The Thornless Rose (28 page)

“And what did that mean, Mistress Pirto? Dost thou believe she considered the taking of her own life?”

The woman vehemently shook her head. “Nay, sir! As the Lord is my witness, Lady Amy would never do such a wicked thing. She wanted respite from her pain. And she knew God would answer her prayers anon.”

Smythe waved her off, and Brandon watched as Mrs. Pirto got up from the witness chair, Anthony Forster taking her place.

“Murder, sir,” Smythe said. “Is there aught to suggest murder?”

“None observed, Sir Richard. ’Twere no appearances of misuse upon her person. Her room, the manor, all were in quiet repose and undisturbed—except for her being dead, I mean.”

“And thine opinion of her husband’s involvement?”

“I can see no evil in Lord Robert,” Forster said firmly.

Nodding, Brandon shifted restlessly and tried to stretch out his long legs beneath the confines of the table. He glanced at Anne’s most recent letter, in amongst his paperwork, and caressed its edge between thumb and forefinger. How he longed for her warmth!

Deciding to let the inquest drone on without his full attention, he took out his pen, placed a clean sheet of paper on top of the rest, and wrote.

Dearest Annie,

How I miss you––

“Dr. Brandon?”

He jumped.

“Wouldst thou be so good?” Smythe’s hand swept toward the witness chair.

Sighing quietly, Brandon rose and moved to the indicated seat.

“My lords of the realm,” Smythe said, “it came to our attention Dr. Brandon wast called upon to treat Lady Dudley at Whitehall, on the twenty-seventh of August, last. Doctor,” Smythe turned to him, “please give us full testimony from thy first knowledge of the deceased.”

“My lords, I was called to her bedside on the morning of the twenty-eighth, actually.”

Smythe looked perplexed for a moment, then hastily scribbled on his papers.

“I recall the date very clearly, for I was still in bed. It was the day after my wedding night––”

Hearty laughter greeted this admission.

Flushing over the gaff—
too much detail, old chap
—Brandon continued with his testimony. An invasive canker, he told them, and her frail bones...her pain and his certainty of her looming death...his elixir designed to bring comfort, but no cure.

Brandon carefully chose his words, wanting to be factually precise without speaking beyond the era. The effort drained him, and his shoulders ached with tension before he finished. “That is why, my lords, I can only conclude the fracture of the vertebrae in her neck occurred spontaneously due to disease. It was failure of the bone that most likely precipitated her fall, and most certainly caused her demise.”

Many voices called forth at once; some held questions, some ridicule.

Smythe put voice to the concerns. “But, my good doctor, how came she by the stairs, if she were as weak as thou hast described?”

Brandon shrugged. “It would not have been impossible had she enough desire. Not every bone was on the point of dissolving.”

Smythe nodded. “Nevertheless, Doctor––”

“Aye, nevertheless!” A booming voice rose above the others, hot, angry, accusatory.

Brandon glared at Norfolk, who stood, hands on hips, frowning at Smythe.

“Might I be allowed a word, at long last?” Norfolk asked.

Smythe’s eyebrows lifted in disdain, but his words were smooth, acquiescing, “As you will, Your Grace.”

Norfolk walked forward until he stood two paces from Brandon’s chair. “’Tis plain to mine own eyes this doctor is nothing more than a man of straw, a deceiver. He plays tricks with his elixirs and beguiles the queen with his most beauteous eyes. Through her goodly graces, he hath made his way into the care and protection of Robert Dudley.”

Brandon seethed.
You bastard!

Norfolk sneered at Brandon as though he were a vile bug, nothing more. “Amy Dudley had neither cause nor strength to wander, the doctor tells us, and her neck broke of itself as she took this impossible morning stroll. ’Tis my contention he wouldst say anything, so as to take blame away from where it rightly resides—with murder! With Dudley!”

“Lord Robert did no such thing, I tell you!” Brandon shouted. “His wife was gravely ill. Why would he risk such a thing with her death already looming?”

Norfolk’s black gaze surveyed the room. “Any illness thou dost claim she had, Doctor, does nothing to change the facts as I see them. Don’t be fooled, my lords, into thinking Dudley was not involved, just because he was a-hunting with his queen. More the reason to suspect! He ordered it done, of course, and made sure to be well-sighted throughout the day with all manner of respectable witnesses.”

Looking straight at Cecil, Norfolk paused, then finished calmly, “Dudley covets the Crown, my lords, but was burdened in his lust by an unwanted wife. He wouldst be known as King Robert—we all know it well—and for that he needed the freedom to wed. Mind you, no blame can be brought to the queen’s door, and I don’t suggest it. She is a woman, and thus sore abused by her pliant and trusting heart. The guilt, for guilt it certainly is, is entirely Dudley’s.”

