The Thornless Rose (35 page)

…

Norfolk stood in the great room of St. Bart’s before the assembled household. He was cold sober now, having swiftly regained his senses after the fiasco at The Fighting Cock.

“Well, then...” He let his gaze fall pointedly on Nell’s bullyboys, brought along as support. Smiling deceptively, he looked back at the housekeeper, a lowly, coarse-looking woman with slanting, hazel eyes. “Where are they?”

Her expression was set, resistant. “I know not. They dinna tell me anythin’.”

He motioned to the thugs. “One of ye, come here.”

A tall, thick-necked man stepped forward.

Norfolk placed his hands behind his back and frowned impatiently. “Hold her arms,” he commanded.

A low, grumbling rose from the staff of St. Bart’s. Ignoring them, Norfolk kept a steady eye on the woman’s face as the ruffian seized her from behind. She began to struggle, and the jangle of key and coin was heard.

Intrigued, Norfolk reached into her apron pocket. He forced his hand between her legs and groped, before pulling out a coin purse and ring of keys.

She kicked out, howling in protest.

“What is this?” he asked, briefly examining what he had found. He shoved the money in his pocket and tossed the keys to one of his men. “Keep a close watch on those.” He turned back to the woman, stroking his beard. “Dost thou know what happens to wenches who fail to do my biddin’?”

Her eyes flickered, uncertainty mingling with fear. There it was! He gave her his most charming smile, while bunching his fist behind his back. “I want this to end well, Mistress. What is thy name?”

Her mouth opened, but then stubbornly clamped shut again.

“Come now. I’m not a lout. What, pray tell, is thy name?”

The gaze wavered again. “Mary... Mary Prentice.”

“I thank thee. Now, Mary, I’ll ask thee once more nicely. Where’s Alice Potter? She was here this eve, wasn’t she? And where are the Brandons? Surely, thou knowest the truth.”

She glanced at the others, then looked straight into his eyes. “I know naught! I canna tell thee wot I never heard!”

“Liar!” Norfolk sprang forward and drove his fist straight into the housekeeper’s stomach.

Mary gasped, then sagged in the thug’s arms, her mouth opening and closing, fishlike, tears of pain coursing down her cheeks.

Turning aside, Norfolk frowned at the others. “Tell me where they went, or I’ll order the men here to––”

“My lord!” Geoff Bly and Will Dawkins burst into the room.

“I followed the witch-woman!” Will shouted. “They’ve fled t’ Westminster! She’s headin’ there right now, by horse an’ cart!”

“What?” Norfolk exclaimed, then looked at Bly with a smile. “Come, Geoff. Methinks we’ve caught our little flower. ’Tis time we plucked her.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

A few distant candles cast an uncertain light upon the entrance into Westminster Abbey. Anne spotted a young Protestant cleric slumped on a bench near the door. He yawned just before seeing her, then sat up. “How may I help thee, mistress?”

Anne hesitated, not knowing what to say, but her husband stepped forward and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“My companions and I,” Jonathan tilted his head toward Bishop Wright and Daniel, “have a friend who’s been grievously injured this night. The family has asked that we pray for his recovery. Might we come in?”

“Please, ye are welcome,” the cleric said, gesturing toward the interior. “Tell me the man’s name, that I may pray for him, as well.”

Jonathan frowned, caught for a moment in his fib.

“Pray for Jonathan,” Anne quickly said, “and his wife. Pray that all may work out as they most desire.”

The cleric nodded at the men’s weapons. “Ye carry arms. None are allowed within the sanctuary, but I will keep them here. Ye may reclaim them upon your return.”

Jonathan hesitated, then handed over his dagger, but the bishop refused to give up his sword.

“Go in without me, Doctor,” Wright said firmly. “I’ll keep watch.” Anne noticed the cleric’s curious stare, and the bishop added, “In case any family should arrive with tidings.”

“Are you certain?” Jonathan asked.

“I am quite certain, my friend. Go quickly.”

