The Thornless Rose (27 page)

“Stop, Norfolk,” Cecil commanded, as he took his place at the archbishop’s side.

Ignoring this, Norfolk’s voice rang out, “I swear before you now, Cecil, Archbishop, my lords, should Dudley refuse to abandon his present pretensions,” he gripped the hilt of his sword so hard his knuckles blanched, “the man shall not die in his bed!”

“Sit down, dog!” Cecil bellowed at Norfolk.

“This goes too far!” Parker shouted. Overwrought, his pulse pounding, he lunged at Norfolk, wanting to strike him down, but Cecil’s firm grasp held him back.

Silence filled the chamber as the echo of both men’s words faded. Archbishop Parker stood with Cecil, shoulder to shoulder, staring angrily at Norfolk, who defiantly glared back.

Eventually, Norfolk loosed his grip on his weapon, tipped his head to Cecil, then to the archbishop, and strode out of the room.

But the words he had spoken still hung in the air, and no one dared break the silence to refute or condemn.

…

The candle was nearly spent. The wax was now a puddle, the flame low and flickering, about to wink out.

Anne turned away from the light and snuggled under the covers next to Jonathan. They had made love all night, through to near dawn, a union of flesh and soul, until Anne could not tell where she began, where he ended. At his finish, he had cried out as if in agony of the necessary parting, and she had gasped as he drew away, not only because of the sudden physical emptiness, but also for the realization she would soon be far away from his gaze, his touch, the sound of his voice.

“Rest well, Annie,” Jonathan whispered as he kissed her tenderly and rose from the bed.

She kept her eyes closed, pretending to sleep. She didn’t want his last vision of her to be one of a sobbing wreck. As she listened to him splash at the washbasin, she remembered his passion, but yearned for more. A tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. How she missed him already! How she wanted to hear three words from his lips, just three simple words!

Boot steps, then the soft scrape of leather. She was lying motionless, hiding her gaze, and saw him lift his saddlebags to his shoulder. He looked down at her, but stood mute, questioning. Her eyelids relaxed, closing completely, and after a moment she heard the click of the door.

He was gone, gone. Off to Kew, then to distant Cumnor Hall.

She wept then, loving him beyond all reason, hoping someday he could open his heart to her wholly and without reservation—and that his declaration in the Abbey would come true.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

An uproar greeted Brandon and Henry Hastings’s arrival at Cumnor Hall. Unused to riding more than a few blocks at a time, the worn out doctor felt sore in every inch of his body. He gingerly slid from his mount and watched men and horses hustling in all directions around the courtyard.

He gave the reins to a stable boy, then wearily followed Hastings into the manor house. At least eight hours had passed since he’d left Anne, and there was still much more to do before he could sleep.

Men crowded the foyer, grim-faced and muttering. Brandon could see no one familiar, but grew attentive when a dark-haired gentleman with a long, golden chain hanging from his waist pushed his way toward them. The man bowed to Hastings and clasped him by the shoulders.

“Thank God thou hast come, my lord!” the stranger said.

“Blount, greetings!” Hastings said. “When didst thou hear of it?”

“Dudley sent Bowes to find me yestereve, the moment he heard. He bid me come with all haste to find out the cause of the thing. He is much distraught.”

“Aye, he sent word to me, as well. My wife hath gone to be with him at Kew,” Hastings said, before turning to Brandon. “This is Dr. Jonathan Brandon. He runs St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Doctor, may I introduce Thomas Blount, steward to Lord Dudley.”

“My good sir,” Blount said, and the two men bowed to each other.

“The doctor hath treated Her Majesty, the queen,” Hastings explained, “then was called upon to give aid to my sister-in-law a fortnight back. I brought him along, for I believe he may cast some light upon Lady Dudley’s condition, both before and after death.”

Blount nodded. “I see,” he said, glancing around. “Thou must know everyone here?”

“Aye, most.” Hastings looked out the door. “But do go over the lot for Dr. Brandon. I believe I see Hyde in the courtyard, and I wouldst have a word with him.”

Blount complied, pointing out each man to Brandon. “Sir Richard Smythe, the tall fellow in the corner, is to head the inquiry. He is a longtime friend of Lady Dudley’s kin. His integrity is considered beyond reproach, and he will surely get to the truth of this, if any can.

“The heavy-set fellow is Anthony Forster, a fine man. He lives at Cumnor, also, though I heard he was not about when the death occurred. Dudley requested he come and help oversee the inquest with all care. The man he speaks with is John Appleyard, Lady Amy’s half-brother.”

Blount’s voice droned on, and Brandon let his gaze roam. The crowd shifted, and, like a thunderclap, the heat of rage pounded unchecked through his body. Norfolk stood there, not ten paces away.

Norfolk—here!
The echoes of Anne’s screams surged into Brandon’s mind and his fists clenched.
Norfolk!
He wanted to take the depraved bastard by the hair and run a dagger across his neck.

“Doctor!”

Ignoring Hastings, Brandon remained fixed on his enemy, who bowed to him and smirked.

