The Thornless Rose (41 page)

“Yes, he has. The bishop––”

“Aye!” Dudley angrily thumped his fist against the sill. “I pledge to thee, Anne, that I shalt watch Norfolk, and Lopez as well, for methinks he had a hand in this.”

“He may have. He certainly hates Jonathan.”

“I shalt watch both and wait.”

“Why can’t you just arrest them?”

“There is no proof of villainy, and, besides, Norfolk holds great power. His Grace couldst wreak havoc upon this realm if we so threaten. He commands all the men on his lands and wouldst have an army of five thousand at his beck and call in but a few days. Even the queen wouldst be sore travailed getting so many men to arms in so brief a time.”

“I didn’t realize he was so powerful.”

Dudley nodded. “Instead, we must do something to elevate thy husband’s standing, give him a measure of his own power, so Norfolk willst think twice before trodding upon him like one of the lumpen. ’Tis not a surety, even so, but ’twill help. As soon as my lady,” he gave Elizabeth a loving glance, “hath recovered sufficiently, I shalt request she bestow upon him a knighthood, or perhaps a baronetcy.”

Anne gasped. “Jonathan? Knighted?”

“Aye,” Dudley said. “Keep this ’twixt us, please, ’til I have all arranged.”

She nodded and smiled, feeling excited. “Jonathan might get a swelled head over this one.”

Dudley stroked his beard, eyes twinkling. “Aye. Sir Jonathan Brandon, and Lady Anne, I might add. That has a fine ring to it, does it not, my dear?”

…

Anne started out of a sound sleep, wrenched awake by a sound—a
thud
? —followed by a grumble. “Sodding boot.”

She opened her eyes. The candles burned low about the room. Jonathan sat on the settee, reaching for one of his boots. Their eyes met. Did he look a little better, she wondered, more like his old self?

“Bloody hell, I’m sorry, Anne. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She smiled at the sound of renewed strength in his voice.

He pulled on the boot, got to his feet, and motioned for Anne’s hands. As he pulled her up, he flinched, gasped, and let go.

She dropped back to the sofa, staring at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m rather sore, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

The bruises on his neck looked black in the candlelight. It tore at her heart to see him in pain. “Please take it easy today, Jonathan.”

“Right, but I must see to Her Majesty still. However, I’ll let her sleep a trifle longer.”

Across the room, Elizabeth lay peacefully. Dudley slept, too, sprawled on a couch by the side of the royal bed.

Jonathan rubbed his scruffy beard. “Do you know if there’s any place where I might bathe?”

Anne smiled. “I know just the spot. The Hastings got back hours ago. They brought everything and set up a room for us. By the way, Lord Henry’s not too happy about the leeches. You owe him.”

A footman showed them to their quarters. To Anne’s delight, the room was large and comfortable, with a big bed perfect for her husband’s long limbs. Two high back chairs and a copper tub rested in front of the fireplace. On a table, she found their clothes, food, coffee, strongbox—and a bar of Castile soap.

Anne laughed. “Mary must have sent the coffee and soap. You’ll have to give her a raise, you know.” She picked up the bar. “Poor thing, I bet she’s beside herself if she actually
wants
us to bathe.”

Serving girls arrived, hauling buckets of hot water. Once the tub was filled and the fire lit, they left, and Anne made a move to help Jonathan out of his ragged things.

“Wait a moment, darling. Come here,” he said, enfolding her in his arms.

She returned his embrace gently, not wanting to hurt him.

“Do you realize,” he whispered, “we’ve not been alone since we worked with the bilberries. I never thought I’d see—” His voice caught.

She buried her face in his chest. The enormity of everything they had been through hit her, and tears pricked at her eyelids. Her grasp tightened, attempting to reassure and strengthen him, while she desperately resisted the urge to sob; she knew if she started, neither one of them would be able to stop.

He pulled back and studied her face. “I must truly reek if I’m bringing tears to your eyes. Let’s see to that bath.”

She laughed as he kissed her and then watched him unlace his shirt. When it came off, she stared at him in horror—his torso was covered with bruises, some as angry looking as the ones on his neck. “What—they beat you? I thought the queen refused to allow torture.”

