The Thornless Rose (9 page)

…

Will Dawkins skulked in the shadows, watching the witch-woman remove things from her satchel and secret them near the tomb.

He smiled covetously, counting his heartbeats, waiting for her to leave the church. When the door finally closed, he ran to the tomb, dropped to his knees, and reached inside the crack.
Jesus, no!
he thought, wrenching back his hand.
What if she’s cursed her things? I might burn me fingers, or find meself turned t’ stone
. He paused, eyeing the crack.
Nay, if the witch cast a spell
, he reasoned
, I would’ve heard her magic words
.

Will took his dagger and pushed it inside the crack. He moved it around until he made contact with something, then pulled back, flipping the thing onto the floor. A small, leather purse. He opened it, finding dozens of pockets filled with little, flat rectangles, about the size of gaming cards. He removed one and sniffed it. Nothing. Placing it in his mouth, he chewed it a little, noting its wondrous smoothness. Not paper, nor leather or metal.

He studied its strange, indecipherable markings and lone silver square. Turning it to catch the light, he recognized one symbol—a crown. He peered at the square. The image of a dove seemed to float within a marvelous depth. He tilted the card back.

Holy shyte, the bird moves! It’s still alive! God blind me, the she-devil must’ve trapped it!

What riches could such a wicked marvel bring? Will’s mind raced with the possibilities. He stared at the crown again. It was surely worth a king’s ransom.

He eagerly reached into the crack with his bare hand, pulled forth a wealth of strange objects, and stuffed them into his pockets. Then, holding his dagger before him, he hurried to the door and slipped away.

Chapter Ten

Anne left the church feeling better. The worst of the storm had passed as quickly as it had come, and the rain was now light but steady as she made her way toward the gatekeeper.

“Hello, er, good day again,” she said, attempting a small curtsey, hoping it made her look authentic. “Dr. Brandon isn’t in this morning, and the lady said I couldn’t stay and wait for him.”

“Aye. He is quite strict about letting people in before he’s seen them and agreed to it. I’m sorry if I raised thy hopes. Mayhap, I should have warned thee.” The man studied her face. “Hast thou any coin to buy victuals whilst thou awaits Dr. Brandon?”

Anne shook her head, astonished her grandmother hadn’t thought to include old coins.

The gatekeeper placed his sword against the wall and reached into his pocket. “Here, child, I’ve a coin or two to buy something to eat at the market.”

When Anne started to object, he waved her off. “Protest not. Thou shalt repay me when thou art able, and I will be pleased to see it. Until then, go with these few coins, and God’s blessing upon thee.” He pressed them into her hand, then pointed up the street. “Go on. Thou shalt find enough booths to satisfy any hunger.”

Anne looked at the strange, uneven coins. “Thanks. I will repay you,” she said. “You have my word.” Stepping past him, she found herself yearning to tell her grandmother they were taking care of her at St. Bart’s.

As the gate closed with a
boom
, Anne faced the busy street. Everyone was heading in the same direction, looking like actors in a Shakespearean drama. Women, young and old, wore corsets and long skirts, while the men had codpieces and knives on their belts. All wore scarves or caps to cover their hair.

Seeking to fit in, Anne adjusted her hood and joined the crowd. Laden carts clogged the street, some pulled by donkeys or boney horses, others pushed by men. People jostled about her, chattering in a version of English she barely understood. How was she ever going to make sense of the thees and thous?

Shaking her head, her heart thumped with nervousness at the nearness of these people out of history—
dead
people, but not dead. They were here and very much alive. Amazing. She hoped she didn’t stand out too badly. Thankfully, nobody seemed to be looking her way, everyone cheerfully intent on going to market. She was shocked, nonetheless, to see how many people had black stumps for teeth and deeply pockmarked skin. As for their body odor, her sense of smell was definitely working.

Walking swiftly, Anne pulled the edge of her hood over her nose, maneuvered through the press of bodies and headed for the square. The only thing she had to do was wait a few hours, then get back to the hospital at “nine o’ the clock” and find Dr. Brandon.

Easy enough. She relaxed a bit more and decided to look for a place to get something to drink. Her mind wandered back to the warm little pub she’d visited before all the craziness started.

Her head came up sharply. The Crook existed now, didn’t it? And it wasn’t more than a couple of blocks away.

The rain let up, and the sun poked through the clouds. Anne tried to mentally match the sixteenth century landmarks with what she recalled of her previous route to the pub.

Jingling her coins, all she could think of was how good a beer was going to taste. Besides, she had to check the place out, since there could be clues about Dr. Brandon’s time traveling. She wondered if he’d ever returned to investigate.

Anne glanced up and spotted the striding figure of a tall man, a hauntingly familiar man. She stopped dead in her tracks. There he was in the flesh! Hair black, eyes sparkling blue. She stared as he greeted passersby, his genuine smile pulling her in until she felt she could spring away and fly to him.

