The Thornless Rose (8 page)

Finally, Anne broke into an open area, and as the noise behind her faded, she let herself sink to the ground. Nerves shattered, she rested for several moments before looking up to see the old spire of St. Paul’s, just across the road.

Okay, okay
. She took a deep, steadying breath, staring at the massive church, thankful.
Now I know where I am.

High up in the spire, the bells began to toll, and she nervously counted the number of strikes—one, two, three. It was three o’clock. Whatever time of year it was, she knew she had at least an hour to get to Smithfield before dawn.

This time, the path was not so confusing. Though still narrow and dark, the roads ran in roughly the expected direction. Before long, Anne crossed another wide street. The sky finally showed a trace of pearly gray and she spotted another road sign. “Holborn,” she whispered. She had been here a couple of days ago, when she’d heard that old woman throwing her “shyte” out the window. Now it smelled just about right for that kind of thing.

Anne moved on, warily studying the cross streets for bearded creeps or enraged geese farmers but found them empty except for some alley cats.

She looked back at St. Paul’s. She’d gone quite a distance. The spire was noticeably smaller.

Smithfield.
She hurried along.
Ought to be a road off to my right
,
one that’ll take me straight there
.
Straight to Dr. Brandon
.

Chapter Nine

“Cheese and eggs, sweet milk for the babes. Come along quick to Smithfield Dairy.”

The woman’s voice rang out in the distance, stopping Anne cold. It was exactly what she’d heard on her way to The Bishop’s Crook.

Smithfield? Am I in Smithfield?
She looked at the wattle and daub buildings, searching for a dairy maid, but seeing no one.

Anne touched the knife still hidden in her cape’s pocket. Although it was now well past dawn, the sky was overcast, a dark-gray gloom. A drop of rain splashed on her cheek, and she pulled the hood of her cape over her head. She waited, catching her breath as a prosperous looking couple, both carrying bolts of burgundy cloth, hurried toward her.

“Please, am I in Smithfield?” Anne glanced over her shoulder, unable to rid herself of the feeling she was being followed.

“Smithfield. Aye,” the man said, pulling thoughtfully on his waxed and plaited beard, giving Anne the once over. “Aye, lass.” He fell silent for a moment, as if unable to make up his mind about her appearance. “If thou seeketh the market, keep t’ this road. If the fairgrounds, then please do come with us.”

“Actually, I need to find St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.”

“Gardyloo, all ye buggers an’ pea-hens,” a voice cried out from above.

The woman grasped Anne by the elbow and pulled her out of the way.

“Watch out below! I’ll no’ be held ’countable for yer lackin’ o’ common sense or speed. Gardyloo, ye scurvy knights, if ye’re no’ wantin’ me shyte hittin’ yer heads!”

There was a splash as the shit hit the road. Anne stared in disbelief.

The woman, unfazed by the event, cast an admiring glance at Anne’s cape. “’Twould be a shame t’ soil such a lovely garment. Aye, thou hast found Smithfield. The hospital’s close t’ the livestock market. Thy nose’ll take thee there. If thou dost not mind me askin’, lass, where didst thou get the cloth for thy beauteous fair cape?”

“Thank you. I don’t know where it came from. It was a gift from my grandmother,” Anne said distractedly, wanting to leave.

Ignoring the couple’s stares, she walked on, following the road, studying the half-timbered buildings. Suddenly, she was overcome by a sharp, cloying stench of living and dead cattle, of manure and offal. Holding her nose, she turned onto a broad avenue. She heard lowing, saw acres of fenced fields and the animal-filled holding pens of the great Smithfield Livestock Market. Beyond it stood the tall, gray, stone walls and stately, old oaks surrounding St. Bartholomew the Great Priory and Hospital.

Anne looked past the heavily leafed branches and spied the church tower. Walking forward, she recognized St. Bart’s distinctive Tudor gatehouse rising above the arched entrance. She’d seen it before on one of her jaunts through modern-day London. The church was famous for being in films like
Shakespeare in Love
.

“St. Bart’s.” She ran under the archway and banged the gate’s iron knocker. “Please be here, Dr. Brandon. Please be here!”

After several moments, the spy-slat slid open. A pair of brown eyes stared back at Anne.

“Aye?” The man’s voice was deep, suspicious.

“Does Dr. Jonathan Brandon work here?”

“And who, pray tell, wouldst wish to see him at this hour? Art thou from the Gregg’s?”

Anne felt her knees go weak, and she leaned against the door. Brandon was here. She’d found him!

“Art thou ill, child?”

She pulled back and shook her head. “No, I’m okay now.”

“O—kay?”

“I’m fine. I’m just in from out of town. Please, I must see Dr. Brandon. It’s very important.”

The gatekeeper looked beyond Anne’s form to the falling raindrops. “It waxeth wet,” he said with a sigh, “and I’ll not have the good doctor accusing me of turning a young woman away in such weather. If thou wishes to see him, then I’ll not make thee tarry here.”