Lies! Evil lies!
Slamming his hand down on the table, Brandon exclaimed, “That is utter nonsense! The facts do not bear out that conclusion. As I stated before, Lady Dudley died of a spontaneous fracture of the neck, caused by a cankerous tumor.”

Voices rose about the room. Smythe tried to regain control, but his shouting only mingled with the others.

Letting the clamor cover his words, Norfolk leaned forward, his mouth mere inches from Brandon’s ear. “Doctor, I’ve had the records checked, and thou art nowhere to be found afore the queen took her throne, neither here, nor on the Continent, nor anywhere else as thou dost pretend. I know how thee appeared of a sudden and out of thin mist at The Bishop’s Crook, that thy wife didst appear from the mists in Southwark, and that she claims birth in the year 1984!”

In shock, Brandon’s eyes widened. He recoiled, then stammered, “You... That’s preposterous! Thou art mistaken.”

Norfolk laughed viciously. “Nay, I’m not. And one day I’ll have thee, Doctor, on the point of my spear. Thou shalt sing the truth of it, then.” He lowered his voice even further. “Thy wife will be there, too. And the spear I’ll use on her will not be of metal, but strong and straight withal.”

Brandon lunged and grabbed Norfolk by the throat.

“Doctor!” Hastings shouted.

The room fell silent, and Brandon pulled Norfolk close, hissing through clenched teeth, “Look at my wife again, threaten her again, and I swear I’ll kill you—consequences be damned.”

“Jonathan, that is enough!” Hastings crossed the room and took Brandon’s arm. “Release him at once!”

Brandon shoved Norfolk away.

The duke stumbled backward, but caught himself, then rubbed his throat and grinned with fiendish pleasure.

Chapter Thirty

The road to Kew was dry and dusty from the relentless sun, an amazing thing for the end of September. Passing Windsor, Brandon noticed the place seemed deserted, even ominously quiet. His throat parched, he took a swig from his water skein, then eyed Henry Hastings. His lordship looked grim, tired, and unhappy. Nothing new there, since they had both left Cumnor Hall feeling as though they’d been put through the gristmill.

Thinking back over the culminating events, Brandon replayed the final confrontation with Norfolk.
Bloody hell
,
he spoke of my arrival at The Bishop’s Crook.
Said he knows where I came from. And Anne… He knows when she was born.

It was evident Norfolk had proof via Anne’s belongings, which had been stolen from the church. But this should not have been such a surprise, because Brandon and Anne already suspected Norfolk had acquired her passport.

He ground his teeth, trying to dispel the sense of foreboding. He’d known it was only a matter of time, after all, before someone talked to an eyewitness about what they’d seen at the Crook on the night of his arrival. The general looks of shock and fear among the patrons had told him as much.

Norfolk was up to something. Brandon would just have to step up his guard. He must speak to Robert Wright about this as soon as he got home; the bishop would know what to do.

Emerging from his thoughts, Brandon said, “Thank you, er, I thank thee for saving my neck back there, my lord. I might have killed the bastard right then, if not for thine intervention.”

Hastings nodded. “Aye. Methinks ’twas best we left when we did, though it be a day early.”

Brandon shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and changed the subject. “I appreciate thy kindness in bringing Anne out to Kew. It will be so much easier for us, leaving for the funeral from there.”

“Think nothing of it,” Hastings responded. “My wife and Dudley very much admire Anne’s spirit and good nature. I’m sure it was a boon to them both that she could come.”

“My lord, how is the inquest to be formally concluded?”

“Two days after Amy Dudley’s funeral, Smythe shall present his findings before the Privy Council. The evidence will there be weighed and sifted, then a vote shall take place, either to accept or reject his conclusion of ‘death by mischance.’ Accidental death. If that be the case, it shalt be published, and the matter over and done with.”

“And if they reject?”

“If they find murder to be the more likely scenario, a trial will be convened against whomever they feel the evidence indicates to be the guilty party.” There was a long pause. “Jonathan, in my heart I know Dudley to be entirely innocent.”

“I, too,” Brandon said. “But—wouldst thou say more?”

“Aye. Truly, there are things that weigh heavily upon mine own mind. Things that I can neither ignore, nor resolve.”

“Such as?”

“The miniature of Robbie,” Hastings replied. “It seems a trivial matter, but why should it not be on Amy’s person? Even if she had taken it out to gaze upon it, and had let it drop, she wouldst never have walked away without first recovering the thing.” He stared down the road, considering. “Dost thou still hold to the opinion her elixir would not have caused her to act in such a way?”

“Yes. The elixir dulls pain, eases worry, brings on euphoria,” Brandon explained, “but she would still be sensible—would know if she’d dropped the miniature—would know the stairs were a danger. And it would by no means give her any added strength. Rather, it would bring on a certain lassitude in the muscles.”