“Doc––”

Suddenly, a hand clamped over Anne’s mouth and an arm grasped her waist, trapping her. Terrified, she struggled against her captor’s iron grip, tried to yell, but the hand muffled her efforts. Her desperate gaze followed Dr. Brandon, but he was too far away, heading toward St. Bart’s.

Anne’s heart skipped as he turned a corner. Jonathan Brandon, her only hope, hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard her. He was gone.

No!
She wrenched away, freeing herself, and started to run, but fingers dug into her shoulder and back. She felt her cape being pulled away, heard the ripping of her dress. The hand covered her mouth again, and she heaved and twisted, breaths coming in shallow bursts.

Lips pressed against her ear, just as a hard point jabbed her rib cage. “Do as I say, or thou shalt know the point o’ me dagger right personal,” a man said, his voice low, harsh, unyielding.

Louder, for the benefit of those nearby, he added, “Now, wife, thou shalt get used t’ thy new husband. By God, thou will even get t’ like it, or I’m not the man I once was! Come along then, Sweet’ns, back t’ the marriage bed.”

Everyone laughed at them.

Anne was sure he would rape her. Cursing herself for leaving the switchblade in her pocket, she tried to recall anything she’d heard about getting away from an attacker. Maybe if she relaxed, she could catch him off guard.

“I’m takin’ me hand away. If I hear the least squeak, I’ll stick thee.”

The man forced her down an alleyway, beyond curious eyes. He released his grip, then wrenched her around.

Anne stared at the ugly scowl and scruffy beard, and knew instantly he was one of the creeps who’d chased her in the night. She looked for his friend, but he was alone. If she could land one solid kick...

The man’s arm flew at her face, his fist connecting hard with her jaw.

Pain exploded in her head and she crumpled.

…

Jonathan Brandon rubbed his hand over his rough, day-old beard, then across his face, not bothering to stifle a yawn. He acknowledged several familiar faces bidding him a hearty good morn. They were his grateful patients, most of them, on their way to market.

“Dr. Brandon! Been out birthin’ this night? Or didst thou finally take time for a bit o’ comfort with the ladies?” a joker couldn’t help teasing. The man guffawed, and the women around him blushed and giggled, looking from one to the other out of the corners of their eyes.

Brandon grinned back and waved, but continued on without comment. He’d been an oddity since the moment of his arrival in London almost eighteen months earlier, as much for his personal cleanliness and lack of facial hair as for his courteous regard for all, even the lowliest sorts, and his noticeable lack of female companionship. The last was becoming the stuff of legend.

The number of women and girls he’d politely put off since beginning work at St. Bart’s was well known, but still they persisted, each one hoping to lay claim at last to his heart, or whatever else he might deign to offer.

Nearing the hospital, Brandon sighed with relief, for the night had been long and worrisome. The Gregg woman had suffered a difficult time, her narrow pelvis not made to easily pass such a large baby. In the end, though, she’d given life to a robust and chubby boy.

Brandon smiled. Mistress Gregg had been one of the first women he’d been able to advise from the earliest moments of her pregnancy. She’d called him “cracked” because of his insistence on sound nutrition, moderate exercise, and good hygiene, and she happily offered her opinion to all who would listen. When he made it clear he wished to deliver the baby without the services of a midwife, she almost balked. But after receiving more of his excellent care, she relaxed. Now, he had several other pregnant patients, all pleased to follow his instructions to the letter.

Stomach rumbling, Brandon pulled out his pocket sundial, aligned the needle northward, and checked the hour. Eight o’clock. He had not eaten more than a bite since supper the night before and knew he would not sleep if he failed to take care of that problem first.

He reached out for the gate’s clapper, to let the bishop know he was home. Though no longer wearing the robes of a Catholic prelate, the gatekeeper, Robert Wright, was pleased Brandon still acknowledged his former self privately and without rancor. Some titles and professions, even callings, they both knew, had become a dangerous weight to carry these days, but Brandon was determined to treat Bishop Wright with the respect that was his due.

“I’m back at last––” Surprised, Brandon felt the gate give. Why wasn’t it latched? He slowly pushed it open, touching the dagger on his belt.

“Bishop?” he called out softly, taking a step forward. When he got no reply, he slid the dagger from its sheath and brandished it before him. “Bishop Wright? Hello?”

A groom raced from the hospital. “Dr. Brandon, thank the Lord!” he yelled.

Brandon sheathed his weapon, assuming the lad’s agitation was due to being caught shirking his duties. “Where is Bishop Wright?”

The groom stood there, mute and trembling.

Brandon bolted the gate. “I’m not angry with you, lad. Now do run along and have Mistress Mary fetch me some bread and cheese, whilst I put my medical kit away, will you? And a bit of wine to wash it down. I’ll starve if I don’t eat straight away.”

