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

by Morgan O'Neill

  Oh, bloody, bloody hell!

  He reached the crowd and tried to get to Mary, but suddenly everyone was pushing back, refusing to let him pass.

  “Let me through! What is going on?” Brandon yelled and struggled against them, forcing his way. “I must know!”

  When he finally managed to get to the front, everyone fell back, suddenly silent.

  The world around him became indistinct, the edges of his vision blurred to nothing. Even sounds faded. But his focus, sharp and unrelenting, fixed on the object of all the commotion.

  Anne. His Annie.

  Lying in a twisted heap. Bruised. Gashed. Bloody. Clothes torn. Patches of hair missing. A vision of horror. But it was her eyes, half closed and unseeing, that told him all he needed to know.

  And more than he could bear.

  He heard a groan of agony. Did that noise come from me? He wasn’t sure. Did not care.

  He dropped to his knees by her side and tenderly gathered her into his arms. “You’re home, my darling. You’re home now. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  He stood, turned, and everyone moved back to make a path for him as he passed—as they passed.

  With tears streaming down his face, all he could think of was, Anne is home. My beloved Anne is home.

  * * *

  Feeling feverish, Elizabeth coughed, cleared her throat, and pressed the cool compress against her forehead. She gazed out the window of her bedchamber at Hampton Court. Several of her ladies wept openly, and she felt a need to do the same, but the sorrow she felt for Anne Brandon ran too deep. Perhaps if she and Robert found a moment alone to talk… Aye, mayhap then.

  She looked levelly at Cecil, who stood ready to act upon her orders. “Hast thou found any reason to suspect Norfolk in this?

  “Nay, madam, I have found none. Indeed, Norfolk seemed most surprised when the news of it came out, for he was in the Privy Council when he heard, and many were present who gave witness to his shock.”

  Elizabeth heaved a sigh. “Well, for certs somebody did the horrible deed. It seemed contrary to me she should have run away, and so now we have proof beyond doubt she was taken against her will. ’Tis a dark day for the whole of my realm that a woman, good and kind, and my dear friend, shouldst suffer such an evil end.”

  A jolt of horror shook her body, and she rubbed at the gooseflesh on her arms. “Surely the devil’s own spawn did this deed. Was she taken a-purpose, or did she simply fall to an evil hand by happenstance? We must get to the bottom of this, Cecil. We must.”

  “All possible actions are being pursued. If the answer may be found, we shalt find it.”

  “I thank thee. As for her interment, the lady saved my life, as did her husband,” she said, “and I counted her among my best friends. I wouldst see her honored. Hast thou asked Dean Goodman of Westminster to prepare a place for her within his walls?”

  Cecil lowered his chin and put a hand to his breast. “I did, although when ’twas offered to Brandon he gave his thanks, but refused. She is to be buried within St. Bartholomew’s. It seems the doctor would prefer to have her near.”

  “Of course, that is better.” The queen nodded. “I have much on my calendar over the next week. As soon as a date is determined, make sure to rearrange my duties to allow for a service to be said here, as well. I wouldst not foist mine own attendance upon them, as that would distract too much from the solemn nature of the moment.”

  Her secretary agreed and made to take his leave when she motioned him to wait. “Cecil, order that a pall of black cloth sewn with the royal crest be given to the doctor, that he may drape the coffin with it. I wouldst have it known, even though she is to be buried at Smithfield, that Anne was much esteemed in mine own sight.”

  * * *

  Brandon held a sleeping Rose at the door to the main sanctuary of St. Bart’s. Anne’s coffin stood before the altar, draped in a sumptuous royal cloth sent by the queen. It was a scene of finality he could hardly comprehend.

  This was a place of peace, of beauty, of quiet strength.

  Like her, he thought. Anne had been so giving. So caring. Strong and brave.

  Brandon looked at Rose and thought of the unborn child they would never know. So much had been taken from them. He shut his eyes and choked back a sob.

