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

by Morgan O'Neill

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  To Anne’s relief, the wagon ride to St. Giles’ was uneventful—so far, at least.

  It was late, London dark and quiet except for the clip clop of the horses’ hooves. Rose slept and Anne started to nod off, too, but when the baby squirmed and whimpered, she straightened and reached in her pocket for the silver teething rattle. Nothing. Where was it? Going deeper, she wiggled her fingers around and then realized she’d left the rattle at Hastings House.

  On the bed. Shit.

  Rose began to cry just as Anne heard a distant pounding, like thunder.

  The noise came closer, the sound growing more distinct.

  Horsemen! Anne’s instincts flared.

  “What in bloody hell?” she heard Jon say.

  Edgar quickly turned the wagon into a dark alley and then reined in the horses.

  “Annie, get her quiet,” Jon whispered in desperation.

  “Okay.” Anne curled a finger and rubbed it against Rose’s lips, and the baby promptly opened her mouth and began to gnaw away her teething pain. Anne sighed in relief, waiting, hoping the horsemen would pass them by.

  Her nerves on edge, she jumped when she felt Jon’s hand on her shoulder. He gave a little squeeze, then said, “Steady.”

  The wagon was positioned to face the main road. She held her breath and stared as the tumult of pounding hooves closed in.

  “Find them!”

  Those two words were all Anne needed to hear. With heart stopping certainty, she recognized the voice. Norfolk!

  In a flash, torches, horses, and men streaked by.

  Darkness fell again. She closed her eyes, temporarily blinded by images seared into her retina. The sounds faded fast, until all she could hear was her baby’s gentle cooing. She let out a ragged breath.

  She opened her eyes when Edgar whispered, “We can’t be sure who that was, but just in case it’s our enemies, they’re taking the longer route. I know a shortcut.”

  “It was Norfolk,” Anne whispered. “I recognized his voice.”

  “Yes,” Jon agreed, sounding grim.

  * * *

  They made it to St. Giles’ via Edgar’s shortcut without seeing anyone else on the road.

  Sweat beaded Anne’s brow as she stood in the gloom holding her sleepy baby. Edgy, she glanced over her shoulder several times as Edgar unlocked the church door and they hurried in. In their haste, they couldn’t do anything about the wagon and horses. When Norfolk and his men arrived, it was likely they would find them on the side of the church.

  Before he locked the door from within, Edgar put the walking stick on his belt and lit the torch with one of his remaining matches. Anne shielded her own eyes, as well as Rose’s, against the sudden blaze. Thankfully, her daughter slept on unaware.

  “This front door won’t hold against an onslaught,” Jon said, grasping the strongbox beneath one arm as he reached out to touch the wood. “We’ll need something to block it.”

  Anne peered at the door more closely. It was ordinary, not massive like the ones at Westminster or even St. Bart’s, and she knew Jon was right. Norfolk and his men could easily break it down.

  “There,” Father Edgar said, pointing his torch toward the shadows to illuminate a wooden chest.

  The priest motioned for Jon to follow him. “It likely holds the houseling cloths, but if it still contains the old Catholic brass and silver, it should be quite heavy.”

  To Anne’s relief, it was, so much so Jonathan and Edgar struggled to push it away from the wall and against the door. Once that was blocked, they set off toward the aisle, the priest’s torch lighting the way.

  Anne heard shouts coming from outside.

  “Come on!” Jon grabbed her arm and they took off, running behind Edgar.

  Jolted awake by the bouncing, Rose started to protest and squirm.

  Breaths coming in gasps, they all ground to a halt before the altar. Angry, the baby started crying, her distress laced with hiccups and whimpers.

  Boom, boom! Pounding on the door!

  “Here.” Edgar hurriedly bent down and yanked a small carpet from the floor to reveal a trap door. With an effort, he lifted it. “I think it best if you go first, Doctor, then Anne and Rose. I’ll follow with the strongbox.”

  The men traded what they held, torch and walking stick for strongbox. Anne saw the muscles in Jon’s jaw clench as more booms echoed throughout the church.

