The Thornless Rose (26 page)

She tasted the wine on his lips, happily realizing he was more relaxed than she had ever seen him.

“About tonight,” he murmured into her ear. “Can you? Would you?”

They hadn’t made love since just before Norfolk’s attack. Their eyes met, and she saw his desire, melted under the intensity of his gaze. He needed her, and she realized she wanted him—badly.

“Yes,” she replied. “Tonight, as soon as we get home.”

With a trace of a smile, he glanced at the large desk. “How ’bout here, now?”

“Jonathan! How much wine have you had?”

He laughed and kissed her hard, erasing all doubt he was tipsy—and ready. Her eyes closed as his lips roamed along her jaw line and found her earlobe. He lingered there and then moved down her neck, his hot breath caressing her skin.

She sighed with pleasure, then lightly pushed on his chest. “They’re going to come back.” A muffled scream forced her attention away from him. “Did you hear––?”

Jonathan stopped and stared at Anne, holding her in his glance. They waited for a moment. Nothing.

“Perhaps, it was outside on the street,” he ventured.

Before she could respond, Hastings burst into the library brandishing a letter. “My sister-in-law hath died!”

Gasping, Anne raised her hand to her mouth. Despite the inevitability of Lady Dudley’s death, his words struck her hard.

“Please excuse us,” he continued, “for Robert Dudley asked that my wife and I join him at Kew. And Cecil––”

“I am sorry, my lord,” Jonathan interjected. “I must admit, I didn’t believe she’d last this long.”

“What?” Hastings halted. “Didst thou know about this?”

“Yes, I knew Lady Dudley was quite ill. I treated her at Whitehall, the day after our wedding. She was suffering from the wasting disease, with cankerous tumors throughout her body. I assumed you both knew she was dying.”

“No. Neither my wife nor I had any knowledge of her illness. There was much bad blood ’twixt Amy and Dudley, and she vowed she wouldst never again attend court. We have not seen her for nigh on two years.” Brow furrowing, Hastings paused. “She was at Whitehall? Why? She never said a word... Could not abide...” His voice faded as he looked back at the door. “Cath is stricken, for she didst love Amy like a blood sister. She hath taken to her chambers and begs your pardon for not saying her fare thee wells. We must leave for Kew within the hour, however, to keep vigil with Dudley.”

Anne said softly, “Please tell Lady Catherine how sorry I am.” She exchanged a sad look with her husband, then turned back to Hastings. “My lord, I also saw Lady Dudley at Whitehall. She was suffering greatly, and that’s why Jonathan was called to her bedside. He gave her an elixir to ease her pain.”

With a thoughtful frown, Hastings turned to Jonathan. “Doctor,” he said, “methinks I may need thy medical expertise. There is to be an inquest.”

“Bugger that. Whatever for?”

“William Cecil hath called for an inquiry into Amy’s death to determine if murder be the cause of her demise.”

“Murder?” Anne shook her head. “Why would anybody think that? She was dying from can––”

“The wasting disease,” Jonathan cut in.

Hastings frowned. “But she was not abed. It appears she was found at the bottom of the stairs, her neck broken.” His voice caught, his eyes moist with sorrow. “’Tis a doubly black day, for Amy is dead and the hounds already bay after Dudley, seeking to lay blame upon him. At this moment, the circumstances of her death seem rather less than certain. Alas, my brother-in-law must face a plethora of enemies. I fear they wouldst put him in his winding-sheet and hearse, too, if his trusty friends do not rally to his side in all haste and set things to right.”

“I’m rather reluctant to leave Anne and my patients just now. How long would an inquest of this nature take?”

“’Twill last but a few days. I must leave for Cumnor Hall at first light. Take the time to go home and gather thy necessities, and meet me at Kew tomorrow morn at six o’ the clock.”

Jonathan glanced at Anne, his expression wavering, then he turned back to Hastings. “My lord, please give me a moment to discuss this with my wife.”

“Aye.” Hastings nodded to Anne and left the room.

As the door clicked shut, she reached out to her husband with a consoling hand, touching him on the sleeve. “It’s all right. Go.”

“But what of the implications for the future? I shall be in the midst of a key event, perhaps changing the way things turn out.”

