The Thornless Rose (10 page)

Curious as to who might call herself a friend, Brandon put the thought aside for the moment. “Has anyone contacted the sheriff about this?”

“Aye, he should be comin’ ’round any moment now.”

“Good.” Brandon’s stomach growled. “Mary, I was near starved when I got here,” he said, nodding toward the bishop. “And now this, poor devil. Let him sleep and fetch me something to eat. Nothing fancy. When Bishop Wright awakens, try to get some clear broth and a weak infusion of vervain and shepherd’s purse into him, would you please?”

Several minutes later, Brandon walked into the great room and sat at the table, absently rubbing the welt of a scar near his eye.

Mary bustled in and set down a tray of Somerset cheese, cold pork pie, and wine. “Is this to thy likin’, then, Doctor?” she asked.

“Perfect, Mary. Thank you.” He cut off a hunk of cheese, stuffing it and some pie into his mouth. “Now tell me more about this woman,” he mumbled around the mouthful of food.

“Weel, she began nice enough, sayin’ she’s the granddaughter o’ an old friend of yourn, by the name o’ Howard. Anne Howard. She grew right cheeky an’ demandin’ after a bit, then she stuck the bishop when we turned her out.”

“Are you sure it was she? Did you see her do it?”

“’Twere no’ another soul ’round the hospital all mornin’ and ’twas just after she left me here that the boy found poor Bishop Wright. Bleedin’ at the gate, he was, with the gate open and the keys and his sword on the ground outside.”

“That sword is frightfully heavy, Mary. I doubt a lady could wield it.”

“Aye, but she was tall an’ fierce.”

Brandon frowned. “An Amazon, by all accounts.” When Mary gave him a bewildered look, he went on, “But the bishop let her in, didn’t he? Why would she stab him on her way out? It doesn’t make sense. What was her name?”

“Anne Howard.”

“Didn’t you say that was her grandmother’s name?” Brandon wrinkled his brow, trying to remember a patient with such an illustrious name. The only Howards he could think of were London blue bloods, related to the duke of Norfolk; few of their station would have anything to do with a doctor as lowly as himself.

“Nay, that be the lady’s name wot came by. Lemme see now. She said her nan’s name were Hustings—no—Hastings it were. Catherine Ellen Hastings.” Nodding, Mary moved away, then stopped short and looked at Brandon.

He could only stare, his eyes unseeing. His hand, hovering mid-path between table and mouth, let slip the mug of wine. It fell onto the table top, spilling its contents across the planks of wood.

Brandon hardly noticed.

“Lord have mercy, Doctor!” Mary started toward him, then froze.

Struggling with his shock, he watched as the wine dripped onto the floor. Finally, he gasped, “Cath...Catherine Ellen?”

“Here. Lemme clean it up.”

Brandon grabbed Mary’s arm, stopping her. “How did you come by that name?”

“Weel, ’twas the lass.” She pulled back. “’Twas she, gave me her name and that o’ her grandmum.”

“Wha—what did she look like?” Brandon’s voice trembled. “What did she say,
exactly?
”

“Said she were sent here t’ see thee. Her grandmum told her t’ find thee here. She was a tall, fine lookin’ woman—verra tall, if the truth be told. Methinks the top o’ her head would jes reach thee at the chin.” Mary nodded slowly, considering. “Aye, verra tall. She was well kempt, too, wi’ the oddest teeth, though, fillin’ up her mouth garish-like, they were, an’ sparklin’ white like I never saw.” She glanced at him. “Exceptin’ yer teeth, o’ course.”

“What else?”

“Beautiful hair, all lustrous, but dark, russet-like, an’ her eyes were green as grass. I could tell she were a lady of some station, though it seemed verra peculiar she dinna pluck her forehead back, nor thin her dark brows as the grand ladies are wont t’ do. ’Twas passin’ strange.”

“Catherine.” Brandon squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, Catherine!”

Mary’s voice was low. “Should I have kept her, then, Doctor?”

Brandon rubbed his eyes, rose to his feet, and waved an absent-minded hand toward her fears. “What’s done is done. But should she come again, let her in immediately and show her to our best room, to my quarters, if need be! Lock her in if you’re afraid of her, although I doubt if she’s used a sword on anyone. If she is who she says she is, she must be terrified. And Mary, have the sheriff check the grounds thoroughly for any sign of an intruder before he leaves.”

He headed for the door.

“Thou art not staying here, sir?”

“No, I’m going to look for her.” He stopped and turned. “How old is she, Mary? How old?”

“By the looks o’ her skin an’ all of those teeth an’ whatnot, I’d guess she’s just recently a woman. Though if I were t’ guess by her carriage, I’d say closer to mid-life, say five an’ twenty.”

Brandon stared out the window. He’d hardly been gone two years. This couldn’t be what it seemed.