  They were coming—they were coming!

  “Stay close behind me, Anne.” Jon held her gaze for an instant, then turned and headed down the steep stairwell.

  The moment she set foot on the first step, Rose began to howl again. “Shhh. See? Daddy’s up ahead. Shhh.”

  Then she heard Edgar’s harsh whisper, “Move! They’ve breached the door!”

  Even Rose sensed this was important and quieted. Holding her baby tight, Anne teetered momentarily on the stairs, then took in a deep breath and scrambled down.

  One step at a time, one at a time. At last, she reached the bottom. With a burst of relief, she exhaled just as Jon held out the torch, illuminating a stone sarcophagus.

  * * *

  Edgar shot a glance over his shoulder. Lights moved to and fro at the opposite end of the church. He guessed it would be only moments before the duke and his men started down the aisle. With darkness shrouding where he stood, he realized they were too far away to see him.

  He looked down and saw the rumpled rug that had covered the trap door. Since it might give away their escape route, he kicked it through the open door. Holding the strongbox tight against his left side, he started down the steps, but stopped long enough to reach back and ease the door down as quietly as possible.

  With a little luck, their enemies would not put two and two together until they stood in the vicinity of the trap door. Even then, they might not realize that was how the Brandons escaped.

  When he reached the bottom step, he almost tripped over the little rug. Sweet Jesus! He glanced up to see the Brandons standing ready before the bone box. The doctor had his left arm around his wife and child, his right grasping the cane. The torch was still lit and resting on the stone floor beneath his right foot. Everything they needed touched them, except the strongbox.

  “Father, we’re ready. If you’re coming with us, get over here. If not, I need the box,” the doctor implored.

  Just then, Edgar heard footsteps and shouts above. “Jon, Anne, go now!” he said as loud as he dared. “Go!”

  They all looked up as a muffled voice filtered down to them, “Where is she? Find her!”

  They were directly overhead, and Edgar realized he needed to get away from the stairs—now. The Brandons were too far away. He glanced around for a place to hide.

  “Father, you’ll need this.”

  What? Edgar turned just as Brandon tossed something in his direction. It hit the rug. He reached down and took the key.

  Edgar held it up. “But…?”

  Brandon raised the walking staff. “No time. Take the box back to Henry.”

  Edgar receded into a dark corner just as he heard scraping sounds from the trap door. They were trying to open it!

  “Let’s go!” Anne said just as Brandon said in a low, desperate voice, “St. Giles, I beseech you to empower this staff.” He struck the floor. “St. Giles, in the name of the Holy Church, I beseech you to empower this staff!”

  Oh God, will that work? Shout! Edgar’s mind screamed. You need to shout it out.

  To his horror, the trap door opened wide and light flooded the top of the stairs. Men were bellowing and someone yelled, “Move aside!”

  Edgar fell back into the shadows even more, then shot a look at the Brandons, who stood as if frozen to the spot. To his relief, the doctor jumped into action and stamped out the torch, plunging the area around the bone box into blackness.

  Just then, another torch was thrust through the trap door.

  “Who is down there?” a man called out as he came half-way d
own the steps and looked around.

  “Are they about? Dost thou see them?” Edgar heard a strained voice.

  “Nay, me lord. I see only the bones of the dead. ’Tis a charnel house, is all.”

  When the man hastened back up, Edgar heard a low growl, then, “Fool, let me pass!”

  Pulse pounding, Edgar watched as a man in a feathered hat plunged his torch through the door, then took several steps down and strained to look beyond the glare.

  Norfolk!

  Edgar’s heart seized when the torchlight touched the Brandons.

  “You!” Norfolk shouted and then charged down the rest of the steps.

  Immediately, someone else started down, but the duke screamed, “Nay, go back. This is between him and me!”

  “Stay away from my family!” Brandon snarled as Anne turned aside to shelter Rose from harm.

  Help them! Edgar took a step out of his hiding place, but the force of Brandon’s warning stare drove him back.

  The doctor leapt at Norfolk, knocking him to the ground with a thud, then scrambled to his feet and hovered over his enemy, ready to strike. The duke lay on the ground, gasping in agony, the air forced from his lungs.