“Looks like I got a good rodding, doesn’t it?” He slipped out of the rest of his clothes. “But it wasn’t the warders. It was Norfolk. He paid me a visit yesterday, just before I was hauled off to Tower Hill. Condemned prisoner, you know. At that point, no one really cared what was done to me, and he was sure I wouldn’t live to hold it against him.”

A furious knot burned in her chest, overwhelming hatred for Norfolk mingled with her distress. “I cared, Jonathan.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I cared.”

“I know, darling.” He touched her face, wiping away her tears. “You’re so strong. You’ve been through so much.”

Anne felt his trembling fingers and fought to keep her emotions in check. She helped him into the tub, watching as he gingerly lowered himself into the water. She knelt and sponged hot water over his shoulders, hoping it would work a little bit of magic on his battered body.

He closed his eyes. “I got to him, though.”

“What?”

“I told Norfolk I knew when and how he would die, but when he tried to force me to reveal the date and method, I refused to answer.”

“Oh, good! That’ll drive him crazy.”

He nodded. “In truth, I’m not exactly sure how it’s supposed to happen, but the book says he’ll be executed in 1572. No surprise, that. Unfortunately, it doesn’t describe the method used.”

“You know what I hope?”

His mouth twisted ever so slightly as he opened his eyes and stared into space. “Precisely, yes,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Anne took up the soap and tentatively touched it to his chest.

He caught her wrist. “No, I’m too bloody sore. Just let me sit here. I’ll see to it myself, a bit later.”

Nodding, Anne sat back and watched him.

“Hate is a terrible emotion, vengeance even worse.” His expression became haunted, distant, as if he were now wholly lost in his memories. “But after I was freed, I went after Norfolk—for your ring. I hit him, laid him out flat. I may have broken his jaw. I hope I did, God help me, I hope I ruined his face!” His own jaw clenched. “I... I bloody well wanted to kill him.”

The tendons along his neck and arms stood out, his eyes blazing with hatred.

“Jon, don’t do this. Dudley promised he’d handle the duke. We have his sworn protection.”

“Bloody lot of good that’s done us. Damn it!” He hit the rim of the tub with his fist. “I should have killed Norfolk when I had the chance. He’s still a threat to you. He lusts after you.”

She swallowed.

“I’m your husband! You’re carrying my child. It’s up to me. My duty. Not Dudley’s.”

“Yes, but you can’t kill a duke and get away with it. It’ll always be considered murder and not self-defense. They’d never let it go and then you’d be gone again, and you can’t—you can’t! Please, Jonathan, trust Dudley.”

“If you’ll recall, the last time we had Dudley’s sworn protection I was nearly...” He shuddered. “I keep thinking about it. A minute more, Anne, a minute more and I would have been castrated and then eviscerated.”

“Jon, please!”

“Can you imagine? What if Dudley and Henry hadn’t come at all? Or arrived just after I’d been castrated? What kind of man...? Jesus!”

She felt numb. His wounds, his pain ran deeper than flesh. The thought of all Norfolk had done to this man, her good, decent, wonderful husband, made the knot in her chest rise until it caught in her throat, strangling her with fury.

Hate churned within her.
Someday, somehow
, she vowed,
I’ll get
my
revenge.

She bent over the rim of the tub and embraced him. “It’s all right, Jonathan. Please,” she said, choking back her venomous thoughts. “Let it go. I love you. I’ll never leave your side, I promise. I love you.”

…

An hour later, the tub had been emptied and refilled, and Anne sat quietly in her bath. Jonathan had already gone, intent on checking the queen, then having a barber-surgeon trim his hair.

Striving to relax, she thought back to their last conversation. Despite his mood, she had attempted to coax a smile from him before he left.

“You look very sexy with a beard,” she’d said, running a finger along his jaw line. “Just don’t let Lopez do the shaving. His razor might slip.”

But he hadn’t smiled. She sighed, gaze traveling from wedding ring to belly. “We have too much to be happy about, Jonathan. You have to let it go.”

She shook her head, fists clenched, as an image of Norfolk’s hated face rose in her mind.
I need to let it go, too
, she admitted.
At least for now
.

…

When Jonathan returned, Anne was dressed and sitting by the fire finishing a cup of mint tea, the scattered remains of a light meal on the table next to her.

He crossed the room without comment, poured himself a mug of coffee, quickly chewed on a piece of bacon, and then slapped several more slices between two pieces of bread.