“But, Doctor, sir, there’s been a fair tussle, there has, an’ the good bishop was in the thick o’ it! Come quick that he mightn’t die. ’Tis bad as that.”

“A fight? Here?” Brandon set off, following the groom’s lead into the hospital. “What’s this all about?”

“Sir, I dinna know, fer sure. We jes found him there by the gate, lying in a pool o’ blood with this great gash in his side. Somebody got in an’ stuck him good.”

Brandon rushed into the infirmary to find Bishop Wright stretched out on a pallet, stripped to the waist, bloody wadding tied about his middle. The man was still and pale, his hands covered with defensive wounds from a knife attack. Brandon moved over to his side, touched his throat for a pulse, then lifted an eyelid to study the pupil.

“Doctor?” The housekeeper, Mary Prentice, entered the room. After casting a withering look at the groom, she went on, “Thank the Good Lord thou hast returned, Dr. Brandon. We’ve had a crazed woman here who claimed to know thee, and I turned her out like thou say t’ do, but she came back—or never left, more likely—and did this terrible deed upon our poor bishop. I’m preparin’ a poultice fer the wound, though fer certs thou shalt wish t’ see it before I put it on.”

“What are these rags you’ve used on the wound?” Brandon grumbled as he peeled away the filthy, blood-soaked cloth from the bishop’s left side.

Mary frowned. “Weel, I found what there was t’ stop the bleedin’, since no one else was here t’ give direction.”

“I’ve told you over and over, Mary, to use only the cloths that have been washed and boiled. And the poultice—did you follow my directions to the letter? Boiled water to start with, crushed geranium root and the rest?” Brandon tossed the bandages on the floor, then went to a washbasin and scrubbed his hands. “If not, then I can’t use it.”

“Aye, I followed all the cleanin’ rules.” Mary scowled. “It were such a panic ’round here. I only did me best an’ besides––”

“Quite right,” Brandon said, stilling the woman’s tongue. He grabbed some clean cloths, came down on his haunches, and searched the bishop’s wound visually, then by touch. His knowledge of anatomy was superb, and he mentally traced all of the organs, blood vessels, and tissue in the vicinity of the wound. The blade had not hit anything vital, although his patient had lost a lot of blood.

Brandon glanced at Mary. “Run and fetch me the catgut and needles. You know where they are.”

“Aye, Doctor, but as I was sayin’ ’bout that chit––”

“Not now! Can’t you bloody well see I’m busy?” he bellowed.

She pursed her lips and hustled off.

“Wash your hands before touching anything, Mary!”

“God’s death!” she retorted from the other room.

Brandon smiled grimly, and, turning to the groom, said, “Boy, be a good chap. Wash your hands, too, then pass me that stoppered bottle of eau-de-vie.”

The young man looked about for a moment, tongue-tied and uncomprehending.

“On the shelf, lad, the fruit brandy. Now get cracking!”

Turning back to his patient, Brandon pressed a cloth to the wound. He heard splashing at the washbasin, some fumbling at the shelf, then a triumphant, “Aye, here ’tis, sir!”

The groom handed him the eau-de-vie and Brandon generously poured the liquor over the wound to sterilize, then wetted a fresh piece of cloth, dabbing around the exterior skin and cleaning the remaining gore.

Mary returned with the suturing tools. Stitch by stitch, Brandon closed the four-inch wound in the bishop’s side, before applying the poultice and a fresh bandage. He then turned to the defensive wounds on the hands; most were scratches, but one on the right palm required five stitches.

Shoulders sagging, Brandon made a final check of his handiwork, washed his hands, and addressed the groom, “I’m pleased with you, lad. You’re new here, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

“Robert, sir. Same as the bishop. Robert Hope.”

Hope? Brandon felt a sudden stab of nostalgia. Try as he might to forget, he still ached for his old life, for 1945.

He forced himself to consider the humor of the situation, then tried to hide his smile. “May I call you Bob?”

The young man nodded.

“Well, Master Bob Hope, go to the kitchen and tell Cook I’ve requested she give you a special treat. Sweetmeats, perhaps?”

“Aye, sir!”

“And after you’ve supped, guard the front gate until I say otherwise.”

“O’ course, sir!”

As Bob rushed off, Brandon turned to Mary. “What happened here?”

“We had a visitor this morn, but we kept t’ the rules an’ turned her away. She was t’ wait outside fer thee, though I doubt she’ll be comin’ t’ present herself now, after wot she done here.”

“You say a woman did this? Why? How did she get so angry she’d stab our bishop?”

“I canna say why she turned so violent, but it must’ve been her fer she was the only one t’ come by. She said she was terrible tired, lost. Said an old friend o’ yourn sent her to London t’ find thee.” Mary’s hazel eyes flashed. “She were tart and brash wi’ her tongue and her attitude, she were. Demandin’ t’ be let in, but I held firm on the rules, I did.”