  With a deadly smile, Brandon raised the staff, but then shook his head. “Bastard. Know this, Thomas Howard, you’ll die a traitor’s death—hung, gutted, cut apart. As to the when, I’ll leave that for you to discover.” Grim and resolute, he glared at the wheezing duke, then turned back to his family.

  Hurry! Edgar’s mind screamed. Please God, they need to hurry!

  Brandon grabbed the torch, then took hold of Anne and the baby. He raised the cane and struck the floor. “St. Giles, for the love of God and the safety of my family, I beseech you to empower this staff!”

  Meanwhile, Norfolk struggled to his knees and gaped as the air shimmered around the Brandons. Then, in a flash, the family vanished.

  Norfolk reared back and yelled.

  Edgar crossed himself and grinned in exultation.

  “Nay!” The duke threw back his head and let loose a vehement howl. “Damn them all to hell!”

  “Sir, what’s amiss?” His men started down the steps.

  Norfolk got to his feet. “Go back. No one is here!”

  The men retreated, and Norfolk picked up his torch and stared for a moment at the spot where the Brandons had stood, then climbed the steps with curses on his lips.

  Thank the Lord we prevailed! Edgar released his breath in a soft whoosh. The Brandons were well away—at least he sincerely hoped so. He would celebrate that and his own safety later. For now, he needed to find a way out. While he still had some light from the duke’s retreating torch, he reached into his pocket for a match.

  The trap door slammed shut, and darkness swallowed the crypt. With shaky fingers, Edgar managed to light his match, then use Brandon’s key to open the strongbox.

  Trembling violently, he looked for something flammable. Calm down, will you? The Brandons escaped. Now think. How will you get out of here?

  He took several deep breaths to quiet his racing heart and started to rummage around in the box. There was some money there, old English currency bearing the image of King George VI. Only a few notes, though. Not enough for his needs. He dug deeper and found a book about Tudor history. With a wry smile, he thought of Marty in Back to the Future destroying the sports almanac. Brilliant, he told himself as he tore dozens of pages from the book and stuffed them into his pockets.

  With the strongbox tucked beneath one arm, he set off through the tunnel, getting into a fiery rhythm as he balled up page upon page, lit them, and let them drop, illuminating his passage toward the open air.

  When he finally exited into a dark London street, he felt a sense of relief. He’d accomplished what he’d set out to do, what all of them had set out to do, so very long ago. Even though he’d only known the Brandons a few days, he’d lived with them, in a sense, for countless years. Suddenly, he felt terribly alone. But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? He looked up at the twinkling stars, at God’s glory, and smiled to himself, wondering if Henry and the others would be surprised to see him come back.

  Maybe not.

  But he didn’t feel the need to beat himself up now. He realized the path he’d taken was meant to be.

  Thy will be done, O Lord. Thy will be done.

  * * *

  Henry Hastings was not surprised when his steward showed Father Edgar into his library. What did surprise him was the fact the priest held the strongbox. Furthermore, Edgar looked ragged, out of breath. Sweet Jesus, what had happened to everyone else?

  “My God, man,” Henry asked in alarm, “where are the Brandons?”

  “Everything is as it should be.” The priest’s expression lifted, his smile genuine. “They are well away, and I must speak privately with both of you—I hope Lady Catherine is awake?”

  Relieved, Henry nodded and turned to his steward. “Please bring food and wine here, and then fetch her ladyship.”

  “As thou wishes, my lord.” The man bowed.

  “Here, let me lighten thy burden,” Henry said as he took the strongbox from him. “Sit, friend. It doth seem we have much to discuss. Methinks thou first needs a drink, though.”

  Edgar sank into a chair just as servants whisked into the room carrying trays of sustenance. Henry dismissed them as soon as a side table was set. He placed the strongbox on his desk and then took it upon himself to pour a glass of wine for Edgar. The priest swilled it down like a man dying of thirst, then asked for more. Henry obliged and then poured himself a glass as well.