Anne smiled, admiring his well-trimmed beard. “Oo, I like it.”

He sat down, placing his mug and bacon sandwich on the small table between them. He rubbed his face. “I’m not sure I do. It’s itchy, and I rather look like my grandfather.”

She studied his eyes, hoping for a glint of humor, but there was none. “He must have been a very handsome man.”

“Yes, well...” A silence rose between them as Jonathan frowned, then took a huge bite of the sandwich.

“So, how’s Elizabeth?” Anne switched the subject.

“She has a slight fever,” he said through the mouthful. “I’ll have to keep an eye on that. Otherwise, she’s fine.” He paused, swallowing, then added quietly, “I am not looking forward to removing the gauze, however.”

“Why?”

“The few times I’ve done it, the woman has screamed blue-bloody murder. One told me it hurt her worse than childbirth.”

“Can’t you give the queen something for the pain?”

“No, she’s still too weak. Besides, it doesn’t take long. Not worth the aftereffects of a sedative.”

“When are you planning to do it?”

“Tonight,” he replied with a half-hearted sigh. “It might help if you were there. Would you like to hold her hand? Though I warn you, she may just wrench it off.”

“O—okay,” she said. “Yes, I’d like to help.”

His brow furrowed. “That reminds me... Where is the key? I’ll need to have the penicillin out of the strongbox today, just in case.”

Anne rummaged in her pocket. “Here it is.” Then her curiosity got the best of her. “Would you mind if I took a look inside?”

“Not at all.”

To her surprise, she trembled as she unlocked the box. She gave him the penicillin, then ran her hands through the rest of the contents. Pushing aside her personal things, Anne touched her husband’s leather wallet, his wristwatch, war medals, and several gold buttons. She picked up a button engraved with an eagle and crown. It fell open, revealing a tiny compass inside.

“Cool.” Anne glanced at Jonathan. “Is this from your RAF uniform?”

He nodded. “After the bishop took me in, I’m afraid I was obliged to burn the suit. Raised too many eyebrows, that.”

“I can imagine.”

“But I kept a few things, anyway. Silly bits of sentiment.”

“Not silly at all.” Opening the wallet, she found his military identification card, a ration card for petrol, and several British pound notes with King George’s portrait, circa 1945.

Anne looked up. “This stuff could be dangerous, Jonathan.”

“That’s why it’s locked up.”

She smiled. A photograph of her grandmother, standing before the domes and minarets of Brighton’s Royal Pavilion, slid from behind his ID card. Although she had never seen this particular photo, she recognized Catherine’s utility suit and knew it must have been taken on the engagement trip.

Tenderly, she touched the picture. Memories of the future, visions of what had already happened, of things that
would
happen to her grandmother in another four hundred years, whirled in Anne’s mind, a never-ending jumble of thoughts and emotions.

“I’ve never told you this, Jonathan, but I saw you at the Abbey before I left my own time. It was when you were going to help Bishop Wright. You kissed me and told me you loved me and I think that’s when I fell in love with you.”

She looked up and smiled, surprised to see the startled look on his face.

“I remember,” he said. “My God, you were wearing modern clothes—I never thought of it until now. I held you and then you disappeared in my arms. I thought it was the monk’s doing. I thought you were gone forever.”

Anne nodded, remembering. “I’ll never leave you, my love.”

“Nor I, darling. I am yours forever.”

They gazed at each other for a moment, then Anne shifted his things back to their original spot in the box. Her fingers made contact with the Tudor history book. In a heartbeat, she was back on the bed thumbing through the pages.

The book fell open to a leather place mark. A sentence was underlined in ink:
Old St. Paul’s was struck by lightning on 4 June, 1561
.

“You’re kidding me,” Anne said. “Grandma told me about the steeple being destroyed, but I didn’t realize it happened on your birthday.”

Jonathan nodded. “I was born on the 350
th
anniversary, to be exact. My mum always teased me about it. Apparently I came out howling at the very moment fireworks were going off all ’round London.”

“But why did you highlight this?” she asked.

“It was the bishop’s idea, actually. If you and I had been killed, the lightning strike would still prove unequivocally to the Hastings we had told the truth. Even if the history written in the book changed because we’d been here, that one event would have happened, er, will happen.”