Uttering a foul curse, he shook off the soldiers’ loosened grasp and held out his wrists in a gesture of surrender.
“Very well. To London.”
Chapter Seven
“Make way! Make way for the godless traitor filth!”
Gritting his teeth at the bellowed words, Brand turned his head just in time to lessen the impact of yet another rotten vegetable. For the endless journey from Guildford to London, he and Carey had been bundled into a cart with thick iron bars. That, at least, offered some protection. But as soon as they entered the city proper, they had been hauled out, wrists bound tightly behind their backs, and forced to trudge the streets with cold, cramped limbs. They looked like beggars in their dirty, wrinkled clothing, while this particularly sadistic guard constantly announced their newly acquired status.
The people of London responded as they always did. Some silently pitying, others turning away in relief it wasn’t them, and a third group who laughed, jeered and threw waste at the fall of a former royal favorite, and the black sheep of a very powerful family.
“Whip the devil’s servant and his whore!”
“Not so high and mighty now, are ye?”
“Guilty. Cut off both their heads!”
He thought he’d be immune to the insults. That life as a bastard and Therese’s death had long ago armored him against casually cruel strangers possessing no facts yet instantly passing judgment and pronouncing guilt. But Carey’s tearful bewilderment and cries of fright and pain as she’d been taunted, spat on, and hit with all manner of foul things brought back the crushing shame, anger, and despair at the injustice of punishment for a crime not committed.
Yet even humbled as he was, the fierce protectiveness he felt toward her remained steadfast, the urge to sign his own death warrant by attacking the guards and those crowding the streets for causing her pain overwhelming. Carey saw something in him that no one else did. For once not his family name and connections, the more prominent position at court it could offer. Nor his inherited and accumulated wealth, the opportunity of a minor title or fine London home.
Just him.
How or why, he didn’t know, but in offering him everything, believing in him, she in turn had made him believe.
An unholy cry yanked him back to the present.“
Repent, sinners. Repent or burn!” screeched a young mother to his right, before a cold, pulpy mess hit the back of his head and sprayed fetid juice onto his neck and down his doublet collar.
By all the saints, he hated this city.
“Brand.”
He turned his head at Carey’s soft cry, just in time to see two leering lads take aim at her breasts with an armful of overripe tomatoes. Stepping to his left, he pivoted in front of her and deflected them with his back. He already carried the sweet scents of blood, grime, and various kitchen scraps, what were a few more servings of unwanted food?
“You know,” he said conversationally, walking backward as though he did it every day of the week, “if Lucas were here, he’d be cursing the ungodliness of vegetables and how unpleasant they were to eat and wear. And I’d be forced to agree with him. So I am most relieved he was ordered home to cool his heels in Cornwall.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and attempted a smile. “I…I don’t know. Sure I read in one of Papa’s books the softer the pulp, the better for one’s skin—”
“Oi! Back in formation, you!” barked a guard to their side.
So proud of Carey’s spirit, Brand ignored the red-cheeked man entirely and bent down, brushing her cheek with a kiss. “Indeed.”
“By the by, I know you miss him.”
“Lucas? Don’t be ridiculous. Tis a miracle the boy has made it to fourteen. Rafe and Annabelle de Vere must be saints, or consume enough wine to float a warship.”
“Ha. Admit it, you wish for brave, amusing, troublemaking sons just like him. Like you were, I imagine.”
“Sons perhaps, not sure about daughters though. I’d be driven to drink, no, far worse—driven to attend church as soon as you birthed them. Imagine the mayhem a mob of ebony-curled, sapphire-eyed FitzAlans might create—”
A heavy blow made his ears ring, and he stumbled for a few steps before regaining his balance. Probably a good thing, because he was getting far ahead of himself. Yes, she had miraculously agreed to his entirely unromantic proposal in the heat of passion, but there was still so much she didn’t know about him. His father Arundel. The dark secrets of his first marriage to Therese. How deeply his anti-Catholic sentiment ran. Even if by some miracle the queen called a halt to this evil and freed them, Carey could well still turn her back on him when she discovered all the ugly truths.
