Ever Crave the Rose (The Elizabethan Time Travel Series Book 3)

by Morgan O'Neill

  Cath stood mute, trying to absorb all she’d heard. “Gloriana, thou sayest?”

  “Yes, and that is why we must do everything—and nothing!—to make sure that outcome doesn’t change,” Anne insisted.

  Cath nodded and looked again at the queen. She pulled her hands from Anne’s grip, turned, and walked toward Elizabeth, as if in a trance.

  Anne held her breath. Oh crap, what have I done? She glanced at Jon and noticed he was aware of something going on, too. He looked at Anne, brows drawn together, then watched as Cath advanced.

  Everyone noticed Cath’s unusual approach and parted to give her room. Voices paused. Even Elizabeth turned to watch with curiosity.

  Cath stopped less than five feet from the queen and caught her eye for the briefest moment.

  “Majesty,” she said reverently, then dropped into a very deep, very respectful curtsey.

  Where she remained.

  At first Elizabeth smiled, loving the drama, but soon enough she realized something more than drama was going on—Cath was serious. In an instant, the queen’s expression changed from one of delight to one of awe, understanding, and deep honor. She let the moment sink in—her way of accepting this tribute—then reached out and lightly touched Cath beneath her chin. “Rise, dear sister, and know that thy queen loves thee as God doth love His children, forever and unfailing. Rise and embrace us.”

  As Cath rose and the two women embraced, Anne let out a sigh of relief, just as Jon arrived at her side.

  “Let something slip?” he asked with a grin.

  “Boy did I,” she replied. She looked into his beautiful, understanding eyes and said, “I called her Gloriana. And then I had to explain.”

  Thankfully, the rest of the party passed without any further drama.

  Rose smashed birthday cake across her face, to the delight of all. Henry had too much wine and grew sentimental with Anne, whom he referred to as “his little child by God’s sweet grace.” Cath was a bit quieter and more attentive to the queen than usual, but nothing that would arouse anyone’s curiosity. Elizabeth delighted in playing with, coddling, and cooing at all of the children, but Anne was sure only their inner circle noticed that the queen spent slightly more time with baby Jane than she did the others. Lord Robert, for his part, kept to the fringes after Elizabeth’s entry. Anne noticed he refrained from drinking, unusual for him, and while in conversation with others, his gaze always drifted back to Elizabeth and the child she held.

  Anne was certain no one else noticed the tears brooding in his eyes in those quiet moments.

  Chapter Eleven

  3 September, 1562, The Fighting Cock, The Stews, London

  Norfolk glowered, and Will wondered if his head would remain attached to his shoulders much longer. Even in this private room, he knew neither Nell, the proprietress, nor any of the staff would lift a finger for him should the duke decide to take his vengeance.

  “They’ve given me nothin’ t’ work with, sir,” Will explained, trying without success to keep the whine of fright out of his voice. “They stay within the walls most of the time, an’ when they venture out, ’tis in a group. Even with Hugh as escort, the witch never goes alone. There’s always the housekeeper, Mary, or the cook, or Alice—”

  “I care not for thine excuses!” Norfolk shouted, spinning on him and coming within a hair’s breadth of his face.

  The duke’s angry spittle sprayed him, and Will dared not wince or bat an eye because of it.

  “And Hugh has proved himself worthless,” Norfolk continued, turning away to pace the room. “With such a cozy situation he may be loath to see it change—after all, why would he? He’s paid twice for his service, once by Brandon and again by me. I would not want to end such a boon to my situation, either.”

  Will wrung his hands. He couldn’t throw Hugh over the bridge to save his own neck. That wouldn’t solve anything. “Hugh knows their every move. He’s been there over a year, an’ they trust him now. Soon, they will begin to relax their caution. Thou’ve kept well away, an’ they believe themselves protected from harm. The time is coming, I know it, me lord. It won’t be long.”

  “And I am weary of it!” Norfolk shouted. “The queen keeps me at arm’s-length, and I must stay quiet and contrite whilst thou dithers and skulks about!”

