The Thornless Rose (16 page)

“But I don’t get it. What would Norfolk want with my stuff? It wouldn’t mean anything to him.”

“He called you a witch when he manhandled you at the fair. He’s seen the birth date on your passport. He knew then and there, Anne. He didn’t ride to the brothel to take you sexually. You said he had manacles and an extra horse. He planned to take you away for questioning.”

She shuddered.

“Norfolk knows you’re from the future,” Brandon went on. “God knows what else he’s managed to ascertain from your possessions.” He glanced at the book, now resting on the table between them. “And if he’d gotten hold of the Tudor history––” He studied the book again. “Blimey, that’s it!” he said, eyes round with newfound insight. “He wants to know what the future holds!”

“Yeah, that’s gotta be it.”

“Yes.” Brandon looked at Anne, his gaze concerned, protective. “I can’t let him near you. He’ll try to use your knowledge to change the course of history.”

“But what can we do?”

“Norfolk is a clever bugger. He’ll bide his time to consider how best to use you to his advantage, so we needn’t panic just yet, I imagine.”

“But what if he shows my passport to someone? They’ll think I’m a witch.”

Brandon grabbed her hand, wrapping it in his strong, warm grasp. “Bloody hell, this is the sixteenth century, Anne. There’s no other way. I realize how abrupt I was earlier, but let me protect you with my name. We must marry, else you could end up on a meat hook in Norfolk’s dungeon, telling him everything he wants to know.”

Anne closed her eyes against the horrifying image.

“Marry me, Anne. I’ll protect you. I swear I will.”

She focused on him, but couldn’t forget the threat of the dungeon. It was the weirdest, most graphic proposal she’d ever heard of, but she knew he’d said it to shock her into agreement.

She stared at him, realizing he was right. Jonathan Brandon was her only hope.

There was a slight tightening, a tension in Brandon’s fingers. He was watching her, waiting for an answer.

She made up her mind. “Jonathan, yes,” she said, meeting his steady gaze. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Chapter Sixteen

The following morning, Anne rose early and went in search of the housekeeper. She needed to talk to a woman about something that couldn’t be put off any longer.

She peeked into the kitchen. “Mary? Anyone here?”

No one answered, but Anne entered anyway, for the place reminded her of the ancient kitchen still preserved at Hampton Court Palace. She was dazzled by the variety of gleaming copper pots, which hung from a large iron rack suspended from the ceiling. Beneath the rack, a massive oak table stood with a slit down its center, from which protruded knife handles of every size and shape.

The enormous walk-in fireplace was outfitted with pothooks, oven mitts, and pokers. Glowing embers smoldered beneath a Dutch oven and a kettle, filling the room with sultry warmth. The aroma of baked bread made Anne’s mouth water.

Mary burst through the outside door, carrying a basket of eggs. She looked up, startled. “Whatever ’tis the matter, Mistress Anne? Art thou needin’ t’ break the fast early, then? I dinna see the doctor about. Methinks he’s in the infirmary fer his mornin’ rounds. He’s got only a few patients wot need lookin’ after, but––”

“No, no, Mary. I just needed to ask you about something.”

“Aye?” She cocked her head, a gesture Anne was beginning to recognize.

“How might I go about cleaning my teeth and having a bath?”

Mary simply gazed back at her, head still listing, before rolling her eyes and putting the basket on the table. “Bless me, I’m sorry. I shoulda remembered to fetch thee a brush when I ordered in everything else. And I’ll get thee some salt an’ sage fer cleanin’––”

“Oh, you do have toothbrushes!”