Jonathan clasped the bishop to him. “Thank you, Robert. Thank you for everything.”

Anne, too, embraced the old man, finding no words as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Go on,” the bishop said, pulling away. “Get thee to praying.”

Silent until now, Brother Daniel motioned for the cane. “I wouldst borrow thy cane, Bish—er, Robert. I shalt have sore need of it.”

Anne gave the monk a sideways glance, sensing nerves as he awaited the answer, but Bishop Wright gave his cane without hesitation. “May the Lord keep and protect you,” he said, surreptitiously making the sign of the cross over them.

Through a haze of tears and a final hug, Anne whispered, “Good-bye, and thanks so much for everything. I’ll never forget you.” Then, together with her husband and Daniel, she set off, hurrying past pilgrims on bended knee and away from candlelit shrines, toward the darker recesses of the Abbey.

…

Norfolk reined in his lathered mount. Westminster Abbey loomed before him, its rooftop shrouded by the misty night sky. Dismounting, he handed his hat and horse off to Nell’s bullyboy, who had come along, then turned to the torch-wielding Bly.

“Follow me, Geoff,” Norfolk said, after telling Nell’s man to stay with the horses. He had left the other bullyboys at St. Bart’s to keep the householders under guard, with orders to direct the queen’s troop to the Abbey when they arrived.

As for Anne
, he thought,
I do beseech the stars I might yet spirit her away to mine own dungeon
.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Norfolk thrust aside his musing. A man wearing a hooded cloak and wielding a sword stood outside the Abbey.

“Well, lookee here,” Bly said as he dropped the torch and went for his dagger.

Norfolk raised his hand. “Stand down, Geoff. I wouldst speak to him.”

“Halt!” the man repeated.

“What is this welcome?” Norfolk called out, affecting a smile. “We are but simple pilgrims.”

“Be ye well assured,” the man growled, “I know you to be trouble.”

“We come in peace,” Norfolk replied, feigning sincerity.

“Nay, Thomas Howard. Thy business is not of peaceful intent, for I know thee well.”

Stepping forward, Norfolk asked, “Who claims to know me? Show thyself.”

The man pushed back his hood. Norfolk studied the balding pate and gray beard, the round and vaguely familiar face. He searched his memory. Where had he seen him?

“I am Bishop Robert Wright, the priest who prayed with thy father afore his execution.”

Norfolk gasped. “Wright! The coward-bishop who renounced his faith and ran away to hide.”

The bishop flinched, and Norfolk smiled, knowing he’d gotten to the man.

“I renounced my office,” Bishop Wright said. “Never my faith.”

“He’s in league with Brandon then, if he’s guardin’ the door.” Bly reached once more for his dagger.

“Aye,” Norfolk agreed. “Kill him.”

…

“’Tis here. Aye, ’tis here.” Breathing hard, Brother Daniel pointed with the cane, then leaned against a shrine.

Anne halted, trying to get her bearings. She’d concentrated on following the monk, so much so she hadn’t paid attention to where they were going. But now, she recognized the spot; Daniel stood beside the crypt of Henry III.

She pulled her gaze away from the monk. Beyond him was the centerpiece of the entire Abbey, the tomb of St. Edward the Confessor.

“Here?” she asked.

“Aye,” Daniel said, lifting the cane again. “’Twas here happened the miracle of Bishop Wulfstan.”

Jonathan stopped behind them. The monk squeezed past Henry’s tomb until he stood next to the shrine of the Confessor. The wooden coffin looked badly damaged, its stone base misaligned on the floor tiles.

“Afore King Henry dissolved the monasteries, curse his soul,” Daniel said, “this tomb was covered with jewels. He had it stripped, but it doth still retain a wondrous power. The miracle of the staff of Bishop Wulfstan is hallowed. When first I came to the Abbey as a Benedictine novice, I believed if I did as he, I wouldst gain renown and favor.” He held the cane aloft with both hands. “But the Lord didst not esteem me worthy to wipe the bishop’s shoes.”

