take these.” He gave her one of the pouches and the knife.

She hefted the pouch in her hand, felt the weight, and heard the soft clink of coins. After shoving it into a skirt pocket, she hid the switchblade in her cape.

A knock sounded on the door and Bob entered with the saddlebags. “I’ve hitched up the horses, Doctor. Is there aught else I can do ’round here?”

After locking the box, Jonathan gave a coin pouch to Bob. “Here, lad. Use this to help in keeping thee and Alice safe. But first, you two must go to the home of Lord Henry Hastings. Explain everything to him and his wife.” He sealed the letter and handed it to Bob. “Give this to Hastings—and no one else. Tell him to open it only if all seems lost.”

Anne stared at Jonathan, but he avoided her eyes. Dutifully, Bob placed the pouch and letter in his pocket.

“The strongbox goes to Lord Henry, too,” Jonathan added. “Take care of it. I’d rather it ended up at the bottom of the Thames, than see it fall into the wrong hands.”

“I understand, sir. What abou’ the key?”

“No key. Tell his lordship to destroy everything if something happens to us.”

“Aye, Doctor.” Bob picked up the heavy box and shuffled from the room.

Without another word, Jonathan placed the last coin pouch in his pocket, drew his cloak over his shoulders, and walked to the nearest shelf, dropping the key into a crock filled with leeches.

Anne grimaced. “Good idea. No one would dare look in there.”

“Come. We must go,” Bishop Wright urged as he retrieved his cloak and cane.

Jonathan gathered the saddlebags and his medical bag, then followed the others out and locked the door behind them. They found Mary in the great room.

“I’ve food here,” the housekeeper said, pointing to the table. “An’ some water an’ cof––”

Her voice broke off with a strangled sob, and Jonathan said, “Mary.” Anne watched as he took the woman by the shoulders and looked into her brimming eyes. “Mary dear, we’ll be gone a while, I expect,” he went on. “Take care of the hospital.” He reached into his pocket. “Here’s some coin and my keys. I trust thee to use the coin wisely. Thou shalt be able to buy whatever the household needs for a good while. If more is needed, ask Lord Hastings––”