Hastings latched onto his arm. “Doctor, no! Dudley spoke to me of the incident with Norfolk, but this is neither the moment, nor the place, to retaliate. Put away thine enmity for the man and deal with the tragedy at hand.”

Brandon nodded, but looked again for Norfolk, and this time their gazes locked in mutual loathing.

The bastard’s hand moved ever so slightly toward the sword on his belt, the challenge implied.

Brandon’s hand twitched toward his own weapon, then clenched in refusal.
Duty before revenge
, he warned himself.

He turned on his heel and walked away.

…

Left alone but for a bonneted serving maid weeping in the corner, Brandon prepared to examine the body of the woman he had so recently tried to help. The curtains in the room were tightly shut against the afternoon heat and sunshine. A single candelabrum illuminated Amy Dudley’s casket as it lay in state, casting just enough light for his work to proceed unhindered.

Brandon glanced at the grieving servant, but she paid him no mind. Tugging slightly at Amy’s hands, he took note of the fading remnants of rigor mortis, then examined the nails. All were neatly groomed and clean underneath.

“Pardon me?” he asked gently. “Was the body cleansed at all since the death?”

The maid looked up at him with puffy, red-rimmed eyes and a moist face, and nodded. “Aye, abou’ her face, sir, as she was bloody.” She drew a long, shaky breath. “Then, we got her proper dressed, put some pomade where the wounds were, where her poor head hit the floor, and fixed her hair to cover the gashes.”

“I see,” Brandon said, folding Amy’s hands back across her waist.

He lifted the lock of hair lying across her forehead, then noted the extent of the bruising near the wounds. It was obvious her heart had continued to pump for perhaps a full minute after her fall. He pushed away the wisps of hair and lace that curled about her neck, visually probing its condition on all sides. No bruising there, or about the eyes. So, she wasn’t strangled or smothered.

But what did cause her death?
Bollocks!
What he wouldn’t give to be able to perform a full post mortem. He’d be able to see if someone had forced trauma in some other way.

Casting a glance in the servant’s direction, he said, “I will lift Lady Dudley a bit now. Be not alarmed. I must do this as part of my examination.”

The woman nodded.

He shifted Amy’s body, stared at the lacing on the back of her dress, and remembered her corset. It would be almost impossible to sense anything beneath her stays, he realized, but he had to try. Walking his fingers along the spine, pushing on the vertebral column, he moved up from the coccyx toward the base of her skull.

Ah, there it is
. He could plainly feel the shattered remains of the first and second cervical vertebrae, the so-called hangman’s break.

But it was more than a break. The area was soft and felt like grit suspended in gelatin. The bone was pulverized, not something that would have been caused by trauma, either purposeful or accidental. Cancer had wrought the destruction.

Satisfied and relieved, Brandon straightened. He moved Lady Dudley back, positioning her as she had been prior to his examination.

Then, before turning away, he laid his hand upon the dead woman’s brow. With a quick prayer and a quicker farewell, Brandon paid his respects and left the room.

…

In the late afternoon, all of the courtiers and inquest officials, including Hastings, Brandon, and Norfolk, were given a tour of Cumnor Hall by the housekeeper, Mrs. Odingsells. With heartfelt emotion, she showed them the stairs where the fall had taken place, describing the aspect of the body, when found at its base. Then, they were taken to Amy Dudley’s private chamber, the last spot where anyone had seen her alive.

During the tour, Brandon made certain he stayed as far from Norfolk as possible. Glancing at him occasionally, Brandon sensed the duke was supremely bored by the whole affair. But through snippets of overheard conversation, it had dawned on him Norfolk was interested in one thing; pushing the idea Dudley knew more than he was saying about the death of his wife.

Seeking his own counsel, Brandon moved away from the others, who listened to Mrs. Odingsells describe her last conversation with Amy Dudley.

“She sat at her desk an’ would not hear of me stayin’ with her,” the housekeeper explained. “‘Go t’ the fair,’ m’lady said. ‘Thou dost need merriment in thy life. I must write some letters.’” A deep sob welled up from the woman’s chest. “But she wasn’t alone, mind ye. Mistress Owen was here, but she fell asleep waitin’ for Lady Amy to call for her meal. An’ when they found m’lady at the bottom of the stairs, poor Mistress Owen was beside herself. She’d not heard a thing, not a blessed thing, when Lady Amy fell. An’ this room looks just like it did that day, ’cept her ladyship’s not here.”

“There, there,” Hastings said as he produced a handkerchief.

“Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Odingsells cried, wiping her eyes, “how could anyone whisper murder of such a dear soul. Besides, look about the place. ’Tis plain t’ see no one had a hand in her death.”

There wasn’t much to see, Brandon agreed, glancing at Amy’s writing table. Everything appeared tidy, as neat and clean as the rest of the room. Even the rushes on the floor were undisturbed and fairly fresh. Then his gaze returned to the desk and he caught something familiar, a small vial of blue glass tucked among some books and papers.

As he stepped forward to be certain the bottle was his, the toe of his boot struck an object on the floor. Bending, Brandon rummaged through the rushes and pulled out an oval miniature. He briefly pondered the face of a beautiful child, surrounded by a halo of blond curls, before reaching for the item he’d crossed the room to see.

