The Thornless Rose (7 page)

Part Two

Chapter Eight

What do I do now?
Anne wildly looked about. The landscape was barren, with only the raw bank of the river falling toward the water’s edge. But torch-lit streets lined with wattle and daub buildings lay in the distance. She raced on, the path beneath her feet packed dirt, riddled with stray cobbles. She stumbled over them, trying desperately to avoid falling, struggling to breathe and make sense of the thoughts whirling in her head.

“What—ach!” a man shouted. “God blind me! God blind me!”

“Shut yer trap and get her! Get her, Jack!”

Anne glanced over her shoulder. The men were coming, running after her, their shouts and footfalls echoing in the dark.

Closer. Closer. They would catch her if she didn’t do something immediately. She ground to a halt, wheeled about, reached into her bag, and fumbled with the cape, panicked. Where was the switchblade?
Where, where, where?

Her fingers found the handle of the umbrella and gripped it hard. She yanked it out, brandishing it before the men, who stumbled to a halt five feet from its tip.

…

Will Dawkins breathed hard, eyeing his partner, Jack Stubbs. With a smile, Jack nodded, then in unison they looked at their quarry. The woman was slender and tall, taller even than the average man. Yet, although a lass of such proportions would normally have been too long and lanky for Will’s tastes, and despite the fact he had seen her appear out of the air like a sorceress, he noted her fresh beauty, caught in the glow of the distant torches. It held him, made him want to take her, here and now.

“Stay away from me!” she yelled, waving a stick with a bit of cloth wrapped ’round it, as though she meant to attack. “I’m warning you!”

Jack nudged Will. “Remember when the sun went dark t’other day? I told thee, witches an’ such would be let loose t’ wander. Let’s be off. I can no’ abide witches.”

“Yes, go on,” the woman agreed. “Leave me alone, or else!”

“Nay, hold on, Jack.” Will scratched his beard, considering. He motioned toward the thing in her hand. “She’s movin’ that about like she’s a sword and buckler man wi’ his fancy blade, but she’ll do us no harm.” Laughing, he addressed her smoothly, “No need t’ fear the likes o’ us, Sweet’ns.”

“Wantin’ a taste of her quim, too, Will?” Jack waggled his tongue, circling her. “Mayhap I’ll join thee.”

The woman let out a gasp and took a step backward.

“Nay, Jack. I come second t’ no man,” Will said.

Jack chuckled. “Go on, then. Have a go at her first. Swive her good an’ hard. I don’t mind a butter’d bun.”

“Go to hell!” She thrust her contraption toward Will. “Don’t you freakin’ touch me!”

He leapt back, laughing. “Aye, she speaks with a witch’s tongue, but she hath no magic, else we’d be changed t’ toads or black cats by now.”

“Aye,” Jack agreed.

Will caught her pleasant scent. “An’ smell her. She’s sweet as a flower and ripe for the pluckin’.” He grinned with anticipation.

…

“Don’t come any closer, or I’ll––” Trying to look like she meant business, Anne brandished the umbrella and pressed the button on the grip. The scrape of metal. A sudden burst, a
whoosh
of fabric.

“Holy shyte!” the one called Will shrieked as both men jumped back, terrified.

Grasping her sudden advantage, Anne thrust the open umbrella in their faces. She struggled to hold it steady despite the violent shaking in her hand until they turned and ran screaming into the night. Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner? She was lucky as hell it’d worked.

Heart pounding, Anne got a final glimpse of the creeps just before they disappeared into the darkness. Lowering the umbrella, she took a deep breath. She felt weak, as if she’d just run a marathon. Her knees shook and she swayed, but then caught herself and tried to get her bearings. St. Paul’s steeple was clearly visible, but there was no bridge across the Thames.

Where was Blackfriar’s? If she’d passed through at the same place she was before—Bankside—then Blackfriar’s Bridge should have been on her left. But there was nothing there, nothing but dark water.

Anne could have let go then, could have easily started screaming and never stopped. But she closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, her nerves raw. If she fell apart now, she was going to get herself killed.

She opened her eyes and studied the far stretch of riverbank and recalled her grandmother’s final words:
Find Jonnie! Remember Smithfield! Find him there!