Flexing his throbbing jaw, he looked steadily at Sergeant Red-cheeks. The guard sat straighter in his saddle, glaring back at him with beady ferret eyes. “I said back in formation, FitzAlan. It is less than a mile to the palace, you godless sinner. You should both be thinkin’ of final confession, not laughin’. Reckon a taste of the rack might help. Sure they’d love you to visit…aw, now don’t fret, mistress. Her Majesty might be merciful and send you straight to the block or pyre, being as you were a favorite for so long.”
“Or,” said Brand, baring his teeth in a parody of a smile, “we’ll both be found innocent of all charges, released immediately, and given the freedom to find those who wronged us for a slow, messy vengeance. You’ve heard about me…haven’t you?”
The guard made a snarling sound and deliberately spat on the toe of Brand’s boot, but a moment later he pulled hard on the reins and retreated several feet.
“Brand,” Carey whispered shakily after several minutes, sidling a step closer to him. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” he replied, forcing a reassuring smile. “Just in desperate need of one of my betrothed’s special sponge baths.”
She blushed scarlet, and his smile widened to a genuine grin. But before he could say another word, a trumpet blast sounded ahead of them and all humor vanished. On the steps of St. James’s Palace his father stood next to the Duke of Norfolk and the Archbishop of Canterbury. The three most powerful men in the country, all devout Catholics and loyal to the queen. All cold-eyed, cold-hearted and unsmiling.
Norfolk stepped forward, a roll of crisp parchment open in his hands.
“Sir Brandon FitzAlan, Mistress Catherine Linwood, you stand accused of high treason, blasphemy, heresy, witchcraft, and fornication. On behalf of her most gracious majesty Queen Mary, it is the desire of the council to hear this matter personally and pass judgment upon it. Due to the nature of the charges, it is also the desire of the council to begin with all haste. Therefore, your trial shall commence at noon, three days hence. Guards, escort them to the dungeon.”
“No,” Carey cried, frantically trying to twist out of the guards’ hold as they began to roughly haul her away. “Brand. Brand!”
He ran several steps before his back arched and legs buckled under the brutal strike of wooden staffs, the agonizing burn of the heavy blows a sickening contrast to the chills roiling his gut. Once again in his wretched life, he was reduced to utter powerlessness by the whims and desires of noble-blooded Catholics.
There would be no justice here. Mary wanted them both dead.
They would take her secrets to the grave.
Three days.
Three endless days she had spent confined to this shadowed, damp, sparsely furnished chamber in a forgotten corner of St. James’s Palace, her only indication of time passing a small ledged window that allowed a few weak rays when the sun rose to its highest point in the sky. Three days of forced contemplation, as she was permitted no books, quill and parchment, embroidery, or even rosary beads for solace.
Three days of near-silence. The silver-haired maid who delivered trays of bread, fruit, and a bowl of thin broth twice daily and emptied her chamber pot never spoke a word. Another who left a change of clean clothing—linen chemise and petticoat, plain white cl
oth hood, and gray wool gown—refused to meet her gaze. In fact the only person she’d conversed with since the start of her imprisonment was a wizened old man named Parsons who visited each morning, and when not dozing, called himself her legal representative.
But by far the worst punishment, three days of not seeing Brand. Not hearing his voice, touching him, feeling the warmth and strength of his arms around her. Was he nearby? Badly injured from his beating? Longing for her the way she did him?
He cared for her. Perhaps he might not have said the words, but so many times he had shown her in deeds, putting his own life at risk for her again and again. Yet now that they were both arrested and imprisoned, the stakes were so much higher. What if Brand had been broken on the rack and forced to a devil’s bargain—his life entirely restored in exchange for a damning witness?
Certain she’d never be warm again, Catherine huddled under a thin blanket on the narrow pallet-bed, her tears long run dry. Abruptly the clank and grind of a lock needing oil echoed through the chamber, and the heavy oak door scraped open to reveal Master Parsons and two armed soldiers.
