Blood of the Rose (20 page)

Despite the darkened streets, Christopher could easily spot their destination. The hulking outline of Westminster Abbey was ablaze with lights, the scent of incense and burning wax hovering over the giant structure like a permanent, mystical cloud. Marcus gestured at one of the narrow side alleys.

“We’ll go around the back and enter through the cloisters. I’ve already alerted Brother Samuel that we are coming.”

Christopher dismounted and, finding no willing urchin in sight ready to hold his horse, loosely tied the reins to the nearest tree. Marcus did the same and they set off into the darkness, the towering stone walls of the abbey on their right. A lantern burned over an arch-shaped oak door set into the thick outer walls, and Marcus rapped on the door.

It was opened by a young monk dressed in the traditional black garb of the Benedictine order. His cowl was lowered and, in the flickering light, his pale scalp gleamed like a plucked goose. Christopher shuddered at the sight of it, and thanked God he had never been called to the Church.

Marcus inclined his head. “Brother Samuel is expecting us.”

Christopher concealed a smile. That was Marcus, abrupt to the point of rudeness. Had he ever questioned his allegiances, or wondered at the dictates of the cult’s leader before? Christopher was still surprised that Marcus had decided to go this far and investigate.

The young monk bowed. “Brother Samuel is awaiting you in the north cloister. I will take you to him.”

“Thank you,” Christopher said, which earned him a shy smile from the boy and a disapproving glance from Marcus. They followed the monk through the eastern side of the cloister, which at this time of the night was deserted. The scent of overcooked cabbage and the murmur of voices drifted across from the dining room. Underfoot was the far pleasanter aroma of freshly laid rushes.

The northern side of the cloister was split into smaller carrels to allow several monks to study and work at the same time. In the farthest corner, a single candle on a high desk illuminated the shape of another black-robed figure.

“Brother Samuel is over there.”

The young monk disappeared in the direction of the dining room, and Marcus took off his hat and strode forward, his boots loud on the uneven stone floor. Christopher followed along behind, his gaze fixed on the elderly man perched on a high stool behind the desk.

“Sir Marcus. And how are you this fine evening?”

“I’m well, Brother Samuel.” Marcus shifted his stance and glanced back at Christopher. “May I introduce Lord Christopher Ellis?”

Brother Samuel observed Christopher closely, his round face a study in concentration, his blue eyes narrowed. “Ah, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Christopher bowed. “I dread to think from whom.”

A smile flickered on the elderly monk’s face. “Your uncle said you had a tendency to levity.”

“And he would be right about that, at least.” Christopher moved closer so that he stood next to Marcus. “Did Marcus tell you what he was looking for?”

Brother Samuel sighed. “Indeed, he did.”

“You disapprove?”

“I am not here to judge the actions of the cult’s members, only to provide a safe place for the records to be stored and the promise of secrecy for all eternity.”

Marcus leaned close. “Did you find anything?”

Brother Samuel indicated three rolls of parchment and a leather-bound book. “I found several instances of the cult leader being challenged.”

“Successfully?”

“In some cases, yes, in others, no.” Brother Samuel slid down from his stool. He was surprisingly short, his bald head level with Christopher’s chest. “I’m going to have my dinner. Please treat the documents respectfully and do not remove anything, or else I will send someone to kill you.”

Marcus nodded his thanks and took the monk’s stool while Christopher stood behind him. With great care, Marcus unrolled the first scroll and immediately frowned.

“What language is this?”

“It’s a form of clerical Latin.”

Marcus squinted at the closely written lines. “I suppose it is. Can you read it?”

Christopher was already scanning the intricate script. “It’s about a challenge made to the leadership in 1098. A successful challenge, when the leader of the Mithras Cult was convicted of taking bribes from various members to procure their advancement over others.”

“How was the challenge brought?”

Christopher stopped reading. “This scroll doesn’t say. Perhaps it will become clearer when we read the others.”

For a while they worked in silence, carefully unrolling the scrolls and then reading the pages Brother Simon had marked in the leather book. Eventually Marcus rubbed his eyes and stared at Christopher.

