The Thornless Rose (4 page)

Wasting no time, Anne pulled it off the shelf and pried open the lid. Inside was a haphazard pile of magazine articles. The top one was titled, “Time Reversal.” The upper left corner held a penciled notation in her grandmother’s hand:
Very interesting
.

Anne picked up two more articles. “On the Generalized Theory of Gravitation,” with another notation:
Get non-scien. translation
. And the third, “The Flow of Time,” which was unmarked.

“What the...?” Anne whispered. She dug into the box, finding articles about time loops, wormholes, light speed, quantum physics, and innumerable other subjects she couldn’t wrap her thoughts around. Why in the world had her grandmother been reading such stuff?

Suddenly, Anne heard the muffled sounds of Duffy barking. After taking a breath to steady her nerves, she pushed everything back in place and crept downstairs.

Trudy’s voice rose from the kitchen. “Twee, laddie, ye’ll no’ be gettin’ more mince beef from this woman, surely. Now shoo, McDuff, shoo!”

Was her grandmother in there, too? Not wanting to see anyone yet, Anne slipped into the quiet of the library.

“Anne!” Catherine spun around and stared at her for a moment, then shoved a book onto the shelf. “You startled me. I thought you were down with a headache.”

Anne stood silent, confused. She shifted from one foot to the other, avoiding her grandmother’s questioning look. The headache must have been Trudy’s cover for her sneaking around. “Well, yes, but I couldn’t sleep really.”

“Dear Lord, I’ve upset you with the things I revealed about Jonnie, haven’t I?”

Anne noticed a little tremble in her grandmother’s voice and knew she couldn’t tell her about what had happened at the Abbey. Forcing a smile, she shook her head. “I’m fine. You know I love a good mystery. I’m just looking for something to read. I thought I heard you in the kitchen with Trudy. She was telling Duffy he couldn’t have any more hamburger, er, mince.” Anne looked at the dust cover on the sofa. “I haven’t seen you in here since Grandpa died.”

“You’re quite right. I don’t often come in,” Catherine said softly. Stepping back from the shelves, she placed her hand on top of the high back desk chair and pulled away its cover.

“What were you reading?” Anne asked as she went to the spot where Catherine had stood. She glanced at the titles, unsure of which one her grandmother had held.
A History of France
by Maurois,
The Decline and Fall
... by Gibbon, and
Tudor England
by T.S. Bindoff. Anne took down
Tudor England
.

“I remember Grandpa was a real history buff, wasn’t he?” Anne casually leafed through the pages. “Were you going to read this one? Mind if I take it to my room?”

“No, darling. Please, do go right ahead.”

Anne nodded. “Grandma, I thought I’d take a little sight-seeing trip out to Hampton Court soon, maybe tomorrow. Okay?”

Catherine didn’t respond right away. Then, in a small yet determined voice, she replied, “I should very much like to come along, if you don’t mind.”

Chapter Five

The vast Renaissance portrait gallery at Hampton Court Palace had windows along the north side, letting in plenty of sunshine but no direct rays. The gilt carvings along the ceiling, doors, and windows glittered in the natural light.

Anne and Catherine stood in the middle of the room studying the Tudor-era portraits, taking in the details of the subjects with their ornate costumes. In the hours since they’d arrived, the tour had gone on normally. With relief, Anne detected nothing unusual, no ghostly visitations by long dead kings.

She felt a measure of relaxation return as she glanced down at herself and smiled. “How could the Elizabethan lords and ladies stand those elaborate get-ups, Grandma? I guess jeans and T-shirts wouldn’t make it in those days, would they?”

Catherine shook her head. “No, you’d be taken for a stableboy, at best.”

“Thanks a bunch.”

“Now then, ladies and gentlemen.” The costumed tour guide pointed to a large painting, the centerpiece of the room. “This is a copy of the famous Holbein mural of Henry VIII and a few members of his family,” the man said, “done very near the end of His Majesty’s reign. It is one of the first paintings to show royal subjects in full-length. We see his parents, Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, who were long dead by this time, and the most dutiful wife, Jane Seymour, who bore him his long awaited son, Edward, even though the poor lady did not survive the birth by more than a fortnight.”

Anne looked into Jane’s eyes, but did not feel a connection. In fact, no one in the portraits called to her—not like him, not like Brandon’s photo had—and she was relieved. No unsettling hocus-pocus, no hint of anything weird or overwhelming.

The guide went on, “Unfortunately, the original Holbein mural burnt along with the rest of Whitehall Palace in 1698.”

Anne and Catherine followed their tour group out of the portrait gallery, heading for the Chapel Royal, where Henry VIII and his descendants had prayed. They trooped down a long hallway, until the guide halted everyone before a wooden door.

