The Thornless Rose (34 page)

“Jonathan,” the bishop broke in with a steady, commanding voice. “We must leave.” He turned to Mary. “Be a good lass and leave us a moment. See that Bob and Alice are well away.”

“Quickly now, Mary,” Jonathan added as he stuffed the food and drink into the saddlebags.

Tearfully, she looked from one man to the other, then finally to Anne. “Mistress Brandon,” she said, “please take care o’ the good doctor an’ our bishop.”

“Of course, Mary.” Anne’s eyes welled as the woman hurried from the room.

Then Jonathan took Anne’s arm and steered her toward the rear door. “Annie, Bishop Wright is going to take us somewhere safe. Let’s go.”

His gaze was protective, reassuring, and the look in his eyes gave her the strength to go on.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

They left St. Bart’s through the stable yard gate. The misty night made the sounds of the horses’ hoofs and the wagon wheels echo off the surrounding walls.

Anne peered about, wary of any movement or sound. She lifted her chin, felt a gentle, vaporous spatter, then drew her hood well down over her face.

Jonathan halted the team after they cleared the gate.

“Which way?” she asked nervously.

“Bishop?” Jonathan held the reins firmly, keeping the restless horses in check.

“Left.”

With a flick of leather, they were off. Sitting between them in the wagon, the bishop gave no more verbal direction, only nodding when a turn was needed. Anne tried to make out street signs in the gloom. Lindsey, Cowcross, St. John’s. She could tell from the obvious switchbacks he was not taking a direct line to their destination, wherever that was.

After what seemed like hours of fear and plodding, they passed a small road sign that read “Bastwick’s” and soon drew up to a dark and shuttered storefront.

A sculpted shoe hung over the door. It was a cobbler’s shop.

…

Despite the cold and damp, Will was drenched in sweat as he sidled along the building across the street from the cobbler’s. He had originally started after Alice and her male companion, but changed his plans when he heard them speak.

“C’mon, Alice,” the man had demanded.

“Ain’t the doctor an’ Anne comin’ with us?”

“Nay. They’ll be leavin’ by t’other gate an’ goin’ somewhere secret.”

Upon hearing that, Will had spun on his heel and raced toward the stable gate, arriving just as a wagon pulled out. Although it was dark, he’d heard a lady’s voice, a lovely, halting whisper, and instantly recognized the source—the beautiful she-devil, Anne.

“Which way?” she asked her companions.

Will had set off after her, single-minded in his determination to follow, hoping that before the night was through, he would get what he had desired since first sighting her in Southwark.

“Take my hand, darling.”

The man’s voice caused Will to halt in his tracks, and he watched as the driver sprang from the wagon. Pressing back into the shadows, he listened, licking his lips, unable to take his eyes off the beautiful witch-woman as she was helped down.

…

Anne waited while Jonathan assisted Bishop Wright from the wagon and then followed them to the cobbler’s front step. The bishop tapped the door lightly with his cane, paused a few moments, then tapped again. No lights appeared, but Anne heard the hinges creak.

A darker outline framed the doorway. “Wha’ business?” a deep voice whispered.

“We’ve a small family as needs shoes,” the bishop offered.

“We’re no’ open. Come back at cock crow.”

“By the Grace and Mercy of the Holy Mother, these people need shoes,” Bishop Wright persisted.

The man hesitated, then uttered a single word. “Aye.”

The door opened fully, and all three pushed back their hoods and passed into the dark interior. Keeping their hands on the backs of those in front, they made their way through the tiny shop and into a rear room.

The man stopped and Anne heard him pound his boot twice, pause, then stomp twice more before flinging back a rug and lifting a hatch door. Feeble light shone from below, and she could make out a ladder and plank floor. Bishop Wright handed his cane to Jonathan and then descended.

Anne and Jonathan followed closely behind. Halfway down, she tried to catch a glimpse of their guide, but he drew back, keeping his face out of the light. The hatch closed over her head, and she could hear the sound of the rug being shifted back into position.

When she reached the bottom rung, she felt Jonathan’s hands on her waist. He helped her down, and she leaned against him. “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

“I know, Annie.” He pulled her close.

“Come, Doctor, Anne, quickly.”

They drew apart as Bishop Wright took a bit of candle from a notch in the brick wall. He led them down a narrow corridor flanked with shelves of dusty cobbler’s tools, then beyond, into an open area lit by several candles.

In a small alcove, a man knelt in prayer before a crucifix. A monk, Anne realized. Though he wasn’t tonsured, his identity was unmistakable. For the simple length of rope belting his dark, hooded robe, for the rosary in his hands, for the cross with the crucified Christ—Protestants used a simple one, with no attached figure.