  Will felt sweat trickling down his face and tried to ignore it. They had to find a way to get the witch-woman out and away from St. Bart’s. But how? And where to take her when they did? His mind raced, as it had for months, coming up with nothing. Where and how?

  Norfolk approached him again, and when he spoke his gaze was unflinching, his tone deadly calm. “Winter is coming on, and they will withdraw themselves inside for months to come. Thou hast two weeks. That is all. Find a way. Find a place. I want her in my grasp within the fortnight. Dost thou understand?”

  Will nodded. “Aye, sir, a location and gettin’ her there. I understand.”

  Norfolk closed the slight gap that still existed between them and said, his tone full of menacing promise, “Good, because otherwise thou willst find thyself along with Hugh Wallace dead on the gibbets, the two of you pecked clean by ravens come to feast.”

  * * *

  It had been two days since their last meeting. Sitting in a private room at The Fighting Cock, Norfolk watched Will Dawkins closely for any sign of deception or any flaw in the plan. He saw none.

  “All Hallows Barking,” Norfolk said. “Thou hast found a remarkable, I might even say inspired, location in which to hide her. I was not aware such a labyrinth existed beyond the catacombs, and better still, no one who would be looking for her is aware, either.”

  “Just us thieves and cutthroats,” Will confirmed with a grin full of blackened teeth. “I’ve known o’ it, but it were Hugh as suggested the site. The preacher at All Hallows is happy as a lark, for he thinks we’re spendin’ our time prayin’ instead o’ plottin’. He hath no notion how deep the tunnels go, and we make sure to keep mum ’bout it.”

  “And thou art sure none of thine other…acquaintances shalt interfere?”

  “Not if they wish t’ live. We carry a blood-bond between us, and it would mean a foul death t’ the snitch and him what gave him original entry. They’ll look the other way. No one will notice a thing. I’ll stake my life on it.”

  “Indeed.” Norfolk sat back, pleased beyond measure for the first time in more months than he cared to count. “And thou art at ease with the timing or my reasons for taking her? And Hugh? No qualms?”

  “I’ve no problem with taking the woman, sir,” he confirmed. “Witches should n’er be allowed t’ live among us, an’ she’s the worst I ever saw. Showin’ up from the thin air like she done, an’ castin’ spells.”

  Satisfied, Norfolk smiled. “I need information regarding the householders at St. Bart’s—family, staff, routines, anything thou knowest. I need details to use against Anne. I willst break her spirit with lies, but lies shaded with truth.”

  With a giddy laugh, Will clapped his hands. “Aye, I have all that and more.”

  Norfolk grinned at him. “Excellent. So, Dawkins, thou shalt consider this well and tell me what struck thee as interesting when thou spied from thy perch above St. Bart’s wall. I shalt give thee a bit of time to think, but I must know about this afore thou hast left the premises today. I wish to know things such as what they wear or anything thou hast seen belonging to Anne’s babe. Find Nell, and tell her to write it down for thee.”

  “Aye, me lord.”

  “And after thou leaves, keep up thy close watch at St. Bart’s, for I won’t have our plans unravel at the very moment we make our move. Thou must be absolutely certain her taking is not public. She must be well gone afore anyone notices her disappearance. Canst thou do that?”

  “Aye, nay t’ worry. Nay t’ worry. Hugh is confident, as he’s found somethin’ the witch-woman covets fer that brat o’ hers that’ll get her to leave St. Bart’s. It’ll work, fer certs.”

  “Go now, and
tell Nell she needs to write a list of thy recollections.”

  “Aye, sir.” Will touched a knuckle to his forehead and left.

  Norfolk watched him go. It was not often one could find men who weren’t bothered by scruples and who were entirely loyal. He would have to reward Will and Hugh with extra coin. He’d paid them for their services—now he’d have to pay for their silence, even to the point of making sure Hugh was sent to live far away, mayhap as far as Scotland or France, so that no one could find or question him. Eventually, he would be recalled for further service, but not any time in the foreseeable future.

  The future. Aye.

  He licked his lips as he imagined Anne Brandon at his mercy. It wouldn’t be long now. Nay, not long at all.

