The Thornless Rose (31 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Anne and Jonathan arrived in London late that night. As they stepped off the barge at the Bread Street dock, she braced herself for the stench of the city, but it smelled clean. The muck channels had gotten a thorough rinsing from the recent downpour.

The barge steward raced ahead and hailed a carriage to take them home. After a short, uneventful ride through London’s dark streets, they arrived at St. Bart’s. Alerted by the appearance of their trunks earlier in the day, Mary Prentice and the rest of the staff had anticipated their return and decorated the great hall with herbs and sprigs of fall-colored leaves. The staff stood about, bleary eyed but happy.

“Come in then, Mistress Brandon,” Mary said, smiling. “We’ve some hot cider t’ warm thy bones.”

“That sounds good, Mary. Thanks.”

“Doctor, Mistress Anne, welcome home!”

Anne watched Bob Hope strut up to her husband, proudly wearing the new sword provided him after the bishop’s attack. He yammered like a happy pup at Jonathan’s heel, detailing all of the work he’d done with security. Then the nurse, Jenny, bustled forth with an exacting—and happily uneventful—list of the patients she’d dealt with since their departure.

“Might a poor fellow be allowed to join in the festivities?”

Anne turned as Bishop Wright hobbled into the room.

With a supreme look of defiance, he added, “Doctor, I’ll not hear a word of scolding.”

Laughing, Jonathan took the bishop’s cane and helped him to the table. “You look the very devil. Whatever are you doing out of bed?”

Wright smiled. “I stayed abed another full week as ordered, but blast, man, I’d have become permanently infirmed if I’d stayed there any longer. Besides, I couldn’t miss your homecoming.”

“Tough old buzzard,” Jonathan said, smiling back. “I’ll admit it’s a delight to see you up and about looking so chipper.”

Mugs of cider were passed around. Jonathan raised his, exchanged a smile with Anne, and turned to everyone. “Cheers! It’s good to be home.”

…

Although the hour was painfully late, Anne hummed as she moved around the bedroom, putting away the last few things from their luggage, while her husband made a cursory check of the hospital. Mary was still in the adjacent room, airing their travel clothes. Anne had shooed her out moments earlier, wanting peace.

A pair of rolled stockings was the only thing left to put away. Opening the little drawer in her nightstand, she was surprised as strips of white cloth—her rags—spilled onto the floor.

Anne stared at them mutely.

She made a half-hearted attempt at counting days on her fingertips. Too tired for such figuring, she stopped short of full reassurance and shivered, telling herself it must be from the cold air seeping through the walls. She took her grandmother’s cape and wrapped it around her shoulders, then stooped to gather up the jumble.

Better to let it go for now. As she shoved the rags into the drawer, she called out, “Mary?”

“Aye, Mistress?”

“I need a bath, if you don’t mind.”

“But ’tis the wee hours!”

Anne glanced up.

Mary stood at the door, frowning. “Art thou sure about wantin’ a bath?”

Anne nodded. “Oh, yes. Absolutely!”

“Absolutely?” Mary heaved a weary sigh. “Aye, a bath ’tis, straight away.”

“I’m sorry. You’ve all been doing a terrific job keeping the place going without Dr. Brandon and staying up so late for us tonight. You don’t have to wait around. Just put on some water to heat, I’ll take care of cleaning up afterward—okay? Go on to bed and feel free to sleep in tomorrow. I’m sure my husband and I will be sleeping quite late, too.”

“Mistress, thou art a wonder and kind-hearted t’ allow it.” Mary smiled, then turned toward the door, speaking over her shoulder, “I’ll have the bath in a thrice and take myself off t’ bed afterwards, right gladly. I thank thee, Mistress Anne.”

…

Alone with the bishop in his surgery, Brandon took his time, searching for words that would accurately convey his worries about Norfolk. A study in patience, Bishop Wright waited by the door, leaning on his cane, calm, levelheaded, as though he had already found the answers to what Brandon was about to ask.

“Please, do sit down,” Brandon indicated a stool, “though I shan’t be long. Anne has insisted I make short work of my rounds and get myself to bed. On the last day of the inquest at Cumnor Hall, I had another confrontation with Norfolk.”

The bishop took a seat. “What happened?”