Making the sign of the cross, the monk rose and faced them. He was young, his face vaguely familiar. But where could she have seen him?
Where...?

Anne cried out, stumbling backward.
The monk from the Abbey!

“
Quare me repulisti, Deus?
” the monk shouted at the same moment and braced himself as if to lunge.

Jonathan protectively stepped in front of Anne. “What the devil?”

Bishop Wright rushed forward, holding his cane before the monk and grabbing his robe, pulling him back as he raised a fist at Anne.

“Whore of Babylon!” the monk seethed. “How hast thou found me, pursued me?”

“Brother Daniel,” Anne croaked, staring in disbelief.

“Anne?” Jonathan asked, confused. “How do you know this man?”

“I... I––”

“Vile whore, thou may hide thy shame in a cloak of dignity, but I know thee to be filth!”

“Brother Daniel, cease this at once,” Bishop Wright shouted. “For shame! Thou must not judge someone unknown to thee. She is nothing like what you accuse.”

The monk turned on the bishop. “Why didst thou bring her hither, Father? Why?”

“Because Mistress Anne is the good wife of my friend, Dr. Brandon. Please, my son, thou must cease this behavior and control thyself.” Wright loosened his grip, then shakily lowered himself onto a stool. “They are true friends and in deepest need of thine aid.”

The monk glowered.

“Anne?” Jonathan asked, turning to face her. “What is this about?”

“We met at Westminster. When I was searching for information about you, er, about your disappearance, I went to the Crook and then to the Abbey. I was about to walk past Elizabeth’s tomb, but then it just wasn’t there.” She eyed the monk. “Brother Daniel was there, instead, praying with some others. When he saw me, he acted pretty much like he did just now—off his head.”

Anne saw Daniel nod in agreement.

The bishop frowned at the monk. “I was never told about this incident. I wouldst have confided that thou met someone from the future.”

“What?” It was Daniel’s turn to look dumbfounded. “The future? How can it be? How? Nay, nay, it cannot be!”

Vividly recalling the conversation with her grandmother’s housekeeper, Anne blurted out, “The veil between two worlds. Trudy said there were places where you can travel through time if you find the right spot, places where the Druids worshiped long ago. It’s true, because I passed through a couple of times before I was caught here.”

Brother Daniel took a step back and made the sign of the cross. “
Never
have I consorted with Druids.”

“We know, Brother,” Wright said calmly. “Mistress Brandon hath told thee she was the one who passed through the veil.”

The monk swallowed, visibly shaken. “The veil... I must confess, aye, I once felt this veil, er, a wall give way and saw mine own body fade.”

“What?” Anne asked. “When?”

“’Twas after I saw thee, woman, after Vespers, mayhap twelve month past. I found mine own self confronted by many other sons and daughters of Sodom, in all manner of undress, like thyself. I shouted to them. ‘For shame,’ I said. ‘For shame! Thou art in the House of Our Lord and thou art naked!’ Upon hearing their mocking laughter, I turned to flee them and felt my body fade anew.”

Anne froze as memories, hazier memories, crowded into her mind. “Oh, no!”

“What is it?” Jonathan took her by the arms. The intensity of his gaze held her, willed her to carry on with her thoughts.

“There was another story,” she said. “I heard a tour guide in Westminster that day. His story sounded exactly like mine except, except the monk came through to the
modern
Abbey—in the seventies—not the other way around.”

Anne could feel her husband’s grip tighten and he whispered, “You’re saying there’s a chance the effect may be directional, that Brother Daniel may know of a place within the Abbey that goes toward the future?”

She felt wobbly, weak with hope. “Maybe.”

Jonathan looked at Bishop Wright. “We need to go to Westminster.”

…

As they left the cobbler’s shop, Anne thought about the veil between two worlds. Could she and Jonathan possibly find their way back to modern London before morning? The tour guide at the Abbey had only generally indicated where the event occurred. But Brother Daniel had been there. Could he remember where he passed through? Could he help them find the exact spot that would take them home? They needed to escape. Their lives depended on it.

Anne’s mind was in turmoil as she climbed back into the wagon, the misty air thick and dripping. Where was Norfolk now? Was he lying in wait for them at the queen’s bedside, or had he headed straight to St. Bart’s?

Insisting Daniel accompany them to Westminster, Bishop Wright assured him God’s hand was guiding their efforts. Wearing a cloak to disguise his habit, Daniel sat beside him in the rear of the wagon, waiting as Jonathan took his seat.