“I remember enough of English history to know that Dudley was not implicated in his wife’s death,” Anne asserted. “Just sit there and watch. Examine her body, and let them know about her tumors. I don’t think that’ll mess things up.”

He rubbed his scar absentmindedly. “I do hope you’re right.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The flame of a single candle lit the planes and angles of Jonathan’s face, his scar a slash of silver-gilt, a reminder of another time and his own brush with heroism and destiny.

Anne felt thrilled as she watched him. He was handsome beyond all reason, and she knew she was “verily besotted” with him—
no, make that beyond besotted
, she decided, laughing to herself.

He handed her a glass of clary, and the intensity of his stare pulled her thoughts back to the gravity of the moment.

“Her Majesty is also under suspicion, you know,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “People will say cruel things about her and Dudley, even after the inquest.” Glancing around their bedroom, she was satisfied he was prepared for his journey north. She took a sip of her drink. “I feel so sorry for them, and poor Amy, too. I hope your medicine gave her some relief at the end.”

He cinched the leather strap on his saddlebag. “I did my best for her,” he said, his tone grown quiet in reflection.

“I know you did, and she knew it, too. You’ll just have to set things right once you get to the inquest. When everyone knows about her cancer, it’ll be okay.”

“I’m not sure they’ll make the connection, given the lack of medical knowledge in this era. There is a dearth of critical thinking amongst the majority of people, because the application of the scientific method is still in its infancy.” He placed the saddlebag by the door with his other gear. “I do not want to leave you. I should very much like to supervise your recovery. You need to eat––”

“I’ve been eating like a horse. You’ll probably want to put me on a diet once you get back.”

He studied her earnestly. “No. You’ve a splendid figure, but you must start taking a daily constitutional.”

She affected a deadpan expression. “Say walk, Jon. Constitutional makes me think of some gross medical procedure.”

He laughed. “Just so.” He paused, his smile fading as he looked into her eyes. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, but tomorrow morning is a long way off. We have time.”

“Actually, we don’t have much,” he countered. “Cumnor Hall is a long ride from Kew. Lord Henry leaves at dawn, so I must be off before that, since Kew will take at least an hour by fast horse.” His frown deepened. “If something happens whilst I’m up at Cumnor, I shan’t be able to come home straight away.”

“Nothing will happen. I’ve promised to travel with Bob and the other men if I start to go stir crazy. Besides, your patients are all set, and there are no babies due. Jenny’s a good nurse, and you’ve trained Mary Prentice.”

He rolled his eyes.

“And I’ve taken CPR and first aid and I know the Heimlich. I can help.”

Nodding, he glanced around the bedchamber once more. She could read his thoughts. He was going over his mental travel list for the umpteenth time.

“Jonathan, you’re all set for the trip, so relax.” She paused, smiling, then asked, “Are you planning to come to bed or not? You started something in the library that needs finishing.”

He turned, a faint crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “I nearly took you on the desk, didn’t I, my dear?”

“Hmm. Lost control, eh, my good doctor?”

“Yes, well...” He smiled. “I suppose his lordship’s wine may have been the cause of such avid inspiration.”

“You mean it wasn’t my considerable charms?”

“They might have played some small part.”

“Cheeky bastard!”

“At your service.”

Anne smiled. “Shall that be my nickname for you, then?”

Jonathan shook his head. “Best not let Mary Prentice hear you,” he said with mock sincerity, “else she’ll have kittens.”

Anne laughed out loud. “I’d like to see that!”

He grinned and tugged at the string on the front of his shirt. She watched him remove it, enjoying the ripple of muscles in his arms, the gleam of his skin, the light dusting of chest hair, all caught in the flicker of candlelight.

She tossed back the rest of her drink and began to loosen her stays.

“Do let me help,” he said.

“I’m about to rebel.” She took a deep breath as he pulled on the ties one by one, as his lips found the skin of her neck.

“Rebel?” he murmured as her breasts emerged from her corset.

His tongue found a nipple, which started a delicious throbbing between her legs. She closed her eyes, heart thumping, breath coming in gasps. “I...ah, I’m not a radical feminist, per se, or a bra burning type, you know, but, but, no, don’t stop, go on...ah, oh yes, uh huh, that’s it...well, the corset’s got to be one of the most horrible inventions known to man—no, I mean woman...oh!”