  He struggled against his agony and turned, his gaze fixing on Anne’s coffin. Like it, the entire church was draped in black, ready for the funeral and interment. He didn’t want her and the baby outside in the graveyard. Anne loved this place, and she would remain here forever, away from the cold and damp, away from the eyes of strangers, close to those she’d loved and who loved her still and forever.

  Should I write something in the Hastings’s Bible so Catherine knows about this? He shook his head. Maybe one day. He certainly had plenty of time to take care of it. A lifetime. Many, in fact.

  He shifted his daughter and adjusted his hold, then thought about how he and her mother time traveled, years apart from one another, and from an era centuries in the future. Each of them ending up, by pure happenstance, in the same place, this England, this Elizabethan England. They’d tried and failed to return to the future once—at Westminster Abbey—but eventually embraced this place, because it had brought them together.

  Rose stirred, woke, and wanted down.

  Brandon set her on her feet, but held onto her fingers. “Stay with Daddy, sweetheart.”

  Rose waved her little hand toward the casket. “Mummy.”

  Brandon swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, that’s Mummy. She loved you very much. We must say goodbye to her now.”

  “Mummy.” She fluttered her hand again, then wriggled her fingers free of his grasp.

  He watched with a sad smile as she toddled toward the casket.

  “You are as determined as she—” He stopped mid-sentence, swallowed against his grief once more, then followed.

  Arms akimbo, Rose walked, gurgled, and looked at him before promptly dropping onto her backside.

  Brandon braced for her reaction, but when she looked up at him no tears came. It was then he noticed a change in them, the color no longer baby-blue, but green, like Annie’s.

  Oh God, oh God...

  “Mummy.” Rose got up, resolute as ever, and continued toddling forward, her focus never vacillating. She took step after wobbly step, gurgling and flapping her arms.

  Finally, she reached her destination and climbed on hands and knees up the steps to the raised altar, then took hold of a corner of the black cloth.

  She put the flat of her hand against her mouth and made a kissing sound—her version of blowing a kiss. “Mummy, bye bye.”

  * * *

  Heartbroken, Lord Henry stood beside Jonathan Brandon in the hospital wing of St. Bart’s and gazed at the mass of people filling the inner courtyard.

  He put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “My dear man, ’twould not be unseemly to remain secluded behind a partition or in a side room for the service. ’Tis expected, and there is no shame in hiding thy grief from prying eyes and gossips. News of this has swept London, and gawkers have already filled the church to overflowing.”

  “If no one is here to honestly mourn Anne, then I shall mourn by myself, in front of everyone, and feel no shame in it,” Brandon replied.

  “I did not say there were only gawkers. Lord Dudley is here, as is Lady Lettice and many others from the royal court, as well as thy patients and those who’ve known Anne’s gentle, caring ways. Thy wife shalt be honored, Jon, have no doubt.”

  “How are we to make him pay for this, Henry?” Brandon asked.

  Henry gazed at his friend and took note of the dark circles beneath his eyes, the haunted look within them, the shoulders bowed with the pain of his loss.

  Broken. He looks broken.

  “Jonathan, this may not be the time to say it, but it weighs heavy upon my heart. Little Rose hath need of thee. She misses her mother, and now sees her father slipping away as well. Be strong for her. Please. For A
nne’s sake and for hers, find it within thyself to be strong.”

  There was no reply.

  “Come, Jon,” Henry said, taking him by the elbow. “’Tis time, and afterward Cath and I willst take both thee and Rose home with us, for as long as thou shalt desire to stay. My wife and all of our household shalt watch over thy daughter and see to her needs, and little Jane will have a playmate.”

  * * *

  The funeral was barely begun, but it already seemed interminable.

  Everyone stared at Brandon as though he might shatter, and he was sure he looked the part on the outside. What they could not guess was the fury that boiled inside. Murderous fury. Norfolk would die for this. Slowly. Painfully. As a doctor, he knew what to do in order to make the duke’s pain and suffering linger on for as long as he deemed necessary to make his point.