Mary frowned. “Aye, but I canna see why this should surprise. Shiny as thy teeth are—dinna try t’ tell me thou dost not know how t’ keep ’em clean. An’ sponge baths are wot the normal folk prefer, an’ only as needed, since water is God’s own curse for all the evils and sickness it’ll bring down on a body. Or, if thou art out o’ thy gourd,” she jerked her head toward the hospital, “then there’s the wash tub.
His Cleanliness
takes his own on a Saturday, most weeks, an’ sometimes on a Wednesday as well, if he’s feelin’ the need t’ torture me.” She rolled her eyes again. “He doth wash right industrious, but he’s a good man, despite his strange ways. I suppose he’s knocked it in t’ thy head as a weekly bath is a proper way t’ idle the hours?” She didn’t wait for Anne’s response.

“I’ve a wager in, as t’ whether ’twill be me back, or me mind, as goes first, forswunke an’ weary as I am, over this nonsense o’ his. I’ve the pot o’ water heating already, though I wast thinkin’ t’ use it fer more practical purposes. C’mon, then. Pull the screen over, an’ I’ll ready the tub.”

Anne followed the path of Mary’s pointed finger and saw an old three-panel screen, splotched with water stains, its color faded to a dull gray. As Anne wrestled the screen into place around the copper tub—which seemed far too miniscule to allow for her tall frame—she saw Mary grab a large block of tawny soap from the stone basin sink and drop it in. Anne stepped behind the screen and undressed. Soon, Mary stood next to her, holding a steaming kettle.

“Won’t that be just a little too hot, Mary?” Anne gulped as she clasped her smock to her chest.

Mary poured water directly over the soap, until the kettle was empty and the bottom of the tub swam with oily water. “Weel, o’ course ’tis hot. I’ll have the cool water in straight away, but ’tis hot as gets the soap cleaning at its best. Or so the good doctor tells us all, day in an’ day out.”

Anne noticed a distinctly funky smell. “What kind of soap is that?”

“Buck. What else is there?”

“Buck?” Anne asked, puzzled.

“Some call it lye. Thou shalt be buck-naked in thy bath fer some buck-washing.” Mary shot her a rare grin. “Surely, thou hast heard o’ that?”

Too shocked to appreciate the jest, Anne’s eyes widened. “Lye? Isn’t that sort of strong? I mean, isn’t it a little rough on the skin?”

Looking at her frankly and without humor, Mary plucked the soap out of the water. “Weel, I suppose it might be, if thou plan on spendin’ the day in it. But I’ve never known a problem with me tender hands in all me years.” She held up her dry, gnarled hands and admired them. “Swish about in the soapy water, rinse it away, and it’ll no’ cause harm.”

Mary left for a moment, returning with another full kettle. She started pouring. “Test the temperature an’ tell me when.” She looked at Anne. “I’m sorry he put thee up t’ this, but he’s a good man, even with all his marvelous queer ways.”

Anne balanced herself on one foot and touched the water with her big toe. “That’s good, Mary.”

The woman backed away. Swiftly, Anne stepped in and lowered herself into the tub. Her knees were nearly under her chin, the waterline barely reaching her waist. Despite the cramped space, she rested her back against the tub and sighed with relief. She felt wonderful.

“Ah! I all but forgot.” Mary bustled off and came back almost immediately. “Here.” She handed Anne a fine sea sponge. “When thou hast finished scrubbin’, I’ll wet thy hair and thou may wash it with this.” She proffered a small, plain pitcher with a cork. “’Tis somethin’ the doctor made up for washing hair, but don’t ask me a thing about it. Beyond a few brewed weeds, like chamomile, I havna a clue what he’s put in there.”

…

Brandon showed up for breakfast at his usual time, and Anne spoke comfortably with him. For the first time in days, she felt relaxed. Within these walls, with this man, she felt safe, cared for, and clean—almost painfully so after the lye soap.

Mary picked up the dishes and left the room. Anne confided wryly, “Jonathan, I discovered the wonders of copper tub bathing and lye, er, buck soap this morning.”

“Yes, I noticed your damp hair. I do hope Mary got the shampoo for you?”

