The Thornless Rose (42 page)

“Next spring,” she added, “just around the time our baby is born.”

The life returned to his gaze, and he smiled for the first time in a long, long while.

She got off the bed, crossed to his side, and knelt before him. Placing her cheek against his knees, hugging his legs, she said, “Everything’s going to be okay now.”

He stroked her hair. “Indeed, darling,” he whispered. “We’re together again.”

Chapter Forty-Four

3 November, 1560.

Anne looked about the Hastings’s garden. The day was bitter-cold, but the sky gloriously clear and blue. Frost lay thick on everything, twinkling in the sun’s rays.

Beneath the bare limbs of the huge, sparkling yew tree, she and Jonathan huddled together with Henry and Cath, Mary Prentice, and the rest of the hospital staff. Everyone smiled and shivered, teeth chattering so loudly the noise could be heard from several feet away, as they witnessed the simple wedding of Robert Hope and Alice Potter.

Gratefully accepting the offer of the Hastings’s home for their ceremony, the couple had nevertheless insisted on going outside when the day turned out as it did. It was just too beautiful to be anywhere else.

To show her deep gratitude toward Alice and Bob, Anne ordered well-made garments as her wedding present to them both, then took extra care to see that Alice, especially, lacked for nothing. Every kirtle, every petticoat, farthingale, corset, and smock was copied in triplicate.

And the cape! Anne made certain Alice had a beautiful one, similar to her own, of dove-gray wool, with a lining of sky blue satin to match her eyes.

Clearing his throat, the cleric broke into her thoughts. “Dearly beloved...”

Jonathan put his arm over Anne’s shoulder and drew her in. The clergyman’s words billowed about in frosty puffs as Anne thought back to that morning, when Alice nearly drowned her with tears and thank yous.

When, triumphantly, Alice drew forth the one item she prized above all others, Anne, too, joined in the tears. She’d helped Alice lace up the vest her mother had embroidered for her in that other life, the one that held so many false dreams. Thankfully, with a well-placed word or two from Lord Henry, Bob had been able to retrieve the precious garment from The Fighting Cock.

Anne was glad Alice had something to remember her mother by.

And now for their honeymoon. Anne smiled, recalling their faces when the Hastings presented them with a week paid at a fine inn in the little town of Bath. It was a gift beyond imagining.

The cleric told Bob he might kiss his bride, then proclaimed, “Behold, husband and wife!”

Cheers filled the air, then the newlyweds approached the Brandons. Alice threw her arms around Anne’s neck. “We are in thy debt a thousand times!”

Anne smiled. “On the contrary, Alice, I’m in your debt for saving my life, twice.”

…

As the crowd toasted the new couple and warmed themselves around the giant hearth fire in the reception hall, Anne stole away.

Crossing the foyer, she looked about nervously and slipped inside Lord Henry’s library. Quickly moving to the shelf, she pulled out the Hastings’s Bible, placed it on the desk, then dug into her pocket to retrieve her pen.

Anne searched through the pages and found Jonathan’s secret note. Trembling, she put pen to paper.

Dear Grandma,

I know you will understand. Jonathan and I have made a life together. We are married and deeply in love. We’re expecting a baby in June 1561. I’ve never been happier!

Love to you, Mom, Dad, Trudy, Uncle Reggie, and everyone. Give Duffy a hug for me!

Anne Brandon

P.S. I hope you have purchased this Bible by now.

She exhaled, kissed the letter, and replaced it. “I know you’ll read this. I just know it.”

Anne hesitated at the shelf, giving the Bible a tender glance. She imagined her grandmother seeing the letter, her expression one of joy and profound relief.

“I love you, Grandma,” she whispered. “I’ll write again soon. I promise.”

…

The sun was near setting, the clouds gathering along the horizon. The wind had picked up, too, the air full of storm.

The Hope wedding had been long and joyful, but Anne was glad to finally see home. Studying Jonathan as they got out of the carriage, she worried about his slow recovery. Physically, he’d gained ground, but mentally he was still beyond her reach. Anne couldn’t think of anything other than time and patience that would heal those wounds.

A groom filling in for Bob admitted them to the hospital grounds. Jonathan halted, gripping Anne’s hand, making her stop, too.

“What is it?” she asked, following his gaze.

The priory graveyard.

