The Thornless Rose by Morgan O'Neill Read Free Book Online Page A

Remembering the newspaper article, she was relieved to see modern clothing. King Hal and his friends were nowhere in sight.
    “Don’t mind the horses, darling,” Catherine reassured. “The old stables are still used by a riding club. Come, the guide is getting away from us.”
    They moved on to the Pond Garden, Anne snapping pictures of the layout of the garden and its flowers from every angle. Then she focused beyond the stone-capped garden walls, on the far bank of the river Thames, and the line of trees surrounded by green and golden parkland.
    “...Henry VIII was, with one exception, besotted by each of his wives in the beginning,” the guide continued. “It was here he commissioned a gardener to create a new flower in honor of Katherine Howard, whom he called his ‘Rose Without a Thorn.’ The strain was weak and didn’t last very many years, although it did outlive its namesake. Alas, no one has been able to duplicate it since that era, as no description of color or strain was ever noted, so far as we have discovered. Back in the day, they called it ‘Queen Katherine’s Thornless Rose.’”
    Sweet smells wafted up from roses in bloom. Anne drew in a deep, appreciative breath.
    “And to finish your tour,” the guide gestured toward the brick palace, “I’d like to point out the great bay window installed by order of Queen Elizabeth I in 1568. One might imagine her standing there even now, looking out over Hampton Court’s magnificent gardens.”
    Anne marveled at the window’s many diamond-shaped panes, glittering in the sunshine.
    Catherine touched Anne’s elbow. “Our coach party is scheduled to meet in the car park in twenty minutes. We should hurry to the gift shop.”
    “Do me a favor, will you, Grandma? Go on ahead and scout things out for me. I’ll catch up.”
    As Catherine headed off, Anne brought the camera to her eye, concentrating on a lovely yellow rose. A cloud passed over the sun. A sudden breeze whirled through the garden, causing the rose in her viewfinder to dance and shudder. She shivered. Someone called out, “Halt, boy! Vile rat catcher! Thou hast a marvelous boldness, standing here in the queen’s garden!”
    Anne lowered her camera and gaped. A raven-haired man, resplendent in Elizabethan dress, stood before her holding a goblet. Her gaze roamed over him, from plumed velvet hat to pearled earlobe, then on to silken doublet, jeweled knife sheath, and prominent satin codpiece.
    Dude! Anne quickly looked away from his crotch.
    He pointed at her with the goblet, sloshing his drink. “God’s death, mine own eyes do betray me. Thou art a woman!” he slurred, then tossed the goblet into the bushes.
    This guy’s drunk!
    Anne smiled politely to placate him and looked for an escape. “You don’t approve of my jeans. Expecting some kind of gown?” She backed away, but he kept up with her. “So, who are you?”
    He straightened and cleared his throat. “I am Robert, Lord Dudley. Who, pray tell, art thou?” He seemed to sober up as his gaze scoured her from head to toe. “Thine own attire is curious and of a type not seen in this realm. When first I beheldth thee, I thought thee one of the queen’s molers or rat catchers, but thou art most beauteous fair, whatever thine attire.” He bowed. “I am at thy service.”
    Anne rolled her eyes and curtseyed. “Then may I take your picture by the roses? How ’bout the pink ones over there?”
    “Katherine’s rose,” he said, nodding as he took his dagger and cut a dew-covered bloom.
    Click. She took his picture.
    “Ah,” he went on. “Katherine was a young, nubile lass, and I knew her well. But, thankfully, not so well that I joined her lovers on the gibbets, as I was but nine or ten years of age at the time, praise God. But Queen Katherine did blossom in beauty once, like her namesake rose. Her beauty wouldst pale in comparison to thine own, however, even if thou art clothed as a lad.”
    “Oh, you’re good,” Anne said,