Brandon drew up a second stool. “Norfolk’s gotten hold of some of Anne’s things and knows about her. He also knows where I came from, and when and where I arrived. I’m terrified for Anne’s sake. That bastard,” he grimaced at the memory of the duke’s evil smile, “that bloody bastard wants to kill me and take Anne. I fear he will simply lock her up for his own vile sport, and she’ll never be heard from again.”

Wright stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Those are troubling words. Thou must keep Anne close by thy side, and, if need be, I’ve good friends who can hide you both. We Papists have lived in mortal danger over the years. ’Tis a pity, but our queen hast the power, and mayhap the will, to once again tighten the nooses about our necks, though she’s not called for outright war against Catholics, as her father did. I fear the time will come, however, for our enemies hold sway at court and whisper in her ear.” He paused. “I know one faithful and courageous monk quite well. He wouldst provide sanctuary for you two in a secret place far from evil eyes.”

“A monk?”

“Aye, but we have not the need of him yet. Keep a sharp watch on Norfolk, but do nothing hasty. The duke cannot act against Anne and thee with impunity, for you have powerful allies within the royal court.”

They stood then, gazing at one another. Brandon felt deep gratitude as he studied the bishop’s kindly face. If not for him, he was convinced he would have died on the streets of London after his arrival in 1559. “Robert, I am most grateful for our friendship. I would not be alive, but for...”

“Aye, Jon. ’Twas God’s will,” the bishop said. “I am marvelous glad I took thee in that day. Thou wast a lost soul, far from home. I hid thee from those who wouldst have burned thee at the stake for devilry, for thou wast a stranger amongst them, a man whose clothes and demeanor bestirred the lumpen to seek reprisal for thy supposed crimes. Only I knew thou wast a good man in dire need of help, for I didst receive a God-sent message.”

Brandon frowned. “What do you mean, Robert?”

“Ah, I shalt never tell. I cannot divulge that which is between mine own self and the Lord.” He smiled. “Just know thou art loved by God. Anne, too. I am most grateful she found her way here, to me. I have come to realize that if I cannot shepherd my flock through the auspices of the Holy Church, I must do what I can for the strays He sends my way.”

“Yes, we are the flock of St. Bart’s,” Brandon said, stifling a yawn as best he could. “Well, old chap, I’m off to bed. But first, I must see to a bit of personal cleanliness, or Annie won’t allow me to enter the Lady Chapel, let alone our bed. And, by the way, in answer to an earlier question, I love Anne very much and I’ve told her so, many times.”

The bishop’s eyes twinkled as the men shook hands and bade each other good night.

…

The steaming water felt glorious to Anne, easing away the constant tensions of the past few weeks. The kitchen fire crackled merrily, keeping the copper tub and upper half of her body pleasantly warm, while the lower half luxuriated.

Anne rested the back of her head against the rim of the tub and sang, her voice barely above a whisper, a snippet of an old song, which the moment seemed to demand. “Heaven, I’m in heaven...”

“And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.”

Anne smiled at the sound of her husband’s baritone. “You can carry a decent tune, Doctor. My compliments.”

“I meant every word of it, Annie.”

She opened her eyes to see him leaning against the closed door, his arms folded loosely across his chest. He wore little, only breeches and an unlaced shirt, his feet bare against the stone floor. Eyes bright, hair damp, and face freshly shaved, he was a far cry from the exhausted man who had stood with her on the dock just a few hours ago.

“Hey, Handsome!” she quipped. “Is there another tub around here I don’t know about?”

Smiling, he looked down at himself. “Jug and basin, that’s all, a lonely soldier’s war deprivations. One gets used to having very little.”

“Poor baby, next time you’ll have to let me help.”

With a telling smile, he turned and locked the door, then glanced back at her. “I say, you look rather posh sitting there in such luxury.”

Anne could feel a blush of pleasure on her cheeks. She couldn’t think of a thing to say, hoping her smile spoke for her.

“Might I wash your hair?” he asked as he moved away from the door.

“I’d love it.”

Jonathan took a large pot off a hook and placed it against the tub beneath her head, and then reached for pitchers of his special shampoo and the rinse water resting nearby on the floor.

Slowly, carefully, he began to pour with one hand, easing the streamlet through her hair with the other. Anne studied his face, his expression one of earnest concentration.