How, Catherine?
he wondered, shaking his head.
How could this be? Did you find the letter? Have you sent someone to bring me home?

For the first time in almost two years, a flicker of hope warmed his soul.

He smiled.

…

Over the next hour, Brandon walked through the streets of Smithfield, then moved on to the marketplace, searching every aisle and booth, asking all who would listen if they’d seen a young woman matching Anne Howard’s description. But no one could remember and few seemed to care, as the market was closing up for the day. The people were tired and busy, cleaning out stalls and loading wagons for the homeward trip.

Once the area grew quiet, Brandon made his way back home. His tall, leather boots squished through mud, splashed in puddles. On the sodden ground lay the squashed leaves of unwanted produce, mingled with broken bits of fresh-baked bread, strewn about with other discarded tidbits. The odors of spilt mead and sour milk rose from the muck. Except for a few foraging cats and dogs, it was all that was left of the earlier bustle.

Confused and saddened, Brandon held on to the faint hope he would find Anne returned to St. Bart’s. But the look on Bob’s face told him otherwise, and he passed inside without comment.

Had this simply been a cruel twist of fate, the names a fluke, causing hurt only because of the great void that devoured his soul? He was too dispirited to know, or ponder the possibilities now. Too tired to even think.

“How could she be whom I thought?” he muttered.

He grew angry for allowing himself to be carried away by such devastating hopes: contact with home, communication from Catherine, or any thought of resuming his old life.

Back inside the hospital, he checked on the bishop, who was sleeping peacefully, then ignored Mary when she started to follow him about, wringing her hands and watching his every move.

He went to the table, poured himself a new mug of wine, and started to leave. Then, turning back, he grabbed the bottle and carried both to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Eleven

Thomas Howard III, fourth duke of Norfolk, felt far older than his twenty-four years. He sat at the large, ornately carved, ebony desk in his London manor home, assessing the books and accounts just received from his properties up country.

Throughout his life, he had seen much and had already been a participant in many of the scandals and deadly intrigues of Tudor court life. Having just returned from leading the queen’s army against yet another Scottish uprising, he felt assured his political star was on the rise.

He rubbed his beard. The Scots and their allies, the French, were on the verge of signing a treaty with England.
To mine own advantage
, he thought with a smile.

Confident the vagaries of being England’s only duke had been cast aside, he knew luck once more held sway over his peerage, and over his vast holdings of some six hundred square miles of prime English countryside.

He studied the ledger drawn up by his estate’s chief overseer. The early promise of the second great harvest in as many years seemed to be holding true. Peasants throughout the land ascribed the source of this good fortune to Elizabeth’s rise to the throne, and the queen basked in the adulation. Yet Norfolk’s assessment was far more practical; he simply believed bountiful harvests were about due. Various grains, hemp, wool, and sweetmeats would all be sold in the lucrative markets at Smithfield and Antwerp. By autumn’s end, he stood to profit handsomely from the lot of his enterprises.

Feeling expansive, he dipped his quill pen into the inkpot and signed off on the ledger. He stretched out his long legs and closed the book.

There was a tap on the door, followed by a discreet cough.

“Aye, Percy? What is it?” Norfolk responded, pleasantly enough.

The door opened. His steward hesitated at the threshold, nervously fingering the gold chain of office at his waist.

“Forgive the intrusion, sir, but there is a fellow who insists he must meet with thee. A rather unpleasant sort, although he stated he worked for thee in the past.” Percy sniffed in disgust. “I thought it better he bide his time on the doorstep.”

“His name? Didst thee ask his name?” Norfolk grumbled; he was beginning to feel put out.

“One Will Dawkins, I believe.”

For a moment, Norfolk didn’t respond, and the heavy-lidded eyes of the steward darted toward him, hoping to prompt an answer without seeming impatient.

Norfolk dropped his gaze, pretending to study his papers. “Bring him here, Percy, then close the door firmly, and make sure thine ears are not stuck to the outside of it.” A little smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Percy left without a word, but Norfolk knew the man’s face was undoubtedly purple with outrage from the insult, and he preferred it that way.
Keep the staff on their toes!

Rising from his desk, Norfolk walked to the large fireplace, where two richly appointed high back chairs were set out. Although he knew Dawkins to be illiterate, Norfolk chose, nonetheless, to do his interviews away from any paperwork, for one never knew when wandering eyes might prove a concern.

An ornate Italian tapestry, depicting the goddess Diana at the hunt, hung above the mantel. Underfoot lay a thick, plush Persian carpet he’d had shipped north just the year before. Fifteen feet by twenty-three, it was so heavy it had lain in the bowels of the vessel during the long voyage, used as part of the ballast.

Another soft tap at the door. “Mr. Dawkins, sir.”