“It is…it is time?” she croaked through the boulder lodged in her throat.
“Aye, mistress. You must come with us to face the council and answer the charges against you.”
Bracing one hand on the cold stone wall, she climbed off the unsteady pallet and smoothed her gown. “Yes, sir. I am ready.”
Such was the size of St. James’s Palace, they rounded many corners and marched countless hallways, and still she could not see so much as a familiar tapestry. Eventually they reached a set of five wide steps set under a great archway—the entrance to what looked like a disused great hall.
Weapons thumped on the floor.
“Mistress Catherine Linwood!”
It was a familiar call, but today there were no respectful bows or cheerful hails. She faltered, until a firm shove to the back forced her through the door of the room deemed fit to be her and Brand’s place of judgment. Shockingly, a sea of people sat on cushioned chairs either side of a narrow aisle. All chatter ceased, only emphasizing the drag and clatter of her ill-fitting shoes on the polished wooden floor, the wheezing breaths from Master Parsons shuffling behind her.
A clerk darted forward and gestured for her to sit atop a stool resting on a raised platform, the square surrounded by a thin metal railing. Taking several deep breaths, she lifted her head and faced the council. Today just five of the extraordinarily powerful men would decide her fate: Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk; Henry FitzAlan, Earl of Arundel; Reginald Pole, Archbishop of Canterbury; Francis Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury; and Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland.
Norfolk stood. Today he wasn’t Jane’s brother, the man who had distributed coins for hair ribbons and taught them cards, but an ice-cold, utterly aloof stranger looking every inch England’s premier nobleman.
“Please state your name for the court, madam.”
“Catherine Mary Linwood. Daughter of the late Arthur Linwood, physician.”
“You know why you are here?”
“Yes, your grace. To answer charges against me.”
“High treason,” he snapped, his voice the crack of a whip. “Heresy. Witchcraft. Fornication. The fifth charge of blasphemy has already been found wanting and dismissed. So without further ado, let the first witnesses be brought in to the charge of witchcraft.”
Leaning forward, Catherine rested white-knuckled hands on the railing as she heard from a trio of respectable women the long and harrowing tale of a black-haired witch who shamelessly used flowers to lure an innocent young man to his doom. How she’d stood between him and two brave guards who might save him, then cast a spell causing him to fly from the footpath to the middle of the road and perish under a cart.
Gasps rolled like thunder through the hall.
“Your reply, Master Parsons?” barked Norfolk, silencing the din.
Across the aisle from her, the lawyer rose to his feet and coughed. “Good women, are you sure it was Mistress Linwood you saw on that sad day?”
“Yes,” they replied as one.
“Oh,” he said and sat down.
She stared. Oh? That was all the old man could say to such a twisted version of the truth?
“Excuse me, your grace,” she began, addressing Norfolk. “I must—”
“There is no must in this court, Mistress Linwood. Your chance to speak will come later in proceedings. Now let us hear the next witness, to the charge of heresy and high treason.”
The sound of heels clicking on the wooden floor and the rustle of heavy silk were unbearably loud in the eerie quiet, and chills slithered down her spine at who might now seek to damn her.
Master Parsons stood again. “Your name, madam?”
The woman turned.
“Lady Jane Howard,” said Jane, settling herself on a high-backed chair.
Pressing a fist to her mouth to muffle a scream of denial, Catherine stared in shock at her friend. It was all becoming clearer now, Jane’s disappearance from court and lack of any contact after Papa’s death. When had she been told? Did she choose to do this or was she a witness by force? Could there be a tiny chance Jane might offer testimony to save her?
“Lady Jane,” said Master Parsons gently. “You claim witness to acts of heresy and high treason by Mistress Linwood?”
“I do. It is my great shame I once called her friend, but she hid her sinful heart well for a time. Until the day her father died.”
Agony threatened to tear her apart. The friend she had loved like a sister was about to calmly destroy her?
