In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(22)
Rose crossed through the servants’ wing and peered down the hall that would lead her to the children, but it was as dark and quiet as a closet. She went down the stairs next and peered into Sir Thomas’s study. It was empty. A candle burned before an open book, and a crucifix hung on the wall above his desk. In the shadows it appeared as if Christ moved upon His cross, and Rose fled the room. There was no movement or noise on this floor, so she looked at the heavy double doors leading to the garden, a side entrance for the household. She was debating the wisdom of leaving the house on a dark night, just after a man had been whipped there, but she saw she would not be the first to do so. One door stood slightly back from the other, not having been closed all the way after someone’s exit. She took a deep silent breath and decided.
The door slid quietly, but the cold air that met her made her gasp. She hunched down, drawing herself in tightly, and stepped out into the garden. The dull keening continued but sounded wet, and there were not so many moans.
She followed the path down through the gardens, the rows and plots of plants marked into squares, each for its own kind, going farther down the path until the house was nearly out of her sight. The voice grew louder, and she heard whispers of Latin, a man’s pleas punctuated by a long cry for mercy. This word, mercy, was the only one she knew, for it was the only one in English. She held her breath, waiting for the last cry, which would surely be a wail of death. The dull pounding continued.
“I have made a covenant with mine eyes!” he cried out, his teeth grinding down on the last two words as a bolt of pain hit.
Rose crept a few more paces, keeping to the side of the path, shrinking into the shadow as best she could, willing herself to make no noise no matter what she should see. As she came around one last curve, she saw the Tree of Truth. A man was beneath it, with a heavy stone in his hand, and a scourging whip in the other. In the moonlight, he glistened. It was the black glistening of blood. Stepping closer, she knew him.
It was Sir Thomas.
She stumbled back, her steps making the stones of the path scratch together.
Sir Thomas stopped and stared into the darkness. “Who goes there?”
Rose held her breath, mouthing a silent prayer that she would not be discovered.
A rabbit jumped from behind a tree in between them and ran down past the gatehouse. Sir Thomas watched it go, and Rose watched him. He exhaled and raised his scourge again. Rose was more careful with her next steps and made it back to her room undiscovered. She eased the door closed and hung her head.
She lay on her bed but could not face the garden, for she knew another of its secrets. Instead, restless, she turned to face the door, her mind exhausting itself of what might happen next. She could be thrown out or demoted to tending animals instead of children. She would certainly lose Margaret’s affection, and Margaret was a girl thirsty for affection. What would happen to the girl if Rose was thrown out?
There were so many worries and visions that Rose could not tend to them all before sleep found her. It was a deep and dreamless sleep, and when she awoke, unsettled and unsafe, sleep having done nothing to put distance between her and her fears.
She noticed her door was ajar. She rose and shut it. Perhaps it had swung open of its own accord, a breeze from an open window somewhere doing this.
There was no breeze in the house. She opened it again, perplexed, and stepped into the hall to see if anyone had been there. Perhaps another servant had been trying to summon her to breakfast. The hall was empty. She heard the other servants just beginning to stir.
A pebble on the wooden plank floor caught her eye. Bending to pick it up, she saw that it smeared in her hands. The stain was rust coloured, a stitch of bright red breaking through.
Chapter Nine
“Show me Germany,” Margaret asked again, shoving the map once more to Rose. Rose had no more idea about Germany than the moon, and she lost her patience.
“Goodness and mercy, but you’re restless,” Rose chided. “Set about another lesson.”
Their lives had resumed as if nothing had happened. Sir Thomas replaced the lost books, and the children found it amusing that Rose had burnt books on proper cookery and gardening. Rose had worked harder on her own lessons.
Margaret pulled the map to her chest and sighed. She showed no signs of working.
“What is it about Germany?” Rose whispered. “Why are you pulling a face like a moonstruck calf? Here. The English love stories, the Germans love beer, and the French love anything in a skirt. There. I’ve just explained the world. Quit wondering about it.”
Margaret, still clutching the map, leaned in to Rose. The other children looked up from their work, and their tutor switched them with a feather. He was teaching the youngest to count money, and each child had a stack of coins in front of him, to practice counting and making change.
“Margaret!” the tutor called. “Let the servants alone and finish your work!”
Margaret blushed and set her mouth in that firm way of her father’s. “I’m going to my room to lie down. I’m not up to my lessons today.”
Rose watched as Margaret stood and marched out, her soft shoes not yet having their wooden heels strapped on for the garden walk to follow the morning work. Margaret stopped only to kiss her little brother John on the head and wrap her arms around him for a quick hug. He giggled and pushed her away.
Seeing there was to be no further dramatics, Cicely, Elizabeth, and John returned to their work as their tutor, Candice, watched. They enjoyed the routine and never made a peep as they sifted through books upon books upon papers and lessons. Only Margaret was unwilling to devote all her mind to the work. She scored brilliantly on her tests, and the tutors marked this as progress, but Rose could see there was nothing in this class that held her attention. Something was speaking to her, stirring her, and Rose knew its name.