Will Dawkins shuffled into the room, and the door behind him shut smartly. Immediately, Norfolk’s nostrils were assailed by the stench of unwashed flesh and filthy clothing. He took a step backward, silently cursing as he reached into his doublet for his silver pomander. He decided to keep the wretch standing and well away from his costly chairs.

Holding the pomander to his nose, he snorted in the heavy clove scent, then asked, “Dawkins, to what do I owe...?” Norfolk began slowly, stopping in mid-sentence. This unnerved his guests, and he knew it. His mouth twitched again toward a smirk.

Will twisted his shapeless, oilcloth cap in his hands. “I’ve some news, my lord. We seen a true witch, we did, me’n Jack.”

Norfolk sighed, losing interest.

“The witch-woman were right queer from the start, what wi’ her just showin’ up out’a nowhere like she done ’cause o’ the sun goin’ dark t’other day.”

The duke thought back to the past week, when an eclipse of the sun had caused a near panic among the ignorant peasantry. “I haven’t time for superstitious claptrap, man! Get on with the story.”

“But, but, sir, we was mindin’ ourselves along the far side o’ the river, there, just a step or two from Southwark, when there she come, right out’a thin air, like I said.” He looked expectantly at Norfolk.

“And?”

“She’s a beauty, fer certs. All dark, shiny hair and light eyes, an’ smells sweet as flowers.” Blushing slightly, Will hurried on, “Anyway, we followed her straight away t’ St. Bart’s, we did, though she did try an’ turn a spell or two in our direction.” He winked. “No harm, though.”

“Where is this going, Dawkins? You may have compromised me already by coming here in broad daylight, and if you cannot produce something more substantial, then I may have to terminate our agreement.”

“Nay, nay! Oh, there’s more an’ I’ve got the lot o’ it right here wi’ me.” The dirty, smelly man began to unload his pockets onto a nearby table. “She hid ’em at the church, there, she did. But I saw it and hauled it out once she’d gone. There’s true magic in these things, thou can see it plain.”

“God’s death,” Norfolk said under his breath, eyeing the goods.

Will continued to spread the stuff across the boards. “Jack nicked her on the way out an’ took her t’ Nell’s for safe keepin’.”

Norfolk’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“Aye.” Grinning, Will went on, “We figgered thou wouldst wish t’ have a chat wi’ the litt’l lady.”

Dampening his expression, Norfolk stuffed his pomander back into his doublet and fingered a few of the strange-looking items. “I’ll drop ’round this eve, if I think it worth my while,” he said flatly.

He fingered a comb, its texture similar to tortoise shell, but it was scarlet in color and did not seem to be painted. The next item puzzled him even more—a clear flask holding a trace of water. He rubbed the surface, then picked it up, considering. It was too lightweight for glass or crystalline quartz.
What the devil?
Shaking his head, he turned to the only other large item on the table; a stick wrapped in black cloth.

Will backed away. “Look alive, my lord! The witch-lady did us some serious harm wi’ that thing, she did. Like t’ scared the shyte out’a us.”

Norfolk snorted at his fear. “The thing looks harmless.” He tugged the little tie securing the cloth.

A strange sound—a soft
rip.

He felt the patch. Prickly. Odd.

Turning the stick over, he let the cloth fall away, unbound, then absently ran his thumb over a shiny silver button as his eye wandered toward the small cards strewn about the table. Suddenly, the loose folds of fabric sprang to life, opening wide, shooting straight at Will.

Mother of God!
Norfolk flung it to the floor, fighting for control.

“Christ in his bed clothes! I told thee...’tis a witch wand, fer certs!” Will screeched, leaping out of the way.

“’Tis unusual, I’ll grant thee that,” Norfolk finally said, “but I see no evidence of witchcraft.”

Looking doubtful, Will pointed with a trembling hand. “What abou’ that? Is that no’ unusual and magical?”

Norfolk picked up a slender, rectangular object, smooth and black as onyx, but somehow different to the touch. As far as he could tell, it was neither metal nor mineral; in fact, the substance seemed as strange and alien as the odd flagon of water. Turning it over, he discovered the bottom had a glass surface. Two strange words were written on the glass:
Motorola
and
Verizon
. Could they be magical? If he said the words, would he unleash a dark spell, or mayhap conjure a demon?

He fought his fear and whispered, “Motorola. Verizon,” but nothing happened. He touched each word. Again, nothing. Then, he looked on the side of the object and spotted a bit of silver. Remembering the button on the witch wand, he hesitated.
God’s death, what to do?
Swallowing his dread, he pressed the button. Musical chimes immediately sounded and the entire glass frame glowed with the startling likenesses of three scantily clad women, smiling and waving on a seashore.

Stunned, he searched back and front for access to the sources of the light, music, and portrait, but he could find no way to get inside. Little words flashed: “No Service.” He pressed the silver button again and the damnable thing stopped glowing, the women gone.