The wind blew scattered leaves across the courtyard and about their feet. Anne looked at Jonathan. His eyes were fixed, vacant. “C’mon,” she urged gently. “You need to pay your respects.”

He followed her, but slowed noticeably as they neared the spot. The site was obvious; as yet, no grass had grown, the mounded earth still raw. Only a spent bouquet of wilted flowers rested on the grave.

Bishop Robert Josiah Wright. 1494—1560. A comfort and light to lost men, ever the Willing Servant of God
.

They stood together for many moments, neither speaking. Anne had to daub at her eyes several times, but Jonathan remained still as stone.

The wind howled through the branches overhead, spilling down over the courtyard walls and whipping Anne’s skirts against her ankles. Cold. Wet. Rain spattered the earth around them.

“We’d better get inside, Jonathan,” Anne whispered. “It’s almost dusk, and there’s a storm on the way. I can feel it.”

He nodded, but didn’t take his eyes off the headstone. He began to speak, but the words caught. Then, clearing his throat, he tried again. “He saw me through the worst of it, Anne. At first, I was utterly lost, but he found me, took me in, arranged for the position at the hospital.”

Anne squeezed his hand and then held it against her cheek. “I know, my love. I know he did. He was a wonderful man.”

“I could hardly function,” Jonathan continued. “I told him almost immediately—had to, or I wouldn’t have survived. I would have been found out. I didn’t know how to behave here. He just accepted it, then took the time, taught me things I needed to know, to cover, helped me without consideration for his own safety.”

A memory flashed into her mind, and Anne sucked in her breath. “I never paid him back. He loaned me money when I first got here, and I forgot to pay him back.”

“He would have refused it.” Jonathan sank to his knees before the headstone, running his fingers over the carved letters. His shoulders heaved and his chin sunk to his chest. Still clutching her hand, he cried out his pain, Anne crying with him.

“He died for us, Annie. He died for us!”

…

17 November, 1560.

The day had been long, beginning with Jonathan’s knighting in St. Stephen’s Chapel at the Palace of Westminster. It continued with celebrations at Whitehall, then a jousting tournament, feasting, and dancing to commemorate the second anniversary of the queen’s accession to the throne.

Anne yawned. The Lady Chapel felt snug, homey. The brazier in their bedroom glowed with heat, making the air in the ten-foot perimeter surrounding the bed warm and inviting. A storm had come in just after dusk. The howling, icy, mid-November winds kept the rest of the room in a constant state of chill.

A single candle glowed as Anne waited for her husband to finish his evening rounds.

Lying on the bed, wrapped comfortably in a green damask silk dressing gown, feet ensconced in her lamb’s wool slippers, Anne wrote in the journal she’d begun just after her husband’s pardon.

She’d given herself three rules when she took it up: one, never make any references to her life prior to the day of the Smithfield Fair, should somebody get hold of it; two, never reveal more than what she’d want to see copied in the
Sunday Times
, for the same reason; and three, write as though she were sending a letter home to her parents, to her grandmother, telling them what she was up to, her hopes, her dreams, her loves.

In this way, Anne knew she would keep the people of her past, of the distant future, fresh forever in her heart and mind.

She finished writing, then placed the journal and pen on the floor, and rested her chin on the edge of the bed. Letting her gaze wander about the room from chest to wash stand and on to her husband’s desk, she finally focused on his dagger, lying on top of his papers.

I wish I could write more of what I’ve seen, what I know
, Anne thought.
But Jonathan’s right—it could be found, maybe even by Norfolk, and used against people. That would certainly change the future.

She sighed and rolled onto her back, thinking of secrets shared, with Elizabeth, Dudley, and the Hastings. If they didn’t want certain things to be known, then her writing it anywhere, for anyone in any era to find, would be a betrayal of their trust. She simply couldn’t do that.

Anne drew up the bedcovers, letting her mind wander over the events both before and after her arrival in August. She still hadn’t given up on finding a way back home
—
with Jonathan. So far, Westminster was the only place they knew where people could travel forward in time. But they couldn’t follow Daniel; the tour guide said it was the 1970s when he appeared. It wouldn’t be home for either of them.

Even if they found a sure way to get back to her life, this wasn’t the time. Her hand crept to her belly, rubbing it, caressing it, willing her body to remain untroubled and undisturbed. She didn’t want anything to endanger their child.