Glancing up, he laughed and pulled her close. “Women burn brassieres? Bugger that! What a future I missed!” He kissed her swiftly and hard on the mouth, then lifted her off her feet and carried her to bed.

They tugged at each other’s clothing and rolled about, kissing, laughing. When they were finally naked in each other’s arms, his expression became serious. He kissed her breasts, her throat and mouth, mounting her gradually, carefully, as if she were fragile, as though her limbs were spun from glass.

Her eyes opened. “What?” she asked as he hesitated above her.

“Annie, you’ve suffered so. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” she said, pulling him in.

…

Angrily drumming her fingers on the arm of her throne, the queen guarded a stony silence before her courtiers gathered this night at Windsor.

By blazing candlelight, Archbishop Parker closely watched Elizabeth, expecting a womanly outburst at any moment. He and Cecil had both insisted she come to the council chambers for the urgent meeting and had stood outside her door until she joined them. Although complaining bitterly she’d had no time to refresh herself after the hunt, she had emerged from her bedchamber exquisitely attired in unrelieved black, from the dusky pearls showing at her earlobes, to the obsidian beadwork on her shoes.

Daughter of Eve
, he thought, noting the pale cast of her skin, the dark circles beneath her eyes.
Thou must repent. With God’s help, I shalt see thee turned to the light.

For the past hour, Elizabeth had listened to her councilors’ cries of anguish, fear, and condemnation. Wavering between exasperation and admiration, the archbishop was nevertheless surprised she had the presence of mind to hold her tongue and refrain from commenting on their worries.

The moment he had been dreading came when Elizabeth leapt to her feet. Circling her throne, she glared at the twenty-odd Privy Council members, high-ranking noblemen, and foreign dignitaries. “By God’s blood!” She slammed a fist into her palm. “I care not to hear any more of your blasted squabbling! Friendships are mine own for the choosing and shalt not be open to debate. Remember that I base my decisions upon faithful service and not upon general consent.”

Sweeping her arms outward with a flourish, Elizabeth cried in Italian, “
La colla della donna
é
fractura!
” The woman’s neck is broken!

Stunned by this blunt statement, the archbishop listened to the collective intake of breath, followed by a shocked hush.

Elizabeth struggled to suppress a smile, but the glint in her eyes spoke loudly enough.
Italian!
Parker thought. It was ever her favorite language for dramatics.

“Was the Master of the Horse seen with his hands upon his wife’s neck? Nay, he was hunting with me and many others. That is the sum total of it, my lords,” the queen continued. “The poor woman is dead by sad mischance, but there must be an inquiry withal. And, as they must, men will crawl about Cumnor Place like hounds on a trail, looking into this simple tragedy with all due care. In the end, I am quite confident their findings will still the tongues of those who wouldst see Lady Dudley’s sad and lonely ending as something more sinister than it was.”

Archbishop Parker, seizing the chance to end her harangue, cleared his throat and drew himself up from his seat. “Ma’am, Dudley’s attentions toward thee have been noted by many.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you imply?”

“He implies nothing, Majesty,” Cecil cut in, “but many tongues will be silenced if thou wouldst but consider marriage with one of the foreign princes.”

“Aye,” she spat back, glaring at Parker, “like the barbaric king of Sweden! Had I been willing to share my bed with a he-bear, I wouldst have relented and married the hairy lout!”

Sweet Christ!
The archbishop felt his knees give way, and he sat with an audible thump.

Elizabeth went on, “Why must I be endlessly pelted with these damnable questions?”

The chamber door opened, and the duke of Norfolk sauntered in.

Parker studied the nobleman’s travel-stained attire, his sweat-streaked face, which gleamed with insolence as he stared at the other lords.

Elizabeth spun around and faced him. “You’re late, Norfolk,” she snapped.

He quickly removed his hat and bowed. “Majesty, forgive my tardiness. The road was dark, the ride hard.”

“I am not interested in thine excuses. Sit.”

Norfolk hesitated and Parker detected a flash of anger behind his gaze.

The queen must have seen this, too. “Blast, man,” she shouted, “I said sit!”

Norfolk paled. “Majesty.” He bowed again and took his seat.

As Elizabeth turned to address William Cecil, the archbishop again noted the glare in Norfolk’s eyes. The man was courting disaster.