  Chapter Twelve

  5 September, 1562, Smithfield, London

  It had been a blustery night and the garden at St. Bart’s was puddled and soaking wet, so Anne and Jonathan stayed indoors and opted for a stroll along the upper level ambulatory that surrounded the church’s sanctuary.

  Light streamed in through the windows, the sun warming Anne’s face. It seemed the perfect time to tell Jon the exciting news—she was certain she was pregnant again.

  She grinned. “Have you got a busy day ahead?” she asked, linking her arm through his.

  “Yes. I’ve three nurses to interview within the hour, plus a new nanny to help Alice with Rose and little Andrew. The hospital’s been so busy I feel we must expand to accommodate. I hope to hire all four.”

  Anne smiled at the thought of Andrew Jonathan Hope, named for her and Jon. He was a cute baby and the pride and joy of his parents. Too bad the first nanny hadn’t worked out, as she’d eloped the week before.

  “I’ll be glad if Alice’s work load and your own ease up,” Anne said. “I’ve hardly seen you lately.”

  Jonathan kissed her temple. “I quite agree. You and Rose take top priority in my heart. I must endeavor to bring our time together in line with my sentiments. What does your day look like?”

  “Mary and I have plans to go to the market. I think she’s sweet on the olive vendor, and I want to pick up a little something for Rose. Also, I’ve heard the lady who does the dolls for the Bartholomew Fair will be there today. Apparently, she had so many left over after the fair, she’s selling the extras today. I’ll pick one up for Rose, since I can’t buy her a Barbie.”

  She smiled at Jonathan’s frown. Of course, he couldn’t possibly know about the wonders of mid-twentieth century doll making. She walked a bit farther, then stopped in a splash of sunlight and turned her face toward the light. “This feels so nice. I’ll be sorry to see summer finally give way to the gloom of fall.”

  Jonathan lightly touched his lips to hers. “You are lovely. Beaming, actually—”

  She smiled as his gaze widened in surprise. Yep, he guessed it!

  “Beaming?” he repeated. “Annie, are you…?”

  She laughed. “Yes. I’m sure of it now. I suspected as much this past week, but now—”

  “That’s splendid!” He clasped her to him. “I wondered, I mean, Rose is nearly seventeen months, and we haven’t discussed this in ages. It’s marvelous news!”

  Anne cupped his face in her hands. “It’ll be a June baby, I think, or May again, if this one is as anxious to meet us as Rose was.”

  “Anne, Anne, Anne,” Jonathan whispered, touching his forehead to hers. “I couldn’t be happier.”

  “Maybe you should make sure one of your new nurses is schooled in midwifery.”

  “I’ll be sure to ask.” He touched his lips to hers again, this time more firmly, and then swept her into a passionate embrace.

  “I love you, Jon,” she said as he drew back and looked into her eyes.

  “And I you, my darling Mrs. Brandon.”

  * * *

  Anne, Mary, and Hugh set out for the market just before noon. Today Hugh would act as porter and guard, although they hadn’t had a moment’s worry from Norfolk or any others since before Rose was born. Jon said he’d hired Hugh in part for his fighting skills. Anne had never seen him show the least bit of aggression, and she couldn’t imagine him in an actual fight.

  Her confidence and comfort came from the weight, deep in her pocket, of the switchblade her grandmother had insisted she carry so long ago. Just over two years in current time—but, in actuality, centuries in the future.

  Anne paused and straightened her straw hat when she caught her reflection in a shop window. Usually more critical of her appearance, today she seemed to radiate happiness and good health. Maybe she was beaming?

  That thought made her grin, because, at the moment, she suspected it had more to do with her husband’s attentions that morning than with the child she carried. They’d made love before he left for his interviews. She blushed at the memory.

  “Thou art looking flush and well-pleased, Lady Anne,” Mary said, “though I’ll no’ be askin’ why we’re gettin’ such a late start on market day. Let’s hurry along then, afore all the booths are empty and closed fer the day. We’ve a need for legumes, oil, cheese, flour, thread, and a skein o’ heavy wool, just t’ start.”

  “And olives?” Anne asked coyly. She cast a quick glance at Mary. She’d carried suspicions about the housekeeper’s interest in the olive vendor, and her red cheeks seemed to confirm the matter.