Then, for the thousandth time, though Anne wanted desperately to forget, images of Elizabeth’s ordeal forced their way in. The flashbacks worried her, and she couldn’t pull her thoughts from the terrifying, tragic episode.

She thought about the raw hurt and disappointment still plaguing the queen after losing her baby. A tear trickled from the corner of Anne’s eye, across her cheek and into her ear, before moistening the pillow.

She glanced at the door, wishing Jonathan would come back. Despite his own weakness, he had insisted on remaining by the queen’s side after the D&C, looking for any indication he might need to use penicillin. Even when all seemed better, he’d still insisted on staying at Whitehall for several more days.

And then, there was the extracting of the gauze.

Anne shuddered and shifted onto her stomach. The pain Elizabeth had to endure was beyond description. The screams! Thank goodness her husband had insisted on evacuating the whole wing of the palace before beginning the procedure. Dudley and Burcot had been forced to hold her flailing arms and legs, and Dudley looked ready to strike Jonathan for the unavoidable agony he’d caused the queen.

“But she’s okay now, she’s okay,” Anne reminded herself, trying still to exorcise the visions. Clenching her teeth, she forced her mind to other images.

Today! Yes!
Today, Elizabeth seemed so happy. She stood before the world, knighting Jonathan Edward Brandon as though she’d just won the greatest campaign of her life, gorgeous in a shimmering, golden gown trimmed with ermine, jewels everywhere. When in truth, only weeks before and in deepest secrecy, she’d lost a child, then been forced by her circumstances to share her grief with but a few of her most trusted friends.

Enough sadness
, Anne told herself.

Her gaze fell on Jonathan’s boots, standing in the corner. Replaying the ceremony from another angle, she thought,
Wow, he sure looked good today, tall and straight, receiving the queen’s honors with humility and grace
.

His strength was back, at last. So, thankfully, was his easygoing, good humor.

His trim new beard, his beautifully cut clothes
—
just the right shade of royal blue to set off his eyes to perfection
—
and his boots, which emphasized the length of his legs.

And his tights. Oh, his tights!

Anne grinned.
Never imagined I would enjoy ogling a man in tights
.

She remembered the scene perfectly. The court ladies hadn’t been looking at the queen, either. They were checking out her husband, apparently finding little fault by the way they clucked and blushed and fanned themselves.

“But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is my lady, O, it is my love.”

Anne turned onto her side and smiled at Jonathan, who leaned against the door, holding a cup, watching her, grinning. How long had he been standing there?

“By the stars in heaven, is that Will Shakespeare, come to call?” she asked. “Oops, wait a minute! I forgot. He won’t be born for another three or four years yet? Isn’t that right, my good doctor?”

“I wouldn’t know, darling. You’re the expert with dates, remember?”

She laughed. Images, yes, much better images danced in her mind now, causing a flush of heat to course through her. “How fare thy good patients,
Sir Jonathan?
”

“Not as beautifully as thee,
Lady Anne
.”

“A knightly manner and a gilded tongue! Thank you. And you—you were most handsome, most dashing, when the queen didst bestow knighthood upon thee this morn,” she replied. “The women were all aflush over thy well-shaped thighs.”

Eyes sparkling with mischief, Jonathan placed the cup on a nearby table, then put a fist on his hip, and made a flourish with his other hand. “Those poor creatures will never know the half of it.”

“Or the length of it.”

“You are a
very
wicked woman, Annie!”

She laughed and tossed a pillow at him. “No kidding, but I think if they saw you preening like you’re doing now, they’d probably die laughing before they could explore any further.”

He threw back his head, laughing, then closed the door and picked up the cup.

Anne raised her arm and their fingertips touched lightly as he moved past her, setting the cup on the brazier. Snuggling under the covers, she was reluctant to move, but asked, “Would you like to build up the fire in the great room and have a cup of coffee before we go to bed?”

“No, my dear. I’d rather stay right here,” he answered, sitting on the bed beside her. “I’m glad you’ve got the stays off. They must be dreadfully uncomfortable things.”

“Um.” Anne closed her eyes.

“Take care not to lace them too tightly, even now,” he added, getting up and moving quietly about. “You’ll want to give the baby as much room as he needs.”