“Oh, Jane,” she whimpered through bloodless lips. “Please, please no…”
“What happened that day, my lady?” said Master Parsons.
“We were on our way to an audience with Her Majesty. We spoke of the impending blessed event. But Catherine…Mistress Linwood that is, forcibly diverted the conversation to a time…when something occurred that caused great sadness to our beloved queen. Then she expressed the deepest sympathies toward the Lady Elizabeth. Despite weak protests she was a good and loyal Catholic, I could only conclude, sir, that Mistress Linwood wished death to God’s anointed sovereign and her unborn child, and the throne be snatched by Lutherans.”
The hall erupted in a deafening chorus of furious shouts, foot stomping, jeers and threats. Tears flowing freely down her face, Catherine wrapped her arms around herself and rocked during the several minutes of Norfolk banging his gavel to restore order.
“Do you have anything final to add, Lady Jane?” asked Master Parsons.
“Indeed,” said Jane sharply, rising to her feet. “God save and bless Queen Mary!”
Several hundred voices echoed the sentiment as she departed, over and over until Norfolk banged the gavel again.
“Silence in the court,” he said irritably, “or I will clear it. We have one final witness today, to the charge of fornication. Bring in…Sir Brandon FitzAlan.”
God rot the hypocrites in this hall.
As he leisurely made his way to the front, Brand kept his hands by his sides, his face impassive. Surrounded by sinners, on the council and not, every second man guilty of the crimes he’d been accused of. Fornication? Each day and then some. Heresy? Should the queen perish and Elizabeth succeed, thousands would recant faster than they blinked. Witchcraft? Treason? Those crimes entailed whatever those on high said they did. Yesterday’s healers and favorites were today’s witches and traitors, as everyone knew.
The five councilmen, Norfolk, Arundel, Shrewsbury, Northumberland, and Pole, watched him like hawks, but not by so much as a twitch of the brow or lagging footfall did he reveal the burning agony of each step thanks to the prolonged punishment in front of the palace. They would see an unafraid, hale and hearty man, not one suffering a mess of welts, cuts, and black and purple-streaked bruising.
He allowed himself one long look at Carey as he settled into a chair, drinking in the sight of her like a parched man at a stream,
willing her to lift her gaze from the floor. Finally she did, and the streaks of tears, the hollow despair there was nearly his undoing.
Almost imperceptibly, he inclined his head.
Be strong, sweetheart. We shall win through this. Somehow.
His lawyer, a slippery, buck-toothed man named Clements, bowed to the councilmen. “If I might begin, your grace, Archbishop, my lords?”
With the panel’s permission, Clements turned back to him.
“Please confirm your name for the court.”
“Sir Brandon FitzAlan.”
“Son of?”
Brand looked directly at Arundel. “No one of note.”
“Er…very well. Let us—”
“One moment,” said Norfolk, holding up a hand. “Today, Sir Brandon, you are not the accused, but an important witness to the unspeakable crimes of one Mistress Catherine Linwood. This is your opportunity to provide a full and frank disclosure of your observations and clarify certain other matters. Any assistance will be favorably taken into account by this court, alongside expression of remorse, when judging your own misdeeds.”
Shock and rage surged through his veins at the honey-phrased invitation to betrayal.
Hurl Carey to the wolves and walk free.
The offer could only mean the duke knew Arundel was father to his key witness. Then again, Norfolk had briefly been Arundel’s son-in-law, so he probably knew all the family skeletons.
“I shall keep that in mind, your grace,” Brand said without inflection.
“Excellent. Pray continue, Master Clements.”
The lawyer bowed. “Sir Brandon, would you tell the court how you met Mistress Linwood?”
“When I paid my respects at Arthur Linwood’s funeral. The doctor and I were fast friends prior to his most untimely passing.”
“So at a time of sacred mourning she lured you into temptation?”
“No. Mistress Linwood was an innocent, respectable, learned woman in need of a friend. And her father saved my mother’s life. I offered my assistance in any way it might be required.”
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