Yes!
Anne heard rattling on the other side of the door as the man worked the lock. She glanced back at the street, hopping nervously from foot to foot, still feeling eyes upon her. When the door finally creaked open, she pushed through, intent on getting inside.

The portly, old gatekeeper wore a plain black tunic and wide-brimmed hat.

“Thank you, sir,” Anne said, breathlessly.

After tipping his hat, he locked the gate. “Art thou mindful of Dr. Brandon’s duties? I started my rounds at Lauds, er, since before dawn, I should say, and haven’t seen the doctor about. He mightn’t be here. If he’s birthing the babe of Mistress Gregg, he’ll not be on the grounds.”

“I understand.” Anne noticed a broadsword resting against a nearby wall.

“Aye, child,” the man said, following her gaze. “I fear ’tis a necessity in these ungodly times.”

Nodding, she turned. Before her stood the ruins of St. Bartholomew’s, once one of the grandest Norman cathedrals in England. But Henry VIII had demolished most of it, and only the choir and arches had been left intact for use as a parish church.

“It’s not at all what I remember, er, expected,” Anne said, peering at a large graveyard.

The gatekeeper pointed toward a stuccoed building. “The doctor resides away there, in St. Bartholomew Hospital, although he shalt make his permanent residence in the Lady Chapel by Tuesday week. ’Tis better quarters for a man of his station. By my faith, Dr. Brandon has risen far, and swiftly, too. He hath a fine wit, a keen intelligence, and is known to be honest and true, although a bit outlandish in his ideas. This year, he was greatly honored, as thou hast no doubt heard, for he alone will oversee the collection of the tolls.”

“Oh?” Anne longingly glanced at the hospital and let him ramble on.

“I bid thee good morn,” he finally said.

“Thank you, sir.” She hurried to the door and knocked. “Dr. Brandon? Hello? Is anyone home?”

…

Will and Jack followed the witch-woman through London as best they could, losing her trail only once in the darkness, then, by chance, picking it up again when they heard her set off a hen house riot near St. Paul’s.

Now, they waited outside the walls of St. Bart’s, squatting by a wagon in the rain, trying to avoid being spotted by any passersby.

“Me clothes are soaked clear through,” Jack complained as he blew on his fingers. “A pox on thee, Will Dawkins, fer actin’ goat-drunk abou’ the wench.”

“I’ll not deny,” Will said, “she’s put a fire in me belly.”

“Belly? Nay, all thou art thinkin’ abou’ is that blasted cock between thy legs!”

Will felt damp and miserable, too, but it had dawned on him that, beyond bedding her, the woman could be worth a tidy sum if delivered to the right person.

“Methinks there is a powerful someone. Aye,” Will muttered as he tapped Jack on the shoulder.

“What?” Jack asked, bewildered. “A powerful someone? Speaketh not in riddles.”

Will pointed to a large oak, its gnarled trunk hugging the shadows by the wall of St. Bart’s. “Over we go,” he said.

“Blast, man! We cannot go inside! There are sure to be guards abou’ the place. ’Tis known the hospital is watched durin’ the fair, fer the tolls bring––”

“Faint o’ heart, eh? Then sit on thine own arse here, an’ bide the time. If the witch be ill, or wants lodgin’ at St. Bart’s, I’ll try t’ nab her afore she settles in. But if she leaves, follow her and keep close. Seize her an’ take her to Old Nellie’s stew. She’ll know what to do wi’ her.”

“That whore?”

“Aye. Nell owes me a favor.” Will rose to his feet.

“Art thou goin’ in fer certs?” Jack asked.

Will nodded. “Worry not. I’ll be fine, mate,” he said as he patted the dagger on his belt. He looked around until he was sure nobody was watching, then hurried to the tree and climbed the trunk. Halfway up, he peered into the kirkyard with its multitude of headstones. Seeing no one, he went over the wall and silently dropped to the ground.

At that instant, Will caught sight of the witch-woman, knocking on the door of the hospital. He could scarcely pull his gaze from her as he dove behind the nearest headstone.

Will glanced at the carved epitaph, but, since he could not read, he turned aside, pressed himself flat against the cold, wet stone, and listened.

…

“Hello? Dr. Brandon?” Anne’s heart pounded. Soon, she’d have a friend, a confidant who could help her and understand.

The seconds dragged by. “Hello? Anyone there?” She heard movement on the other side of the door. “Dr. Brandon?”

The steps came closer and stopped. A small door, covered by a metal grill, opened in the wall beside the main door. It was just big enough to show the face of a woman: hazel eyes narrowed with cat-like certainty, finely arched eyebrows furrowed, annoyed.

Anne pushed her hood back and smiled. “Hello.”

“What is it? Art thou ill, or wantin’ a room?” The voice was gruff, but not unkind. “The good doctor is no’ here and I dinna expect him fer some time, as he’s off t’ care for a woman during her goodly hour.”