Anne noticed her husband’s deep frown and knew he must have been worrying about the same things.

Jonathan flicked the reins and the wagon lurched forward. The heavy mist turned to rain as they pulled away from the cobbler’s shop.

Anne kept her head down. Wringing her hands, clasping and unclasping her knees, she couldn’t suppress the tension knotting her stomach. Where would the time travel take them? To Jonathan’s time? Hers? Daniel had shown up in the 1970s. Was there a choice, or would they all separate once they’d left this time? No, it couldn’t happen that way. Anne vowed to hold Jonathan so tight nothing could part them.

Blowing on her cold hands, she tried to divert her mind, then stared horrorstruck at her empty finger. “My ring! My wedding ring! It’s gone, I—I... Oh, I left it in your office.”

“Hush, Annie.” Jonathan put his arm around her shoulders.

Anne pushed away from him, unable to control her nerves any longer. “We have to go back. We have to!”

“No, we can’t go back. You know we can’t.” He paused, then added gently, “I’ll buy you another, darling.”

“It won’t be the same.” Anne’s tears mingled with the rain as she stared at the empty spot on her finger. “It’s like we’re not married.”

“Annie,” he said consolingly, “we’ll always be married. Always.”

She looked up at him and saw the love in his gaze. There would be no going back to their separate lives, wherever they ended up, in whatever time. No matter what, they would be together.

Finally, slowly, she gathered her strength and looked about. Voice barely audible, she asked, “Aren’t we taking the bridge?”

“No, we’ll take the Strand to Westminster,” Jonathan said. “If what Alice said is true and the queen has been poisoned, then her guard will be riding in from Windsor via London Bridge.”

“But, what if someone on the Strand recognizes us?”

“It’s very late. Few will be looking.” Grim-faced, her husband glanced back at the clergymen. “Pray, you two. Pray they don’t.”

They rode on. London was silent and deserted, with only a handful of shuttered windows showing broken slats, hints of candlelight from within. Anne dared not look openly at her surroundings and instead listened for any sign of pursuit, but the only sounds she could hear were her own ragged breathing and pounding heart.

Brother Daniel touched Anne on the shoulder, then whispered in her ear, “Please, tell me, Mistress Brandon, in your time are Catholics still hounded and rooted out, as they are today?”

Anne considered his words for a moment. Poor man, he lived in terror. A daily fear for his life, for his faith. She turned. “No, Brother Daniel. People can worship however they want, and the Catholic Church is very strong.”

Daniel nodded and then fell silent again.

After a time, they reached the Strand. The Queen’s Chapel of the Savoy, Exeter House, and Durham Place—they passed them all without incident. The Hastings’s mansion neared, and Anne saw it was shuttered tightly, quiet and dark. Had Bob and Alice gotten there yet? Were they already closeted with the Hastings somewhere deep inside? She grasped her husband’s arm, but he looked straight ahead, not revealing his thoughts.

The Holbein Gate at Whitehall Palace loomed up and guards could be seen. But their wagon was ignored, the guards unmoved by such an ordinary sight. The King Street Gatehouse neared. More guards. Anne held her breath as they passed. She glanced furtively at the soldiers. No reaction.

Finally, they were beyond the palace guards. Anne sighed in relief. As if in response, the rain let up slightly, and she dared to sit a little taller.

The Abbey lay just ahead.

…

Westminster. Westminster
. Will flapped his arms, trying to ward off the cold.
The wagon driver said the queen’s been poisoned, an’ the witch-woman must be headin’ fer Holy Sanctuary. Aye, that’s it. She must’ve done the evil deed if she’s runnin’ t’ the Abbey.

He raced back toward London town, bent on finding Geoff Bly and delivering the news.

Cursed be
, he thought as he neared St. Bart’s, rubber-legged and gasping.
If only Jack were here, I’d send him on t’ the Stews
––

His thoughts swerved as he spotted a brace of horses outside the main gate. “Dawkins!” a deep voice suddenly boomed.

Will ground to a halt as the hulking figure of the duke’s man loomed in the torchlight.

“Scurvy runt!” Bly snarled. “I ordered thee t’ watch the hospital!”

“Jesus!” Will squealed as he stumbled backward, away from the man’s bunched fists, big as York hams. “I’ve been followin’ the witch-woman! Where’s the duke? I know where she an’ the doctor ran off to.”

There was a sudden spark in Bly’s gaze, and he motioned Dawkins forward. “Come. His Grace is inside askin’ questions.”