“Cecil,” she said, her voice strained, “the affairs of my realm will wait for neither man nor queen and cannot be left to wallow. I have much to look after, and I refuse to tarry here any longer.”

Her gaze moved over the faces of her councilors, slowly, suspiciously, from one to the other. The men shifted uncomfortably beneath her stare, trying to avoid her unspoken accusations, knowing full well she would long remember this day.

“Dudley did not murder his wife,” Elizabeth finally said in a measured tone. She looked directly into Norfolk’s eyes, whirled about, and stormed away. A swish of satin signaled her departure, and the door closed with a resounding
boom
.

The room erupted as Archbishop Parker knew it would. Voices cried out, angry, rude. Beside him, Cecil stepped forward and tried to quiet the men, but the uproar continued.

Norfolk stood, face red, and shook his fist at Cecil. Spittle flew from his lips as he said, “Dudley
is
capable of such a deed, and ye all know it well. The queen is much in his sway, and he covets power. He will not rest until a crown sits atop his head.”

“Here, here. Norfolk speaks the truth!” many voices cried out in agreement, while others grumbled, or remained silent.

Sir Francis Knollys rose. “The queen is correct in one respect. We must form an inquest, my lords. ’Tis imperative. If we do not, the people of this realm will surely rebel, for it will look as though we, or the queen, wish to cover guilt. As for ourselves, we also are in need of fact and not suspicion only.”

Nodding, Archbishop Parker stood. Speaking in a calm tone, trying to reason with the men, he added, “Sir Francis is correct. We must appoint men of unblemished character and strong intellect to perform an investigation of the matter. And we must be careful to do nothing before we have the findings.”

“For the moment, we must speak frankly, however,” Cecil said, “and without threat of reprisal.” He shook his finger at the gallery and warned, “Not a word shalt leave this chamber.”

“My lords, I beg you. Do not hasten to anger,” Parker added, “and make no imprudent speeches.”

With a flick of his hand, Norfolk spurned this comment. “Whatever the findings,” he said, “the queen’s favorite must be brought to bay. The power he wields from behind—or should I say from within—her skirts, is beyond measure.”

Gasps of shock and roars of anger mingled with explosions of laughter. Archbishop Parker shook his head, disgusted with the duke’s blatant insult.

Norfolk boldly continued, “And where are we to find this muff-splitter, so we might pose him a few salient questions? Doth the queen hide him under her pillow?”

Stunned, the archbishop gaped, while others grumbled in protest.

Norfolk laughed. “Come, come. The rumor is well known to all. Dudley doth swive the queen.”

Utter silence greeted Norfolk now. He had gone too far.

Glaring, Cecil opened his mouth to speak out, but Archbishop Parker, incensed by such vulgarity, charged into the center of the room and squarely faced Norfolk. “Sit thee down, Thomas Howard! How dare thou cast aspersions on Her Majesty, and all of us besides, with such base talk! ’Tis unbecoming of a man of thy rank––”

“Exactly!” Norfolk roared back. “Royal blood flows in my veins and I am the only duke in the realm! All royalty and each rank of nobility must be recognized and upheld. That is precisely the reason for which I war against this upstart, this lowborn, presumptuous hedge-pig.” The duke paced around the room, challenging each courtier with his piercing gaze, ignoring the archbishop and Cecil.

“Aye, our privileges must be defended!” “Listen to His Grace!” “He is correct!” angry voices shouted from the crowd.

“Royalty and nobility carry with them certain rights and privileges that may not be pissed upon or scorned,” Norfolk added. “What have I to pass along to my son, but the title to which he was born? And if my title be made a mockingstock...”

The archbishop noticed Norfolk’s eyes went to slits and his hands clenched in fury.

“A mockingstock ignored by this upstart, this horse master, and so after by the queen—what then of your titles? They shalt all come to nothing if Dudley but whispers the word in her ear!”

Cheers rose as the courtiers warmed to his speech, and voices cried out again, “I concur!” “We must all stand with Norfolk!” “His worries are just!”

Nodding smugly, Norfolk continued, “I struggle only for what is our birthright. Dudley wouldst seize the Crown. That is his goal, and we all know it well. And what then, if he decides he likes you not? How strong are your privileges or rights—as handed down and acknowledged since before the time of King Edward, the Confessor King—if this king, this muff-king, should turn his heart against them?”