Anne nodded. “That soap makes my skin itch, though. I think I need to rinse better next time. Tell me, along with inventing shampoo, I don’t suppose you’ve managed to rig up a shower?”

Brandon looked at her. A ghost of a smile played across his lips. “Sorry, no. Actually, my mum made up the shampoo formula during the war. Few toiletries were available in Britain then, unless one made one’s own. As for the shower, I’m afraid it would be just too much for Mary to bear. I rub up against the established ways enough as it is.” He stood, excusing himself. “I’m going to try again to accomplish what I meant to do yesterday, and get settled into the Lady Chapel.”

“I can help.” Anne offered him a smile. “I promise I won’t discover any more terrible problems, and besides, as it turns out, I don’t have much on my calendar.”

“That’s awfully good of you to volunteer,” he said. “Well then, I’ll have Mary bring the coffee, and we can get to work.”

…

The day grew warm as they moved boxes, shoved furniture, and filled cupboards in the Lady Chapel. The dust hung heavily in the hot air, despite several open windows and the open side door. Light streamed in from cloudless skies, passing first through the prisms of color that made up the stained-glass windows of the chamber. There wasn’t a breath of wind to cool them.

They worked steadily through the morning, saying little to each other beyond perfunctory questions and answers concerning the placement of items. Brandon had removed his doublet and wore a loose fitting shirt, the front unlaced, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

Anne, dressed in her new clothing, took off her vest, letting her smock stand in for a blouse. “It’s not too big a deal if I expose the corset, is it? I mean, I know it would be really bad if I took it off, but can I just go like this?”

“It should be all right,” he said. “As a rule, women don’t show it at any time, but since we’re alone, and since we’re engaged, if someone should see you, they’ll just chalk it up to justifiable goings-on.”

She smiled.

“And you won’t have to worry about me, Anne. Corsets aren’t particularly provocative, from my perspective. Reminds me of my great aunt, Lucy.”

Anne laughed, turned back to her work, and they grew quiet again for a long time, each concentrating on the job at hand.

“Whew! It’s hot.” She stopped for a moment and wiped her brow.

“Might I suggest some water or ale?” He gestured toward two pitchers on a nearby table.

“Water,” she said.

He stopped what he was doing and poured her a mug. “It’ll taste odd, but it’s been boiled and won’t make you sick.”

“Thank you.” Anne took the mug, carefully avoiding the touch of his fingers.

Brandon went back to his unpacking, prying open a box.

“Whew,” she repeated, softly. She put down the mug, then reached up to untie the lacing that held together the neckline of her smock, so the gathered folds fell more loosely about her shoulders. She flapped the front a bit, hoping some cooler air would make its way beneath the confines of her corset. Giving up, she bent to pick up another box.

Just feet away, Brandon stopped moving.

Instantly, Anne felt his gaze upon her, upon the curve of her breasts as the front of her blouse hung open, upon the sheen of perspiration dampening her skin.

He stood, rooted. She didn’t move, either, knowing what he could see, feeling his eyes, wanting his touch.

Her breathing came in shallow gasps, her knees felt like they might give way. After several moments, she straightened up and looked directly at him, willing him to speak, since her mouth had gone dry.

Slowly, his blue eyes drew away from her breasts, traveling over her shoulders, then to her lips, and finally up to her eyes.

For the briefest moment, they looked at each other without moving or speaking. Then his gaze flickered away before coming back to her shoulder.

“You don’t have an inoculation mark,” he said, the intensity of the moment fading with his words.

“A what?” She reluctantly pulled her thoughts away from what just happened.

“Smallpox. I noticed you didn’t have the scar on your upper arm. Might you have one on your, er, thigh?”

“No,” Anne replied, remembering those of her parents. “I didn’t get one. Smallpox was wiped out.”

“Wiped out? You mean you’re not inoculated?”

“No, I just told you––”

“Anne! It kills! Remember where you are.” Brandon sounded frantic, almost angry. “We’ll have to see to it immediately.”