Suddenly, he cried out, “In the name of Holy Church, I beseech the Confessor King to empower this staff!” He hauled back the cane and struck the coffin. “One day, I was briefly able to attain that most holy of states and reproduce the bishop’s miracle. I believe, that as God’s punishment for daring,” grunting, straining, he struck it again and again, “I was made to pass through the veil!”

To Anne’s amazement, when the monk backed away, she saw the cane standing on its own, upright and balanced.

Mouth agape, Jonathan touched it and then tried to move it. “Bloody hell, it won’t budge!”

“’Tis Bishop Wulfstan’s miracle,” Daniel explained, his gaze full of reverential awe. “I have succeeded yet again, because I do it now for the sake of others and not for mine own vainglory.” He motioned to Anne. “Mayhap my youthful folly didst serve a goodly purpose. Quickly now, mistress, take the doctor’s hand.”

A shout rose in the distance. “Lord have mercy, help, help!” a man cried out. “Oh, murder most foul! Is there a Dr. Brandon in the church? Where is Dr. Brandon? Thy man calls for thee!”

Terrified, Anne looked back.

“Dr. Brandon!” The voice was nearer now, frantic, pleading. “He dies, Doctor, thy man dies!”

Jonathan grabbed Anne by the shoulders. “I must go back, but you—save yourself.”

“No! I won’t leave you!”

“You must!” he blazed. He clasped her to his chest, holding her with a desperate fury, kissing her hard. He drew back and gazed into her eyes. “Anne, I’ll always love you. Remember that––”

“This is not the end!” she cried, clinging to him.

But she could see a change in his expression, a glaze of hatred, the need to avenge.

He pried her fingers from his cloak and thrust her into Daniel’s arms. “Get her out of here!”

“No, Jon, no!” As her husband raced off, she clawed at the monk, struggling to get away, but he was young and strong.

“Come, Mistress Brandon.” Daniel started to pull her along, but she kicked at him, catching him in the shin, then broke free and ran after Jonathan. Almost immediately, she stumbled to a halt when she spotted herself—in T-shirt and shorts.

Oh. My. God
.

Brother Daniel came alongside and firmly took her arm. “Mistress,” he said, “we must go.”

“No!” She lashed out with her free arm, but he caught her by the wrist. “Leave me alone,” she yelled, twisting against his grip. “I’m not going anywhere with––”

“Enough!” Daniel released her, then took a step back, hands raised. “Know this, I shalt pass through the veil to the time here after, whether thou cometh with me or no.”

Her mouth fell open. “You’re going alone?”

“’Tis thee forces my hand. I wouldst practice mine own faith in freedom. Fare thee well.” With that, Daniel returned to the tomb and placed both hands upon the cane.

Suddenly, the air around him shimmered. Anne felt goose bumps rise on her flesh, and she backed away.

The monk was still visible, yet his voice reached her as if from a distance. “Godspeed, and fare thee well. Fare thee well.” Staring at her, he faded to a ghostly glimmer. A moment more and he was gone, vanishing along with the bishop’s cane.

Anne gaped, then thrust aside her astonishment and looked for her husband, but a group of pilgrims moved down the aisle, blocking her view.

Jonathan?
She craned her neck, trying to see past the throng, wondering if
she
was still there, too.

…

Filled with apprehension for Bishop Wright, Brandon ran toward the doors, stopping abruptly when he saw his wife.

“Anne! Anne! Go back,” he exclaimed, “back where it’s safe!”

He stared at her, perplexed. He’d just left her with Daniel. What was she doing here?

Desperation gnawed at him, but he pulled her tight against him and buried his face in her hair. “I love you, Anne,” he whispered, “but you have to go with him. Save yourself.”

He kissed her and she responded with passion, but he drew back, anxious she get away, recalling Norfolk’s evil intent. He pulled her close, their farewell inescapable. “Bloody hell,” he muttered bitterly, “the bastard will pay for this.”