  They drank in silence but for a moment, until the sound of Cath’s slippered feet could be heard coming down the hallway. As she entered the room, Henry saw she was dressed in a robe which covered her nightclothes. It was late, indeed, and he sensed it must be well past midnight.

  Upon seeing Edgar and the strongbox, Cath cried out in alarm, to which Henry quickly reassured, “I have not yet learned the particulars, but the good father told me all’s well. The Brandons didst leave.”

  Despite this, Cath’s eyes welled with tears as she sat by Edgar’s side and took his hand. “Art thou well, friend? At ease with thy decision? What dost thou knoweth of Jon, Anne, and Rose? Where are they? I pray they are safe.”

  Edgar glanced around at the company. “We’ll never know for certain of their fate, but let me tell you both about what transpired at St. Giles’.”

  “I wouldst welcome that,” Cath said softly. She turned to Henry. “It strikes me hard they are beyond our reach—and shalt be thus forevermore.”

  He nodded, then glanced back at the strongbox. It was then his mind stirred with the inkling of a plan.

  Indeed, with Father Edgar’s help and that of the Vatican’s, it just might succeed.

  Chapter Thirty

  December, 2014, Chelsea, London

  For perhaps the third time that morning, Trudy re-entered Mr. Howard’s library. A dear man, he’d been gone for so many years there always seemed to be a hush on the room. But this Sunday especially, there were no sounds, not even a hint of traffic from the street. She shivered as old clichés sprang to mind: dead silence, silent as a tomb, quiet as the grave.

  Trudy fought the lump rising in her throat. No, this won’t do. No, no. Even now, Catherine clung to life, days beyond all medical expectations. Trudy knew this was not only because of her formidable inner strength, but also because of Anne. Catherine could not—must not—die without learning her granddaughter’s fate.

  Aye, Catherine needs an answer. We all do—everyone who loves Anne.

  The immediate family would assemble here shortly, for Richard and Joan had just gone off to Heathrow to pick up his brother Reggie, his wife Roxana, and their four sons. They’d come on the first available flight out of Australia to see Catherine one last time.

  Trudy felt the rush of her own blood, the drive to know. Re-motivated, she went straight to the desk where Dr. Brandon’s letter rested in the double-sided frame. If
, by any chance, he’d written new words, some news about Anne...

  Please, make it so. She crossed herself and took hold of the frame. She stared and then her eyes filled with tears of frustration. It was the same as before, Brandon’s grief-stricken note at the end of the letter, nothing else, no new message.

  A tear plopped onto the frame’s glass, then another, and Trudy looked about for something to wipe it dry. Trembling, she rummaged about in the desk’s top drawer, came up with a cloth for wiping spectacles, and then blotted at the wetness.

  Her eyes filled again, and she swiped at her face.

  “Stop it,” she said aloud. “Stop—”

  She did a double-take and stared at the letter. Something seemed different. October 1562 looked...blurry. So did the words Catherine! I don’t know how to tell you this...

  She stepped back a little and wiped her eyes again, sure her tears had caused an optical illusion.

  With a clearer gaze, she leaned closer and watched in stunned silence as the entire message about Anne’s death faded before her eyes. She felt her legs give way, and she slumped into Mr. Howard’s desk chair. The message was gone! All that remained was Brandon’s initial note to Catherine about his time traveling, followed by Anne’s happy news about her life in Elizabethan England.

  What did this mean?

  Trudy stared hard at the letter, waiting, praying, hoping, and then praying again.

  She closed her eyes. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...

  Laughter rose from somewhere outside, life intruding. Trudy blinked. Or could it be she got that wrong? Was it the opposite? Was life returning?

  Something suddenly felt different, a palpable change in the air around her. This was no intrusion. Had the laughter somehow, unaccountably, signaled a new beginning?

  In amazement, Trudy watched as letters slowly appeared on the ancient paper, fragile words becoming clearer with each passing moment.

  She read.

  Dearest Grandma—

  “Oh Lord,” she cried out in joy. Her fingers reached out and traced the wonderful words, for they meant change, blessed change.