“It seems quite straightforward. Any member can step forward and cite his grievances, then ask the assembly to vote on the fitness of the leader to address his concerns. If the assembly agrees that there is just cause, a vote can be taken of the entire membership to relieve the leader of his responsibilities.”

“Aye, it
sounds
straightforward. But who would be willing to stand up to my uncle?” Christopher frowned at Marcus. “And don’t ask me to do it. I’m not considered a full member of the cult, and I’ll be too busy defending myself against the charges laid against
me
to worry about the rest of you.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to do it.” Marcus looked resigned as he rolled up one of the scrolls. “But there is that other option.”

Christopher’s attention had wandered back to the open book, where another page had been marked with a note that bore his name. “What option?”

“Single combat between the challenger and the leader.”

“I suppose you’d prefer that to standing up like a lawyer and being reasonable,” Christopher said. “But I hardly think my uncle will accept your challenge.”

“If he likes, he can choose a champion. Yes, the challenge may be the better solution. If he’s dead, there is no possibility of him trying to organize another revolt to reclaim his position.”

Marcus sounded so remarkably matter-of-fact that Christopher wanted to smile. He turned the pages to the slip of parchment and started to read.

Marcus slammed the book shut. “That’s enough for tonight.”

“But I haven’t finished.” Christopher only just managed to sound civil. “We agreed that I was to be given the opportunity to consult the records too.”

“You’ve consulted them. You know what we have to do to rid the cult of your uncle and return us to our original mission of killing Druids.”

“But that doesn’t really help me, does it?”

“I thought you said you didn’t expect to avoid your fate.”

Christopher glared at him. “I said I was prepared to die for what I believe in.”

“And as you won’t renounce your vows to that Llewellyn wench, you’ll die.” Marcus picked up the heavy book as if it weighed nothing and balanced it on his palm. “There’s nothing here that will help you.”

“You don’t know that.” Christopher held out his hand. “Give me back the book.”

“Gentlemen!” Christopher spun around to see Brother Samuel waddling toward them, his expression agitated, his face flushed. “Do not draw attention to yourselves! You are not even supposed to be here at this time of night.”

Marcus bowed and put the book back on the desk. “I apologize, Brother Samuel. We will take our leave of you.” He jerked his head in the direction of the door. “Come on, Ellis. Thank you for your help, Brother.”

Christopher added his thanks and was about to follow Marcus when Brother Samuel tugged on his sleeve. “You should come back and see me alone.”

“You would permit that?”

Brother Samuel’s gaze turned hard. “I confess to having some unworthy thoughts about your uncle. I would be willing to help you.”

“Perhaps I might come back at the same time tomorrow night?”

“Oh, no,” Brother Samuel whispered. “You must wait at least a fortnight until I’m able to arrange to see you like this again. I’ll send you word at court.”

“Thank you.” Christopher nodded. “Your help might prove invaluable.”

Marcus beckoned impatiently, and Christopher hurried to catch up with him, his thoughts in disarray. If his uncle was brought down, would he stand a better chance of surviving? The answer was probably no, but he couldn’t deny the faint hope in his heart.

As he mounted his horse, his thoughts turned to Rosalind. She wouldn’t appreciate him keeping this matter from her, but it seemed it was his nature to want to protect her. If she knew, she’d want to help and he couldn’t allow that, didn’t want her anywhere near the Mithras Cult or his uncle. So he would shoulder this burden alone, honor all his vows as best he could, and pray she would never have to know about it at all.

Chapter 15

R
osalind looked up as Christopher appeared in the doorway of Anne Boleyn’s apartments. It was early evening and the ladies were waiting for the king and his courtiers to join them for the night’s entertainment. The windows were open to dispel the stuffiness of built-up heat and a slight breeze blew in from the gardens. When Christopher spotted Rosalind, he turned away with a disdainful glare and focused his considerable charms on Anne. Rosalind sighed and picked up the book she had been reading. The only time he truly smiled at her these days was when he was in her bed.