“Just as thou said, just as thou said.” Hastings waved his hand, obviously agitated, then turned and looked straight at Brandon. “What sort of conclusion are we then to draw? She
would
not have done this to herself. She
could
not have arrived at the bottom of the stairs by singular mischance. And Robert Dudley, whilst a fool’s fool at times, has
not
the blackness of heart to end her life a-purpose, whether in person or no. Upon that I will stake mine own soul!”

The same troublesome thoughts whirled in Brandon’s mind, but he could get no closer to resolving them than his lordship. Amy Dudley was rarely at court, had few friends, and no enemies. She was a church mouse, he thought. A faithful, sweet, little church mouse.

As they plodded along in silence, his eyes roamed lazily over the thirsty vegetation lining the roadside.
I don’t believe anyone killed her
, he told himself.
It’s just that we aren’t able to reconcile all the pieces of the puzzle, that’s all. Any conclusion other than accidental death is simply beyond reason. She showed no signs of abuse, none of poisoning, or strangulation.

The turrets of the Dudley estate rose in the distance and Brandon’s mood lifted. Anne was there, waiting for him. His heart filled with the ache, the need to see her again, to hold her close.

He turned to the nobleman, apologizing. “I must be off—can’t wait—Annie!”

Hastings laughed as Brandon touched his heels to the flanks of his steed and set off at a gallop, leaving his friend in the dust.

…

Sliding from his horse, Brandon shoved the reins into the hands of a groom, then bounded up the steps of the manor house. The door opened, and a tall soldier of the queen’s guards moved into view, blocking his entry.

Brandon halted. While attempting to gaze beyond the man’s form, he explained, “I’m Dr. Jonathan Brandon. I’m expected.”

“Aye, so thou wouldst have me believe. But, sir, I was told t’ expect a Dr. Brandon on the morrow, and that he’d be arrivin’ with Lord Henry Hastings.”

“Well, old chap, I’m here a day early, aren’t I? As for his lordship––”

Just then, a commotion sounded on the driveway, and Brandon saw Hastings rein in.

“Ho there!” Lord Henry shouted. “Be a good fellow and let the doctor pass.” He dismounted, then added, “Let Tamworth know we’re here and that we wish to see Lord Robert.”

The soldier bowed to Hastings, then gave Brandon a curt nod and pointed into the foyer.

Brandon swept past him and was immediately confronted by a man of small stature and grave expression, followed by two serving men carrying clothing and leather boots. The man snapped his fingers and pointed to the stairs, and the servants hastened away. This must be Dudley’s valet.

“Sir?” he asked, giving Brandon a short bow.

“Tamworth?”

“Aye, sir.”

“My wife... Where is Mistress Brandon?”

“Ah, Doctor, of course. I believe... Aye, I saw thy wife in the garden with Lord Robert. Come, sir.” He motioned for Brandon to follow.

They passed through the foyer, then entered a long hallway, which took them to the rear of the house and a pair of opened back doors.

“There, sir,” Tamworth said, indicating two figures in the distance, a black-garbed pair sitting on a bench beneath the sheltering arch of a linden tree.

Brandon hurried down the back steps and onto a path of crushed oyster shells. The woman had her back to him, and, as he approached, he could tell she was thin, her shoulder blades sharp and showing through the fabric of her dress. That couldn’t be Anne, could it?

“Annie?” he asked, worried.

The woman turned—Lady Catherine.

Brandon was overcome with relief.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Doctor? How good to see thee. May I hope thou hast brought mine own dear husband along as well?”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“Glad tidings, that.”

He bowed, then glanced around, hoping to see Anne, but his gaze settled on Dudley. The nobleman was pale and disheveled, his shirtfront unlaced, his trembling hands clutching a bottle of wine.

Brandon looked at Lady Catherine with questioning eyes just as Dudley raised the bottle to his lips, took a long, deep pull, and tossed it into some bushes.

“Forgive me,” Brandon said. “Forgive the intrusion. I was told Anne was—er, I wish to see my wife.”

“As do I!” Dudley cried out. Lowering his head into his hands, he sobbed drunkenly. “Sweet Christ, Amy, oh Amy!”

Catherine Hastings gently rubbed her brother’s back, then turned to Brandon. “I fear ’tis a dreadful time, Doctor. Robert doth seek solace in his cups.”

With a low curse, Dudley pulled away from her, then rose unsteadily to his feet, and stumbled down the path toward the house. “I should be with Eliza! Not here, not here. ’Tis a dream—nay, a nightmare!”

Lady Catherine stood. “Mayhap Henry should speak with my brother. His friendship hath always been a comfort.”

“Catherine, my dear, I’m back!” Hastings called out as he hurried down the path and intercepted Dudley, taking him by the arm.