Picking up the blue flask, he recognized it and sniffed the contents. The opiate mixture he’d concocted for Amy Dudley. He shook it gently, noting how little was left, and thought back to the circumstances of her ladyship’s death.
Delirium?
he wondered.
Hmm. Shouldn’t have played a role
.

“’Twas her tonic, Doctor,” Mrs. Odingsells said.

Brandon glanced up. All were watching him now.

“She was given the medicine at Whitehall, not a fortnight ago,” the woman continued. “’Twas her greatest blessing, in the end, and helped to ease her pain, that she might better prepare her heart for what was to come.”

“Yes. I am the physician who prescribed the elixir,” Brandon admitted. “I’m glad to hear it was of some help to her. She seemed a gentle sort, not deserving of so much torment.”

“Doctor,” Mrs. Odingsells suddenly cried out, starting toward him, “thou hast found the miniature! Praise God! Wherever was it? We were wracked wi’ worry she’d have to be buried without her boy.”

“It was on the floor here. Wait, she had a son?”

“Aye, Robbie Dudley. He was her darlin’ boy.”

Brandon studied the tiny portrait again. The child had the look of his mother about the eyes and mouth, but he could discern no resemblance to Dudley.

Mrs. Odingsells stood at Brandon’s elbow. “His death nearly caused her own. Drained every last ounce of joy she had.” The woman’s voice dropped low. “And Lord Dudley nearly died from grief. After Robbie’s passing, now so many years ago, they were never together again as man an’ wife. Aye, ’twas the death of their marriage as well.”

The room was silent as the housekeeper dabbed her eyes again, then took Brandon’s hand in hers and kissed it. “But now thou hast found the likeness. And Lady Dudley, never parting with it for a moment since his death, well, we couldn’t imagine what had happened to it. She never failed to tuck it away beneath her bodice, close to her heart, or in her pocket. Can’t imagine how it came to be on the floor. Thank thee kindly, Doctor. And thank thee for giving her the elixir, too. ’Tis a blessing, indeed. I feel so very privileged to be able to tell thee so.”

“I was glad to help.” Brandon allowed himself to be led away by Mrs. Odingsells, who continued to chatter about Robbie.

…

Norfolk held back, watching Brandon leave. The doctor’s little stunt with the miniature infuriated him—the man had the most damnable way of gaining attention.

Picking up the blue flask, Norfolk removed the stopper, sniffed its contents, and gazed at the door, lost in thought, weighing his options.

…

That evening, Brandon surveyed the simple room assigned to him at Cumnor Hall. It was a small, cramped space with a rope-framed bed, not far from the servants’ quarters.

Yawning, he sank gratefully onto the straw mattress. “I am but a lowly doctor, after all.”

Numb with exhaustion, he closed his eyes, and, in his last waking moments, he brought up memories of the previous night with Anne.

He had been tempted to tell her he loved her before he left. But he had forced himself to silence, choking back his emotions with effort and self-control. What if she didn’t feel the same way about him? What then?

He marveled at his own sense of vulnerability.
She’s gotten to me, and I’ve fallen hard, but what of her? I can’t blurt things out and look like a bloody fool. Jesus, no! Not yet. Maybe soon
.

Sometimes, Anne Howard Brandon seemed so brash and flippant, obviously the epitome of twenty-first century womanhood. She had told him something of her world, with its trouser-wearing feminists and shocking, unrestrained culture, which celebrated the excessive and profane, the famous and infamous.

Does she feel anything for me yet, beyond friendship and sexual passion? Or am I merely a “hunk” or “hot?”
he wondered, using a few of the catch phrases from her seemingly inexhaustible collection of American slang.

What to do?
he thought as he drifted off.
What to do about Annie?

…

Brandon sat in the main dining room at Cumnor Hall. Over the last ten days, many participants in the inquest had come and gone. Very few of the queen’s councilors had stayed for the entire time. But he, as the last physician to treat Lady Dudley, had been obliged to remain and offer testimony.

Thankfully, Norfolk had chosen to keep away for much of this past week, but now he and everyone else were present for the final summation. Brandon was staggered by the last to arrive, the towering, history-shaping figure of Sir William Cecil. The secretary of state kept himself apart from conversations and opinions.

Feeling grubby and hot, Brandon rubbed his scar, then passed a hand over his entire face. Outside Cumnor Hall, rumors were rampant. The world was watching this proceeding, and the inquest committee couldn’t afford a mistake. Not one.

Mrs. Pirto, Lady Amy’s maid, was before them now for the fourth or fifth time—Brandon couldn’t remember.

“And what, good woman,” Richard Smythe asked again, “dost thou believe the cause to be? Chance? Or villainy of some sort?”

“As I have said, sir, and as I believe, by very chance and neither done by man nor herself.”

“And what, my dear woman, did you hear Lady Amy say when she was at prayer?”

“I... Well, sir, I heard my mistress prayin’ t’ God t’ deliver her from desperation.”