She gazed at him, and his heart ached because he knew he’d never again be able to protect her as a husband should, never again be able to hold her, cherish her. He glanced toward the Abbey doors, fearing he’d see Norfolk coming. “Anne, go now,” his voice cracked, “because I can face anything if I know you’re safe.”

He cupped her chin and she closed her eyes, waiting, trusting. This was torture, sheer torture, but she mustn’t follow him. He leaned in to kiss her a final time and she vanished.

Astonished, wracked with grief, he looked at his empty hands. The monk’s magic had worked.

She was gone.

His throat tightened painfully, and he wanted to cry out in his misery, but another shout went up from beyond the doors.

…

Brandon would not hide behind the skirts of the Abbey; it wasn’t in the man’s nature.
Ever the hero
, Norfolk assured himself with a laugh,
which makes this all the easier
.

Hefting Bishop Wright’s sword, he playfully swiped it through the air. He watched the old man twitching and gasping in his death throes.

Geoff Bly had taken him down with a deft strike of his blade, setting off the desired chaos near the Abbey’s entrance. Screaming pilgrims, howling clerics, the bishop calling out with his last breath for his friend, Dr. Brandon.

This was sure to draw Brandon from Holy Sanctuary. A man such as the good doctor would never abandon a friend. Pleased with the turn of events, he played with the tip of the blade in the dirt between the cobbles. He’d not be accused of violating the Church’s protection, and, with any luck, Brandon’s charming wife would follow in his wake and deliver herself into his hands as well.

Aye
, he thought, anticipating the next few hours.
Oh, aye, they’ll both come
.

…

In a fury, Brandon shut his mind to his agony and raced outside. Grabbing a torch from an onlooker, he pushed his way through the crowd. In the next instant, he stumbled upon Bishop Wright sprawled on the ground, his face deathly white. Brandon dropped to one knee. The bishop’s chest was covered with blood, his pupils already large.

He pressed on the man’s carotid artery. “Come on, you tough old buzzard!”

But there was no pulse.

Devastated, he drew a ragged breath and gently closed the bishop’s eyes. Then he looked up and found Norfolk, leaning on a sword, grinning.

“Bastard!” Brandon sprang to his feet, threw the torch at Norfolk, and lunged. The sword flashed, the duke’s reaction time swift as he struck out and knocked the torch aside, but he couldn’t move fast enough to avoid Brandon’s body.

Brandon tackled him to the ground, the impact jarring, rib-cracking, enough to make Norfolk lose his grip on the sword.

As the weapon skittered away, Brandon punched him in the head with all the strength he could muster. “You bloody bastard!” he shouted, pounding ceaselessly. “God damn you to hell!”

…

I have to find him!

Anne stumbled forward, crashing against people, pushing them aside, intent on reaching her husband. Where was he? What was happening?

She broke through the crowd and saw him and Norfolk rolling on the ground, fighting. Suddenly, the duke’s thug lumbered past, his dagger raised, aiming straight at Jonathan’s back.

Anne sprang after the brute, fumbling inside her cape for the hidden pocket. She had the switchblade out and flicked open in the next moment.

“Nooo!” Anne howled as she leaped on his back. Blind with desperation, she hacked at him, feeling the resistance of his muscular neck, trying to hang on as he heaved and bucked like a rodeo bull.

A gurgling scream erupted from the thug, followed by a hideous, body-wide shudder. Anne jumped off as he collapsed to his knees, blood spraying from his throat. Arms flailing, he twisted and fell onto his back, his bowels emptying—the last moments of life.

In shock, Anne sprang away and then lost her grip on the switchblade. As it clattered to the ground, she turned to Jonathan and Norfolk, still fighting. She was only dimly aware of a thunderous drumming bearing down on them all.

…

Norfolk was a hell of a fighter.

Brandon swung, but Norfolk blocked the punch and caught him squarely in the jaw.

Shaking his head, Brandon surged forward, but someone seized him from behind and yanked him away from his enemy. Immobilized, Brandon fought against his bloodlust, striving for control. He stared at the armored soldiers surrounding him, realizing the queen’s guard had found them, had hold of him.