“Her what?” Anne could hardly make sense of the woman’s heavy accent and antiquated speech.

“Mayhap thou art witless, then, or dost thou truly know naught o’ women’s ways? Mistress Gregg’s babe is due, if thou must speaketh crass o’ it, and there’s no tellin’ when the doctor’ll be back.”

“Oh. I’m not ill, just in from out of town and a bit lost. I was sent to see Dr. Brandon by an old family friend of his. Miss Catherine Hastings? She said I could find him here. My name is Anne Howard. I’m the granddaughter of Catherine Ellen Hastings, and I must speak with him today.” Pausing, Anne looked hard at the woman. “Can you remember those names? Do you need to write it down?”

The cat eyes flashed back at Anne. “I may no’ have me letters, but I’m no simpleton. I’ve enough o’ a brain to remember a message. The doctor’ll be here afore nine o’ the clock, I shouldna wonder, and I’ll give it t’ him straight away. I suggest thee come back ’round after the morning meal. Fer now, I have work that willna wait, as Dr. Brandon has seen fit t’ give holiday t’ nigh on the whole o’ the staff.”

“But, please, I need some sleep. I can wait for him wherever you like. I won’t be any trouble.”

“We’ve no’ a room left t’ let. An’ true enough, he’s a soft one for charity, he is, whether we can afford it or no, but I canna take thee in without his sayin’ so, an’ he’s no’ here t’ say. He’s given strict orders abou’ admittin’ people. Procedures an’ all as he calls it.”

Anne stood still, mute, fighting back tears. She hadn’t anticipated rejection.

“Weel, go on then. I canna stand here all day, lass.”

“But you have to let me in! I’ve been running all over London tonight trying to find Dr. Brandon!” Anne heard her strident voice, but didn’t care. Grabbing the knob, she shook the door hard. “He’ll be furious if he finds out you’ve turned me away like this! What’s your name?”

“Me name is me own business and none o’ yourn, and he’d be the more furious if I were t’ make light o’ his procedures by lettin’ thee in.” The woman’s voice was flat now, angry but controlled. “Take thine ease elsewhere, lass, an’ come back later. Fare thee well.”

The little door snapped shut, and Anne stood there, feeling lost, alone, and frustrated.

…

Behind the headstone, Will Dawkins curled up, cold and damp from the continual drip of heavy mist. He squirmed in discomfort, for his legs had gone to sleep, giving him the pinpricks and a foul state of mind.

Blasted wench
. He studied the activity on the grounds. A guardsman strolled along the wall, sword in hand, while the witch-woman had just been refused entry.

So, it seems, she’ll be leaving anon. Cursed be, cursed be
.

With a start, Will realized he’d be on the wrong side of the wall if that occurred.

It dawned on him he had made a most unlucky decision; the witch wasn’t seeking lodgings or treatment at St. Bart’s. From what he had heard, she’d been looking for someone. And since the man wasn’t here, she was moving on.

He should have waited with Jack. Rubbing a tingly leg, he watched as the guardsman passed by his hiding place.

An’ how will I get out o’ here, without gettin’ run through by a sword? How the devil will I escape?

…

The gatekeeper walked through the graveyard, his back to Anne as he continued to patrol the grounds. She opened her mouth to shout to him, to let him know she had to leave, but he turned a corner and was gone.

Thunder drummed in the distance, and Anne scanned the greenish-gray clouds. In a moment, she knew she’d be drenched.

Glancing back at the hospital, she imagined a warm sanctuary beyond its tightly shut door. She considered knocking again, pleading with the crusty Scotswoman to let her in. Raindrops plopped on her hood. Anne rushed over, huddling in the church’s arched doorway. Where could she go to wait?

She jumped as lightning flashed and the answering clap of thunder rent the air. The full brunt of the storm would hit soon. She tried the door and to her relief it gave way. Inside, the foyer was dark. Anne paused, letting her eyes adjust, then found another door and opened it, revealing the entrance to the choir.

An oriel window barely illuminated the church’s interior. She walked through the holy gloom, stopping at a painted tomb near the altar. She touched the cold stone. The figure of St. Bartholomew stood at the feet of a reclining monk.

What had she heard about this guy? A court jester, he’d survived a disease—malaria? —and then, in thanks to God, he’d become a monk and established St. Bart’s.

“Rahere, do you still haunt this place?” Anne whispered. “Well, if you can hear me, what should I do?”

Dim noises echoed from the shadows, as if someone, or something, had answered her. With words? Footsteps?

Blood raging in her ears, Anne crouched by the tomb and held her breath. She exhaled slowly, listening, but heard nothing more. Then she spotted a niche in the wall, a place where secrets could be kept from prying eyes.

Until now, she hadn’t considered what would happen if someone found the contents of her handbag. So, Rahere had spoken to her, after all.
Hide your things
, he’d said.
Hide them with me
.