Fear scrambled her thoughts, but she forced it back, submerged it with the desperate need for rationality. Smithfield. Smithfield. It was on the other side of the Thames, behind St. Paul’s.

Anne searched for any sign of her attackers, or anyone else, then scanned the horizon. No hint of dawn. At least she had a little time before everyone was awake.

She worked the umbrella closed and placed it back in her leather bag. She pulled out the cape, fixed it on her shoulders, and reached into the hidden pocket. Her fingers immediately made contact with the errant switchblade.

“Gotcha,” she whispered.

She opened the blade, the glow of steel dancing faintly in the starlight. Glad her grandmother had insisted she take it, she eased it to the closed position and slipped it back into the pocket. After all, she didn’t want to stab herself in the next few hours.

With a grim smile, Anne set off toward the only bridge she knew with certainty existed in this time—London Bridge.

She darted through dark, filthy streets of compacted dirt that stunk of refuse and sewage. She clutched her cape about her and set off toward Southwark Cathedral. She knew the great church, recognizable even from this distance, lay just steps away from the entrance to the bridge.

The street was empty and dark. Yet those men were still out there somewhere. She decided to skirt the waterfront, hoping the north-south thoroughfare known as High Street existed in this time. It would lead her directly to the area around the old cathedral.

Walking swiftly, Anne finally spotted a sign in the distance, tacked upon a wooden pole. A road sign? She raced forward. Even though it was dark, she could make out: Borough High Street. She started down the road, passing a few shuttered buildings, until she reached an area of establishments with torch-lit signs. The George. White Hart. Tabard Inn. She could hear laughter and music coming from inside, but no one was on the street. So much the better.

Passing a bend in the road, she was brought up short. Ahead, several lamps glowed above a large pub sign, painted with a notched tower and the words
Castle Upon the Hoop
. The light illuminated a dozen or so men and horses moving about outside.

Anne found refuge in the dark recess of an unlit doorway.
Drunk as skunks
, she thought as she watched the men stumble about.

Some sang. One shouted up to a second-story window, “Lookee here, Sally! I’ve got the coin t’day an’ a terrible need!”

The window opened, and a bare-chested woman leaned out, her pendulous breasts swaying. “Aye, Smithie. C’mon up, an’ be quick abou’ it. I’ve no’ got the ’ole night t’ waste.”

A second woman with exposed breasts appeared at the front door to usher in Smithie, and Anne was astounded to see she was fully clothed. The cut of her dress was
supposed
to show her boobs. She searched her memory and could not recall having ever seen historical references to that kind of fashion statement.

She peered at the others who remained on the street, but they seemed too out of it to notice her. So, she gathered up her courage and briskly passed them, head and eyes downcast, fist gripping the switchblade inside her cape.

Another bend in the road and Anne saw Southwark Cathedral again. As she approached its main entrance, she was surprised to see an unfamiliar sign.
St. Saviour of Southwark
. She shrugged and raced past, more pressing things on her mind.

Worn out from hurry and fear, Anne stopped on the main road, took a deep breath, and looked up. A black shape loomed before her. London Bridge.

On a wall hung a single sputtering torch, and slumped on the ground in its feeble light lay something covered by a blanket. Suddenly, great snoring rumbles emanated from its depths, along with vague muttering. She tiptoed past the sleeping watchman and slipped into the gloom. Looking about her, she could barely make out the ancient drawbridge that had for centuries barred enemies from entering central London. But the city and her people were unthreatened this night; its gate stood wide and, for the moment, anyway, unguarded.

Passing through the gate, Anne gazed at the structures flanking both sides of the bridge. Two, three, and four-storey stone buildings hid the fact she was on a bridge at all. Except, she realized, she could smell the stench of the Thames and hear the rushing sounds of its currents.

She had only read about this and never dreamed she would see it in person. This once familiar bridge, in modern times unadorned and filled with traffic, now looked like a little city unto itself.

“I’m sure not in Kansas anymore,” she whispered.

As if in reply, the sleeping watchman sputtered. Startled, Anne looked back, but the man was beyond her field of vision. Her gaze fell on the bridge gate from the rear angle, her eyes traveling up its massive sides and across the top. She noticed what looked like decorations sticking out at odd angles from the roof. But they were not ornamental. They were ghastly, staring, rotting heads set on pikes. Human heads!