Anne glanced about. The hall had an eerie feel.

“And you may have heard rumors about the tragic ghost that seems to reside in this hall.” The guide’s voice rose dramatically. “The terrible screams of Henry’s fifth wife have been heard in this haunted gallery many, many times over the years. She’d been accused of adultery and sought his mercy. But Old King Hal would only put up with his own philandering, not that of his wives, and Katherine Howard was taken to the Tower to meet her fate.” He placed his finger to his lips. “Shhh. I rather hope Her Majesty will grace us with her royal presence.”

Everyone grew quiet, straining for a look down the corridor. Finally, someone in the crowd made a ghostly wail. A few snickers followed, then a scattering of quiet laughter.

“I would assume,” the tour guide said, chuckling, “our Queen Katherine had a previous engagement today. However, on occasion, her ghost has even been seen running down the haunted gallery, skirts flying, face twisted in agony, trying to get to Henry VIII, who was inside the chapel.”

Relieved to be leaving the spooky hallway, Anne and Catherine followed their guide into the Chapel Royal. The magnificent vaulted ceiling had been painted blue and decorated with tiny golden stars, its great arcing beams and figures of cherubs gilded with gold leaf.

“Rather posh,” Catherine whispered as Anne nodded. “You can almost imagine the sounds of the Elizabethans’ silks and satins as they knelt to prayer.”

They continued on through the royal apartments to the gardens outside. Nearly everyone in their tour group searched through their handbags, looking for sunglasses or hats to shield their eyes from the brilliant morning sun.

“Ah, this is as summer should be,” said Catherine as she adjusted a pair of dark shades on her nose. “None of yesterday’s lumpy skies.”

Anne smiled.

“Which room did you prefer, darling?”

“Hard to say. Definitely not the hallway. I think maybe the Chapel Royal with that fabulous ceiling. I’ll have to buy some teaching aids for my unit on English history.”

“Yes, we can go to the gift shop before we leave,” Catherine said.

The crunching sound of horses’ hooves on gravel made Anne start and jump back. Men and women—dressed in red or black hunt jackets, respectively—rode out of a far courtyard. Remembering the newspaper article, she was relieved to see modern clothing. King Hal and his friends were nowhere in sight.

“Don’t mind the horses, darling,” Catherine reassured. “The old stables are still used by a riding club. Come, the guide is getting away from us.”

They moved on to the Pond Garden, Anne snapping pictures of the layout of the garden and its flowers from every angle. Then she focused beyond the stone-capped garden walls, on the far bank of the river Thames, and the line of trees surrounded by green and golden parkland.

“...Henry VIII was, with one exception, besotted by each of his wives in the beginning,” the guide continued. “It was here he commissioned a gardener to create a new flower in honor of Katherine Howard, whom he called his ‘Rose Without a Thorn.’ The strain was weak and didn’t last very many years, although it did outlive its namesake. Alas, no one has been able to duplicate it since that era, as no description of color or strain was ever noted, so far as we have discovered. Back in the day, they called it ‘Queen Katherine’s Thornless Rose.’”

Sweet smells wafted up from roses in bloom. Anne drew in a deep, appreciative breath.

“And to finish your tour,” the guide gestured toward the brick palace, “I’d like to point out the great bay window installed by order of Queen Elizabeth I in 1568. One might imagine her standing there even now, looking out over Hampton Court’s magnificent gardens.”

Anne marveled at the window’s many diamond-shaped panes, glittering in the sunshine.

Catherine touched Anne’s elbow. “Our coach party is scheduled to meet in the car park in twenty minutes. We should hurry to the gift shop.”

“Do me a favor, will you, Grandma? Go on ahead and scout things out for me. I’ll catch up.”

As Catherine headed off, Anne brought the camera to her eye, concentrating on a lovely yellow rose. A cloud passed over the sun. A sudden breeze whirled through the garden, causing the rose in her viewfinder to dance and shudder. She shivered. Someone called out, “Halt, boy! Vile rat catcher! Thou hast a marvelous boldness, standing here in the queen’s garden!”

Anne lowered her camera and gaped. A raven-haired man, resplendent in Elizabethan dress, stood before her holding a goblet. Her gaze roamed over him, from plumed velvet hat to pearled earlobe, then on to silken doublet, jeweled knife sheath, and prominent satin codpiece.

Dude!
Anne quickly looked away from his crotch.

He pointed at her with the goblet, sloshing his drink. “God’s death, mine own eyes do betray me. Thou art a woman!” he slurred, then tossed the goblet into the bushes.

This guy’s drunk!

Anne smiled politely to placate him and looked for an escape. “You don’t approve of my jeans. Expecting some kind of gown?” She backed away, but he kept up with her. “So, who are you?”