He replaced the first pitcher and reached for the other, drizzling out the shampoo, then working it in with both hands.

“Mmm,” she moaned, closing her eyes. Soft as a whisper, she felt the brush of his lips on her neck and a flood of answering emotion surged through her body.

Reaching up, she took his face in her hands and drew him to her, kissing deeply. “I love you.”

He smiled. “I know.”

Anne was beginning to recognize that look—mischief!

As she reached out to touch him, he pulled away, laughing.

“I dare say the lady needs to finish her bath.” He kissed her neck again, evading her fingers, and resumed washing her hair.

The lather was thick and his hands moved like iron velvet over her scalp
. He’s on a mission
, she thought.
Oh yeah, what a mission!
Every part of her body cried out for his touch. She knew he knew. She groaned. This was torture. Sensual torture.

He finished washing, then set about rinsing her hair, now and again brushing her neck and shoulders with his lips, saying nothing, but humming snatches of the song she had begun.

“Stand up, Annie,” he finally said.

She opened her eyes. He stood next to her, holding out his hands. She took them and rose, shivering slightly before her body adjusted to the temperature.

He picked up a used bar of Castile soap, small and nearly spent. “How many are left?” he asked.

“Who cares?”

“No matter. I’ll order more. I’m rather glad to see you’re pleased with my wedding gift.”

“Which wedding gift might you be referring to—the one I got in the morning, or the one I got in the evening?”

He laughed, and Anne watched as he dunked the soap and made lather. “We mustn’t...forget...to wash behind the ears.” His lips moved over her shoulders to her neck, then dropped down to her breasts as he murmured, while his soapy hands moved in slow, rhythmic circles over her back, arms, stomach, and hips.

Anne couldn’t be put off any longer. Moaning, she tugged at his garments, kissing him, wanting him. She yanked his shirt out of his pants, running her hands eagerly over his skin. Fumbling at the strings of his codpiece, she had to stop when he pulled away and knelt down, still kissing, still caressing.

Her mind a blur of desire, she coaxed him back to his feet, pushing at his breeches until they fell about his knees. “Jonathan––”

“Shhh, I still need to rinse,” he mumbled between kisses. He stood back then, kicking his pants away, reaching for the pitcher.

Her gaze took him in. He was flushed from the heat in the room, and hard with desire. When he straightened, his eyes only met hers fleetingly, for he was concentrating on pouring the contents of the pitcher over her, making sure the soap washed away, watching intently as the rivulets of water ran winding paths down the length of her body.

When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she took the pitcher out of his hand and dropped it carefully into the bathwater. Then she reached out with both hands, wove her fingers into his hair, and drew him to her.

Jonathan’s arms wrapped around her, and they kissed hungrily. Lifting her from the tub, carrying her a few steps, he lowered her onto the bath towel, spread out to warm in front of the fire.

“Now, my dear,” she whispered, “let’s see to that other wedding gift.”

…

Contentment.
Total contentment
, Anne thought, sitting in the great room. After returning from Windsor, she had been uncharacteristically exhausted and had spent two full days doing nothing but resting. Now, as the light of the gray, misty evening faded to dark, she felt better and snuggled in her robe, waiting for her husband to join her. She stretched her feet toward the flames blazing in the large, walk-in fireplace and wiggled her toes.

“Coffee, sweetheart?” Jonathan asked as he entered the room.

“Coffee? If this night gets any more perfect I’m going to explo––” Anne turned to look at him and burst into laughter. “Now that’s one hell of an outfit!”

Her husband stood before her, cloaked in a flowing robe of bronze brocade. It had a long train, and the collar and broad sleeves were trimmed in fox.

Anne continued to giggle.

Jonathan, steaming mugs in hand, seemed confused and stopped to look at himself. “What?”

Anne whistled. “I’m sorry, it’s just so, so swooshy.”

He turned up his nose in mock disdain. “’Tis the latest fashion, m’lady.
Très
1560!” He handed her a mug, smiling ruefully. “Now, don’t let Mary hear you. She made this for me after I tried to describe a smoking jacket—the style, fabric, and edging were all hers. She said they ’betoken me lofty position’.”

“Well, she did a great job! She captured the real you,” Anne teased.

Jonathan pulled his chair close beside her and sat, the voluminous sleeves and train of his cape swirling about him.