“Sweet Jesus,” he said, under his breath. What in God’s name was this? He held himself still, striving to control himself in front of Dawkins, for he should never be led to think he’d get extra pay for his clever work.

“Here, lookee here an’ see more o’ wha’ I mean.” Will picked up a small, leather purse and took out a card. “This one’ll persuade. She hath trapped a dove in there, right as rain. Why, ’tis still beating t’ get out, it is. Near scared the piss out’a me when I saw that.”

Norfolk put the Motorola object aside, took the card, and saw the bird. He stared at it for a long moment, but the bird did not move. He almost put it aside, until he caught a flicker of wings. His heart began to race in excitement and fear.
By Christ, it lives!

Clearing his throat, Norfolk steeled himself, casually tossed the card on the table, and looked at Will. “I don’t see much of worth here, Dawkins. I dare say ’tis naught but simple magician’s tricks. If thou spent time at royal entertainments, thou wouldst be quite familiar with such things, though I do admit they can surprise at times. Here.” Norfolk walked to his desk and removed a small pouch. “A farthing for thine efforts, well done.” He tossed the coin to Will.

“I thank thee kindly, sir.” Smiling, Will rubbed the coin between his fingers, then, bit the edge.

Lazily indicating the witch’s loot, Norfolk continued, “Good instincts, Dawkins. I will look everything over with great care, but I believe ’tis not yet the pot of gold we’re seeking. Keep thine own eyes and ears sharp in future, man. Well begun.”

Ushering Will to the door, Norfolk called out, “Percy, see to our guest.” He leaned in. “Speak not of this, eh, Dawkins? Others wouldn’t understand the bird trick, now would they? And we shan’t want anyone getting in a fuss over nothing.”

“Right as rain, sir. I know how t’ keep me tongue.” Will bowed his way out of the door as the steward approached. “I’ll keep me eyes peeled, jes the same.”

“Indeed, good work.” Norfolk watched as Percy shut the door, then listened to the retreating footsteps. In three swift strides, he was back at the table, staring at the bird card.

What in the world...?
He tipped the card back and forth, then read the inscription.
V-I-S-A
, he made out. “Anne M.
Howard?
” He sucked in his breath.
She’s family?

Rooting through the small purse, Norfolk found several pieces of paper. He studied a green one first, noting the portrait in the middle. Washington. One dollar.

“Hmm,” he muttered. He recalled meeting a cousin of Sir John Spencer of Northamptonshire by the name of Washington. But the man was a nobody. Why would his likeness be prominently placed on a note such as this? Was it some sort of jest?

The next paper note was slightly different. Norfolk smirked. “Ah, this fellow must be a more important, as he is worth five of the other.” Then he did a double take.
Lincoln?
He was puzzled, because he knew many important people in Lincolnshire, and he’d never seen this man. He took a closer look at the note. United States of America.

Norfolk started.
America?
Was there some community in that backwater with cause to think so highly of itself? He paused, trying to recall anything of interest he’d heard about the New World, this so-called America. Nothing. Nothing but swamps, hostile natives, disease, and Spaniards.

With a frown, he unfolded one of the colored notes and nearly laughed out loud at the portrait of a mature woman wearing a crown. “Bank of
England?
Why, that is nothing like the queen’s image! Who can this forger be that he would attempt to pass such an unworthy note?”

Losing interest, Norfolk pulled at the cards still remaining in the purse. Blood Donor Card. His stomach knotted at the thought of what it might mean. Norfolk School District. She was obviously part of an unknown society within his dukedom.

“God’s blood!” He tossed away the next card as if it had burnt his skin. Then, with a shaking hand, he picked it up again and drew it close. There, along the left side of the card was her image, so lifelike, so real, he felt he could say something to her and she would respond. Sweet Christ, she was a beauty!

Whichever miniaturist did this work, he is truly gifted. But she cannot be family—not close, anyway
. The Howards were well known for their trademark raven hair and dark eyes, their high, aquiline noses that tended toward prominence, and their long, thin necks. Perfect for the executioner’s axe, some said in black-hearted jest.

He continued to read, “Date of birth, September five
—
ah!”

For a second time, he threw the card, but this time he scrambled to pick it up. His voice cracked with fright, “Date of birth, September five,
nineteen—
God help us
—
eighty-four.”

Trembling, Norfolk lifted the last item from the table, a smallish, dark blue booklet with “Passport United States of America” printed on its face. United States
—
the same notation as the dollar notes. Inside the front cover was another miniature painting of Anne, with her full name, Anne Marie Howard, and again her purported birth date, September 5, 1984.

He did a quick calculation; these papers claimed she was from over four hundred years in the future. He rifled through the pages, reading stamped dates and mumbling, “Immigration Service Heathrow. 26 June, 2010. 1 July, 2011. 20 June 2012...”