Brandon noticed how Catherine’s eyes lit up at the sight of her husband. “M’lady, please, about Anne...”

She watched as Hastings steered Dudley up the back steps.

“M’lady?”

Shaking her head, Lady Catherine reached down and attempted to smooth a few wrinkles from her gown. “Aye, aye. I didst hear thee, Doctor. Forgive me. Thou must be sore travailed from thy long journey. Thy dear wife doth favor an afternoon stroll to the north border and thou shalt find her at Willow Lake. The path begins just beyond the rose garden gate. Keep bearing north as the path branches. ’Tis a most wondrous spot for a reunion.”

Brandon turned to go, intent on finding Anne.

“A moment more, Doctor.”

He forced himself to turn back. “Yes?”

“I tell you this merrily and with no forbearance, but it doth seem t’ me that men need to hear such things,” she said. “Count thy blessings, for thou art a fortunate man. Anne loves thee so.”

She gave him a small smile and then set off for the house.

…

It was hot, the faint breeze redolent with the dusty-sweet scent of fresh cut hay. Anne left the fields through an opening in a tall blackberry hedgerow, heading for an undulating swath of willow trees and the path to her secret refuge.

After a few minutes, she halted and stared. The small lake at Kew was a welcome sight, a dark blue crescent framed by brown cattails, bushes laden with ripening rosehips, and tall weeping willows.

Heaven on Earth.

Keeping her eyes on the shrubbery, she slipped off her clothing and hastened to the shore. She knew the pretense of watchfulness was not necessary, however, for she had not seen a soul during her afternoon forays to the lake. The Dudley household was in deep mourning, and no one ventured beyond the estate’s formal gardens, or the working fields and orchards.

She parted the reeds and waded in to her knees, mud squishing between her toes. Hesitating for only a moment, willing herself to prepare for the delicious shock of cold water hitting her torso, she drew a breath, plunged into the lake, and swam to the middle. The spring-fed pond was deep and clear, the breeze light, a wisp across her face. Breathing in, a faint, crisp-sweet smell carried in from the orchards, holding a trace of sun-warmed cider apples and ripe berries.

Wonderful
, Anne thought as she turned and floated on her back. For a time, she slipped into near somnolence and lazily drifted, reveling in her freedom from long gowns and stifling corsets, from clothing of any kind, from the daunting problems of time travel to the sixteenth century, her lost family, her absent husband.

But worries soon intruded. She found herself pondering the implications of her message to her grandmother, now secreted in the midst of the Hastings’s family Bible. When would she notice the addition to Jonathan’s letter? And what would she do when she saw it?

She’ll probably contact Dad and Mom immediately
, Anne decided,
and then call her lawyer, who’ll start a search for the Bible.
Yet, there could be big problems. Jonathan’s letter had only so much space. In order for Anne to continue communication, her grandmother needed to get hold of the Bible. Who owned it in 2014? Was it in private hands, or was it in a museum and impossible to buy? If privately held, would the owner actually agree to part with it?

Anne opened her eyes, turned over, and began to do the breaststroke. With each stroke, she let her lips touch the water, blowing lightly across its surface, the small, wet puffs matching the rhythm of her arms.

What about the cost of such a book? Her grandmother was a wealthy woman, but even her budget had limitations. Thank goodness Jonathan hadn’t used the Gutenberg!

She flipped over again, her backstroke smooth and effortless as she knifed toward the center of the lake.

So many questions, so many variables. She still had to get back into the Hastings’s library from time to time and deposit new messages. Despite her most fervent hopes, she realized she would never know if her grandmother found her notes.

But she had to try.

She frowned. And what exactly should she say about her relationship with Jonathan in her future messages? How much detail should she give?

I don’t know
. Tired now, Anne closed her eyes and floated, her racing thoughts a counterpoint to the stillness of her limbs.

Would she ever find a way back home? Was there any possibility? A thought struck her, sending a chill down her spine. If she did find a crack in time, would Jonathan want to come with her, or would he rather travel back to his own time to find the young Catherine Hastings and resume his old life? And if he did, and then married Catherine, there’d be other children and grandchildren, an entirely different family.

And I would not be born
.

She opened her eyes and stared at the sky, which perfectly matched the shade of her husband’s gorgeous blue eyes.

Damn you, Jonathan Brandon. You’ve made me so happy, too happy. I’m wallowing in doubt and questions that can’t be answered. Damn, damn, damn,
she silently berated him
. I want to be at your side, to grow old with you here
—
or wherever.

But what about you, what about you?

Pursing her lips, she closed her eyes and drifted on.

…

Anne loves thee so
.

As Brandon hurried along the path to Willow Lake, he couldn’t get Lady Catherine’s words out of his mind. Could she be right? Did Annie really love him?