  And if he were found out and thusly accused of the duke’s murder, then Brandon would let go of his own life, but not until he allowed himself to be arrested, stand trial, and say his piece about Norfolk’s evil. But prior to any of this, he would concoct a poison and have Henry unknowingly deliver it to his cell.

  Brandon nodded to himself, secure in the knowledge that, if necessary, his plan would succeed.

  He raised his eyes and looked around the church, filled to bursting with mourners. The hospital staff was all there, as well as an uncountable number of his clients from around Smithfield and beyond. Many wore sack cloth and ashes. Robert Dudley stood on his left, the Hastings on his right. Several of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting were nearby, and at least another dozen courtiers were in attendance, too. Even Norfolk’s poor wife and children were there. She’d genuinely liked Anne, apparently had no idea of the history between all of them, or who could have done such evil.

  Annie.

  The vicar droned on, followed by communal prayers and hymns, and then they all listened to the vicar some more.

  Rose, beautiful little Rose, perched on Cath’s lap without fidgeting.

  Brandon ran the back of a finger down her cheek, and she smiled up at him.

  Annie’s smile. Annie’s eyes.

  “No cry, Daddy.”

  Was he? He swiped at his moist cheeks and tried to smile back.

  More prayers. Singing. When will this end?

  People began shifting, and he realized the service was over. Most would leave now, with only hospital staff and Anne’s closest friends remaining for the burial.

  Brandon drew into himself as the mourners shuffled out. He stood there like a stone, unable to react to their words of condolence. He was vaguely aware that Henry and Dudley remained at his side, and that Cath had taken Rose and left with the others.

  Despite their proximity, he felt hollow and utterly alone. He watched a workman pick up the planks from the spot where the floor stones had been removed and a hole had been dug. The spot where Anne would be laid to rest.

  Two other workmen approached, carrying the large brass plaque he’d commissioned. It bore a likeness of Anne in three-quarter’s profile, their newly minted coat of arms, and a memorial dedication.

  When he asked for help with the inscription, Alice and Bob stepped up and assisted him, a kindness that affected him deeply. He hoped the words would touch readers’ hearts forevermore, until the world crumbled away. He also realized the ending was unusual for a memorial. He’d added that part deliberately, so that someone from the future would know what happened and perhaps somehow, in some way, help Anne. God knows how, for the odds were astronomical against anything changing, but he had to try.

  He closed his eyes and recited the words he knew by heart.

  Blessed be Anne Howard Brandon, a beauty bright,

  Who loved Jonathan Brandon, her heart’s delight.

  Cling close to life, touch not the brass,

  Cursed be he who murdered our Sweet Lass.

  She perished Y 1562.

  Murdered. He recalled holding her ravaged body, and the image laid bare his grief once more. Stricken, he opened his eyes and watched in agony as her coffin was lowered into the floor, her body returned to the earth, her life over and done.

  Annie. Too young, too young. Suddenly, the floodgates let loose and spilled over. Oh, my love! Tearfully, he gazed at the men who positioned the brass plaque over the grave, then at the stonemason as he sealed up the floor.

  Anne, no, no, no!

  Darkness fell. He shook himself and glanced around. How long had he been standing here? He thought back and vaguely recalled sending everyone away, asking them for privacy.

  He heaved a sigh.

  Anne, my Anne. He got down on hands and knees and tenderly touched her image on the plaque, then kissed her lips, so cold, so very cold.

  My darling wife! Tears flowed from his eyes, hot with torment. He knew this savage grief would never end. Never, not until...

  My retribution. Norfolk will get what he deserves.

  Chapter Sixteen

  October, 1562, Hastings House, The Strand, London

  With a heavy heart, Brandon sat with Henry in the library after the evening meal.

  “Jonathan,” his lordship said earnestly, “thou must needs move forward with thy life. Thy daughter needs thee. The hospital needs thee. Anne wouldst not wish thee to die this slow death thou seemeth so intent on achieving.”