And he was hardly ever there . . . The script on the page turned into a meaningless jumble as a wave of heated longing washed over her. Rosalind brought her hand to her brow and fought a sudden dizziness. Anne’s loud laugh echoed through her head and Rosalind set her teeth. She hoped to God that Anne wasn’t trying to use magic against her.

“Oh, Kit.” Anne laughed again. “You are
so
wicked.” Rosalind told herself not to look over at the handsome pair, but it proved impossible. Christopher wore dark blue and black with a silver embroidered ruff. Around his neck hung a heavy chain, embellished with blue sapphires that matched his eyes. He was on one knee, laughing up at Anne as he kissed her fingertips.

Rosalind’s own fingers twitched and she wished she had her dagger handy. Jealousy was indeed an unpleasant emotion. It made her feel far guiltier about what Rhys had gone though when she’d met Christopher. Perhaps it would be better if she simply retired to bed. At least then she wouldn’t have to watch Christopher make a fool of her.

She placed the book of psalms on the table and rose to her feet. Unfortunately, the movement caught Anne’s eye, and she glanced across the room at Rosalind.

“Are you planning on leaving, Lady Rosalind?”

Rosalind curtsied. “I’m not feeling very well, Lady Anne. Pray excuse me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Anne glanced down at Christopher. “We need you for the game I’m planning to play when the king arrives.”

Even as she sensed danger, Rosalind tried to be pleasant. “I hardly think I will be missed, my lady.”

Anne pouted. “You will stay.”

Rosalind had to bite her tongue against a desire to blurt out that Anne had no power to tell her what to do at all. Unfortunately, queen or not, Anne already had all the trappings of royalty, and Rosalind could not afford to defy her publicly.

“As you wish, my lady.”

Christopher stood as the king entered and bowed low, his expression so pleasant and amiable that Rosalind wanted to shake him. She’d learned at an early age to hide her Druid roots, but Christopher had perfected the art of presenting himself to the world as a whole new creature. Would such a master dissembler ever relax his guard enough to truly be himself? She was immediately ashamed of that disloyal thought. He was himself with her. She at least knew that.

Anne clapped her hands. “Sire, I have thought of an excellent game for us to play.”

“You have, my dear?” The king smiled benevolently down at Anne. “Then let us play.”

“It’s quite simple, Your Majesty. The gentlemen will hide, and we ladies will try to find you.”

King Henry laughed. “I like the sound of that! How long will you give us to conceal ourselves?”

Anne looked thoughtful. “We will count to three hundred, but you must not leave this building or go up the stairs.”

“Agreed.” The king turned to his male attendants and commanded, “We will all play.”

Rosalind swallowed down a wave of nausea and tried to concentrate on the glittering crowd of courtiers. It was just the sort of game the king loved—slightly risqué, and an opportunity for him to get the Lady Anne alone, if but for a moment. From the whispers of the other women, it seemed that they also valued an opportunity to hunt down a man of their choosing. From the speculative glances being cast Christopher’s way, she began to wonder how many of them would be looking for her betrothed. She realized she had no choice but to play along.

She obediently stood with the other women as they chanted the numbers up to three hundred. When she opened her eyes, she had to hold on to the nearest solid object to prevent herself from falling. Rhys was always nagging her to eat more. Perhaps he had a point. She spied a flagon of sweet red wine on the table and helped herself to a goblet. At least she felt warm now and ready to find her “beloved.”

Anne’s receiving room was already deserted. Rosalind could hear the shrieks and giggles of the other women as they sought their prey. Of course, she did have an unfair advantage in finding Christopher, which she would be more than happy to exploit if it shortened the time of the stupid game.

She located Christopher in her head, pictured him in his dark blue doublet and silver chain. Not wishing to appear too confident, she slowly made her way through the suite of rooms, avoiding anything that looked man-shaped, intent on the rear of the building where she expected to find Christopher.

Couples were already huddled together in various alcoves and behind tapestries. Giggles and sighs penetrated the silence and Rosalind found herself reluctantly smiling. She noticed the king had yet to be found by the Lady Anne, and was beginning to look annoyed.

A hand grabbed her arm, and she was spun around to face George Boleyn.

“Are you looking for me, fair lady?”