  “Aye, mayhap some olives, as well.”

  “Great! Why don’t we get everything we need first, then you take your time with the olives and meet me at the doll maker’s booth. I’ll keep Hugh and the purchases with me. There’ll be no need to hurry, since I’m sure I’ll need a lot of time to make up my mind over which doll to get for Rose.”

  Mary nodded, not allowing even a hint of excitement show on her features. “That shalt suit me well enough.”

  They moved on, and Hugh, who rarely had a word to say, simply followed their lead.

  With conversations, haggling, and the meeting of friends and former patients, it was over an hour before Mary peeled off on her quest to find olives.

  With Hugh by her side, Anne found her way to the doll maker to get the perfect Bartholomew Baby. She hadn’t wanted to get Rose one before now, because the body was made out of a wooden peg, and a baby without well-developed motor skills would be as likely to knock herself in the head as enjoy the thing. But now Rose was ready for her first doll.

  She looked over the selection, excited by the variety. Many were ornately dressed, bejeweled with tinted glass beads and exquisitely painted, mimicking the bluebloods of the city—one even evoked the queen in all her finery. Beautiful. Women from all walks of life crowded the booth, exclaiming and cooing. Little girls squealed and pointed, seeming near collapse in their excitement.

  Anne watched the others for a time, then got back to making her own selection. An ornate doll wouldn’t last a day. With regret, she let her eyes drift away from the high-end dolls and found what she was looking for—a simple peg, simply painted, and adorned with a modest shift, skirt, vest, and shawl.

  “May I see the little one in russet, please?” Anne asked the vendor. The doll was about eight inches tall, the peg made of hardwood and very sturdy. She carefully inspected the clothing and found it well stitched and glued to the peg, while the face and hair were painted in place. The wooden arms were articulated at the shoulder, but even those were sewn to the body.

  “That’ens fer the smallest babes, mistress,” the doll maker explained. “Won’t nothin’ come apart nor undone. Don’t want nothin’ goin’ in their mouths as shouldn’t.”

  “Very thoughtful, and a very clever design,” Anne said.

  The woman smiled broadly at the compliment. “I thank thee. Me husband and meself, we worked hard to get it right.”

  “And the stitching is very fine work. Did your, er, didst thy husband help with that, too?”

  They both laughed at the idea, and the woman shook her head vigorously. “Ach, no. Methinks he’d poke his eye out if ever he took up a needle. No, tha
t’s all mine own doin’.”

  “Well, it’s just beautiful, and absolutely perfect for my needs. I’ll take this one.”

  “That’ll be two groats then, and I’ll get her wrapped up for thee.”

  “Oh no, don’t bother. I’ll just carry her with me.”

  Anne handed the woman the coins, then glanced around to look for Hugh. Silent and vigilant as always, he stood at the corner of the booth, his eyes on Anne. He nodded, and she returned the gesture.

  With Rose’s new doll in hand, Anne made her way to him. “I’m all set. Now we just need to wait for Mary and her olives. I hope she doesn’t take too much longer. My feet are killing me.”

  He jerked his head toward some crates in a nearby alley. “There’s a spot over there where thou can sit an’ take thy ease, if that be thy wish. I’ll keep a watch for Mary.”

  “Wonderful. Thanks.” Somewhat surprised at getting a full sentence out of him, Anne moved to the crates and sat with a weary sigh.

  Hugh placed the market baskets beside her, then pulled a cloth out of his pocket. When he seemed to offer it to her, Anne looked up, puzzled. In the next instant, just as she opened her mouth to say she didn’t need it, his hand descended onto her face, covering her nose and mouth with the cloth.

  It smelled sickening sweet, and she reared back, trying to pull away. Don’t breathe! her mind screamed, but Hugh had his other hand on the back of her head and the vapors were too strong.

  Anne could feel herself slipping. Her arms felt so heavy, and she was falling…

  With a supreme effort, she tried to rise, to lash out at Hugh, to scream, but all she could manage was a shudder. Angry tears filled her eyes as she slumped into his arms, and then another face floated into view.