  Brandon gazed at the port in his glass and swirled it. He and Rose had been living with Henry and Cath for nearly a month. It was, indeed, time he got on with his plans. Rose was at home here now, loved everyone, and adored little Jane like a sister.

  If the worst happened, his daughter would be fine. The Hastings would see to it. Besides, however satisfying Norfolk’s death would be for him personally, it would also protect Rose, for he had no doubt his daughter would eventually be a target of the duke’s wrath.

  He took a drink. If he were charged with Norfolk’s death, which seemed likely, he would need a way out. He refused to die by a traitor’s death. Poison was the best answer, something quick, and something he could have access to once he was jailed. He already had everything ready.

  “Thy thoughts are far away, Jon.”

  Brandon straightened and looked Henry in the eye. He knew what his friend wanted to hear. “I agree. I must return to living my life.” He stood and glanced at the shelf where the old Catholic Bible was kept. “We will pack and leave in the morning. My patients need me, and Rose misses Alice and Mary.”

  Henry’s face brightened at the unexpected news. “Thou art ever welcome here, of course, but we feel this is the best path.”

  “Quite right,” Brandon said with a forced smile. He reached into his pocket. “I’ve something that needs safekeeping. Please do not open this letter, but if I should find myself imprisoned again, return it to me there.”

  “What?” Henry took the sealed envelope and looked at it with dread.

  “I will not be drawn and quartered.”

  Henry’s eyes widened, but then he nodded. “I understand.” He swiped at a sudden tear.

  Brandon smiled grimly. The sealed envelope did hold a letter, in case anyone checked, but what they couldn’t know was that the lower edge had been dipped in a deadly poison. After he’d had his say in court, he would take it in his mouth and the end would come in moments.

  Henry locked the envelope in the top drawer of his desk.

  “And now,” Brandon continued, “I would ask for some privacy to write a final, er, another note to Rose. I ask for its safekeeping as well. If I die before she comes of age, well, it should be given to her when she’s older. I want her to know about her mother.”

  “Certainly, my dear man,” Henry replied gently. He took Brandon’s empty glass and left him alone.

  Brandon watched as the door closed behind his friend. He’d decided against revealing his secret use of the old Bible to Henry and Cath, for the letter had survived through hundreds of years and been successfully returned to their descendant, Catherine Hastings Howard, in the twentieth century.

 
But... He found himself in a familiar and maddening quandary, the desire to reveal his secret always lurking in his mind. After all, with time travel one could never know exactly what path led to an expected outcome.

  To tell Henry or not to tell?

  He sighed, deciding once again to keep it to himself, since Anne told him her grandmother had received his message from 1559.

  So far, so good. Leave well enough alone.

  He opened the Bible and found his letter, his gaze fixing on Anne’s last, precious notation announcing Rose’s birth. Tears filled his eyes. Annie. So happy. So alive.

  My darling, why did this happen to you? Why didn’t I go with you to market that day? I would’ve protected you.

  He clenched his teeth, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and wrote.

  October 1562

  Catherine!

  I don’t know how to tell you this. I can barely think. Devastating news. One month ago my darling Anne was kidnapped, brutalized, and murdered, before being dumped at our doorstep. The duke of Norfolk did this. I have certainty without proof, so nothing is being done about it. Therefore, I must act. I will do to him what he did to Anne, this I swear.

  My one request—IF there is any way to send someone back to stop Norfolk before he takes Anne away, then please, I beg of you, see it done. They will need to know that she was kidnapped on the 5th of September, 1562, at the market in Smithfield. I would give my own life to save hers—for her never to have known such horror. She deserves a full life, to grow old, to know her grandchildren as you were able to do.

  Please, Catherine, I beg you to FIND A WAY TO UNDO THIS!

  Jonnie

  PART THREE

  Chapter Seventeen

  Summer of 2014

  Chilled to her bones despite the sun’s warmth, Catherine sat on the garden bench at her Chelsea, London home. She stared at the old mulberry tree on the far side of the lawn, watching as a small breeze rustled its leaves. They wavered and trembled, as she could not.