“But how can you do that?”

He stood silent for a moment, his eyes darting everywhere about the room, except to her. “The milkmaids! Put on your vest, Anne. We’re going straight away.”

“Whoa! I don’t get it. Milkmaids?”

“I treated two the other day at Smithfield Dairy. They’ve got the cowpox. It’ll give you immunity to smallpox, if I do as Edward Jenner did and scratch some of the pus into your skin.”

“Oh, right,” Anne said.

“Jenner noticed milkmaids’ unblemished complexions.” Brandon grabbed his doublet and dagger. “He made the connection between this, cowpox, and smallpox immunity.” He fixed the blade to his belt. “I must go to my surgery first and get my medical kit, then we’ll find Jane Clemens. She should be about, as she always sleeps with her cows.”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Anne said, grinning as she laced her vest.

He smiled. “No, but don’t let your mind run to the gutter. She merely prefers their company to men. You see, I’ve taught her to choose her sexual partners more carefully now. Syphilis too is a scourge in this time.”

…

Anne followed Brandon into Smithfield Dairy.

“Jane?” He stopped in the middle of the big barn and shifted his medical paraphernalia—contained in a big, many-pocketed leather shoulder bag, not unlike a sports bag—to a more comfortable position. “Jane?” he called out. “Where art thou? Jane Clemens?”

The dairy smelled of fresh hay, cows, and manure. She and Brandon were still searching for Jane, poking into the various stalls, glancing past big brown cow eyes and fly-swishing tails, hoping to find the milkmaid asleep in the hay.

“Where can she be?” Brandon’s gaze flicked to Anne. “She can’t have left for the day. With the cowpox, she isn’t feeling well enough to move about town.”

“Wot’s all this noise?” A whiny voice rose from the hayloft. “Blast thee for wakin’ me!”

“Right.” Brandon nodded to Anne. “Shall we get started?”

“Yes,” Anne said just as Jane’s blowsy features appeared above their heads, replete with yellow straw-strewn hair, and a scattering of cowpox pustules over rosy cheeks and brow.

“Doctor?” Jane asked, recognition sparking her gaze.

“Come down, lass. I would have a word with thee.”

“Wot’s amiss?” Now Jane’s voice was low with concern. “Dr. Brandon, is somethin’ amiss?”

He motioned her down. “Fear not. I’ve just a favor to ask.”

“Oh? Well then, o’ course, Doctor.”

Anne and Brandon watched as Jane rose to her feet, walked to the ladder, and then carefully maneuvered down to the ground.

Jane considered Anne. “So, Doctor, is she the one I’ve been hearin’ abou’ then, as has broken hearts all over London town? Thy wife t’ be?”

“Aye. She is also training to be my assistant.” Brandon leaned toward Jane, peering intently at a large eruption on her forehead. “That one should do nicely.”

The milkmaid pulled her head back in alarm. “Wot’s this abou’?”

“I wish to take a sample of thy pox.”

“Lord Almighty, why?”

Brandon hesitated, but Anne cut in, “You see, if we drain some of it away, then it will make you feel better.”

“And I’ll give thee a biscuit,” Brandon said. “Oatmeal, with raisins.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “Aye, then. I dearly love thy biscuits, Doctor. The last time thou examined me, thy cook had made lovely, crunchy, butter ones. Remember?”

“I remember.” Brandon removed his instruments from his bag—a small scalpel-like knife, a metal spatula, a clean cloth, and a bottle of eau-de-vie. First, he instructed Anne to saturate the cloth with the alcohol and then he sat Jane on a nearby milking stool. After Anne dabbed the large pustule, he said, “Forgive me, lass. This will hurt, but only for a short spell.”

Jane nodded, then held herself still, eyes crossing slightly as she followed the path of the approaching scalpel. Brandon nicked the abscess and held the spatula against it, draining pus and then clear fluid from the wound. He carefully gave it to Anne.