He straightened and cleared his throat. “I am Robert, Lord Dudley. Who, pray tell, art thou?” He seemed to sober up as his gaze scoured her from head to toe. “Thine own attire is curious and of a type not seen in this realm. When first I beheldth thee, I thought thee one of the queen’s molers or rat catchers, but thou art most beauteous fair, whatever thine attire.” He bowed. “I am at thy service.”

Anne rolled her eyes and curtseyed. “Then may I take your picture by the roses? How ’bout the pink ones over there?”

“Katherine’s rose,” he said, nodding as he took his dagger and cut a dew-covered bloom.

Click.
She took his picture.

“Ah,” he went on. “Katherine was a young, nubile lass, and I knew her well. But, thankfully, not so well that I joined her lovers on the gibbets, as I was but nine or ten years of age at the time, praise God. But Queen Katherine did blossom in beauty once, like her namesake rose. Her beauty wouldst pale in comparison to thine own, however, even if thou art clothed as a lad.”

“Oh, you’re good,” Anne said, grinning.

He grinned back. “So I’ve been told many a time!”

Suddenly, he put an arm around her waist, his gaze on her mouth. “Thy lips are red as pomegranates,” he murmured.

This was going too far. “No, no,” Anne said, flustered. She moved out of his embrace. “My grandmother is here—she’s, er, coming right back. Jeez, isn’t consorting with the tourists against company policy?”

With a puzzled look, he said, “Tourists? Thy speech confounds me. But thou art beautiful, more lovely than any at court.” Taking her hand, he pulled her close and kissed her.

She tasted wine and struggled to push him away. “Back off! You’re drunk!”

He took a step backward and laughed. “Whatever m’lady wishes. Let it not be said that Robert, Lord Dudley, is a wanton muff-splitter who wouldst take liberties without proper invitation.”

“A wanton what?”

He chuckled. “An enjoyer of women!”

Anne’s eyes widened. The guy’s vocabulary was really out there.

He held the rose to her and bowed with a flourish.

Anne took it and stared at the stem. There were no thorns, only small, harmless, hairlike bristles.

Oh, jeez, is this a thornless rose?
What had the tour guide said about a rose and Queen Katherine? Searching her memory, she wished she’d listened to his rendition more carefully.

“Thy name, m’lady?”

“Huh?” She turned her gaze back to him. “Oh, it’s Anne Howard.”

“Thou art a Howard?”

To her surprise, he eyed her with suspicion. What had she said?

“The queen, Katherine, was a Howard.” He slowly nodded. “And now I see it. Thou hast the look of her.” With a scowl, he studied the camera around her neck, then her jeans and sneakers. “Woman, what is this hurly-burly?” His fingers returned to the dagger. “Art thou a witch, or some phantom of Queen Katherine come back to haunt this place?”

“Have you lost your mind?” Anne turned away from him and ground to a halt, seeing a strange landscape.
What the heck?
The Pond Garden now held different hedges and flowers. Tall, striped poles topped with heraldic beasts—dragons, lions, and hounds—surrounded the pond. Beyond the garden, past the Thames’ embankment, a thick forest stretched as far as the eye could see.

She spun about and saw the palace’s façade; there was no bay window in Hampton Court, and the bricks were painted a garish red.

Once more, Anne felt goose bumps. She looked down at her fading self and then felt—this time she really felt—his strong hands grasp at her clothes and pull at her arm.

…

“Darling,” Catherine called from the path, “please, do come along.”

With a start, Anne realized she still held her camera against her eye, as if the intervening moments with the man calling himself Robert Dudley had not occurred.
Time slip?
Other words from the magazine articles filled her mind.
Time warp?
Wormhole?
Knees shaking, she knew it would take a supreme effort to keep her footing.

“Might I remind you of the time, darling? We’ll lose our coach party if we delay.”

Anne began to lower her camera and was about to answer her grandmother, when she felt something velvety and moist in her hand, crushed between her fingers and the side of the camera.

“Oh!” she cried, dropping the squashy thing on the ground.

“What is it?” Catherine rushed to her side.

“It’s...” Anne’s tone cracked with fear. “Oh my God, it’s a rose!”

“Well, of course it is. Lord, you didn’t pick it, did you? We’ll be run out in a thrice if they find you’ve––”

“No, I didn’t pick it. Someone gave it to me.” Anne retrieved the rose from the ground and handed it to her grandmother. “Take a look at the stem.”

Squinting, Catherine examined it. “I don’t understand. There are no thorns...” Her voice trailed off, then she blurted, “How in the world did you come by such a thing?”

“You’re not going to believe this, Grandma,” Anne said, gazing at the spot where she last saw Robert Dudley. “You’re not going to believe what just happened.”