Anne clamped her hand over her mouth and ran, gagging, careening, stumbling on, until she reached mid-span, where there was a gap between buildings.

She stopped, sucking in a ragged breath.
Oh my God
, her mind screamed.
Oh my God!

…

Will and Jack hurried past the snoring night watchman, then through the gate of London Bridge, striving to catch up with the strange woman.

Puffing with the effort, Will glanced at the heads and then quickly looked away.

“Jesus God,” Jack said as they stumbled on. Suddenly, he grabbed Will’s arm and pulled him to a halt.

They saw her then, a long distance across the span, but plainly silhouetted against the evening sky. The witch-woman stood in silence, looking out at London town.

…

Anne gulped back a sob as she glanced over her shoulder. Had she heard something? She waited a moment, but the bridge looked empty behind her.

She reached into her shoulder bag and found her water bottle. She took a drink, letting the cool liquid run down her parched throat, willing herself to forget about the dozens of severed heads.

She had to go on. Placing the bottle back in her bag, she looked at the eastern sky, relieved to see no hint of the coming dawn. Smithfield was still a long way off, and the darkness was her ally.

Think, think. How far is Smithfield from London Bridge?

The clouds were broken, scudding across the heavens. She could make out the jagged skyline of the city, and again the great spire rising higher than the roofs of the surrounding buildings.

“Old St. Paul’s,” she said, relieved by the clear memory. “Smithfield is just beyond it.”

Once across the bridge, she headed up King William Street, although she could see no sign and had no idea if that was its present name. Then she turned on to what she hoped was Cannon Street, which would take her straight to the cathedral. Clouds blanketed the starlight once more, and since there were few torches about, she knew she would have to blindly feel her way through the confusing maze of city roads.

Anne lost track of time as she groped down twisting, stinking lanes. She tried to shut her mind against what her feet stumbled over, or what might be causing the almost constant sounds of rustling, scampering, and scurrying. On and on, through every twist and turn, she moved as quietly as she could, but her footsteps still echoed off the walls like drumbeats.

With every break in the clouds, Anne craned her neck for a glimpse of St. Paul’s. She made her turns accordingly, but the road she was on reached a dead-end at a fence. She looked around, but there were no other lanes branching off, and nowhere else to go without turning back. Over the top of the rough-hewn planks, she saw the dark contours of the cathedral, looming just ahead. She didn’t want to backtrack or look for another route, fearing she might lose sight of the spire or that she would run into more creepy—and probably dangerous—men.

Anne glanced back at the pitch-black lane, but all was quiet. She knocked softly on the wooden fence. “Hello? Doggie? Anyone there?” she whispered. No response.

She reached up and felt around for the fence top, then jumped. Catching hold, she swung her leg, hooked an ankle over the top, and yanked herself up to sit on the edge. She took the switchblade out of her pocket, and, careful of her cape and dress, dropped to the ground on the other side.

She waited. Total silence greeted her. Thankfully, no dog was on the prowl.

Once again, she replaced the blade. Although she could barely make out the outline of a shack near the main house, it appeared nothing stood between her and the far fence. She trotted across the short open space and readied herself for another leap. Her foot hit something and she fell hard, rolling on the ground. Suddenly, the air was full of noise; chickens and geese everywhere, terrified, squawking, honking, flying about her head, crashing into her and each other in the dark.

Heart racing, she scrambled up, flailing her arms about, trying to ward off the angry fowl. There was a sharp pinch on her calf and she cried out in pain. She kicked, making solid contact with a goose as it honked in terror and protest. Grimacing, she set off for the fence on the other side of the yard.

“Robbers! Alert the night watch!” a man’s voice roared from above. “I’ll have thy hide on me wall if thou taketh the least bird! Be off with thee, reeky scut, or I’ll run thee clean through!”

Looking over her shoulder, Anne spotted the man on a balcony, silhouetted against the pale upper wall of the house. He was waving a sword. In a rush, she grabbed at her trailing hems and bounded over the fence. Running blindly, hands outstretched before her, she stumbled along, gasping for air.