Blood of the Rose (25 page)

By the end of the conversation, Rosalind was sure that she and Rhys would at least be heard. Knowing Anne Boleyn’s temper, there was still a risk of them being killed, but they had to try.

Christopher joined her on the short walk through the walled kitchen garden back to the palace. He gradually slowed his pace until Rhys had disappeared from sight. Rosalind glanced up at him.

“We should not be seen together, especially in the dead of night.”

“Agreed.”

They continued to stroll, and Rosalind allowed him to hold her hand. “Do you think Anne will agree to leave the king alone?”

“If we can give her what she really craves.” Christopher looked down at her. “I’m still not convinced that we have it right.”

“But what else is there?”

He sighed, the sound soft in the darkness. “I know not. If it doesn’t work, we are going to be in worse danger than we already are.”

“And probably dead.” Rosalind squeezed his hand. “Don’t forget that.”

Christopher stopped walking and swung around to face her. “What are you hiding from me?”

How typical of him to just throw such a provocative remark in her face. Rosalind tried not to look guilty. “Whatever do you mean? I thought you were the master of deceit.”

His mouth thinned. “I’ve told you everything I can, which is more than I can say for you.”

“Christopher, you have told me nothing. You have closed so much of your mind off from me that sometimes I feel as if I barely know you at all.”

“You
know
me.”

“Then why can’t you tell me what is really going on with the Mithras Cult?”

“Because it is not your concern.”

Rosalind started walking again. “Yet it takes up a considerable amount of your time and energy.”

He caught her by the elbow and held on. “Are you suggesting I neglect you?”

She gazed into his narrowed blue eyes, felt the banked frustration of his gaze. “You are certainly distracted.”

“You are trying to distract me by quarreling now, aren’t you?” He let go of her arm. “You have no intention of answering my questions at all.”

“I’ll answer you when you answer me.”

“Don’t be childish, Rosalind.”

Verily, she felt like stamping her foot like a child and maybe screaming at him, but then it felt as if her emotions were hardly her own anymore. She took a deep, steadying breath. Was he right? In trying to protect her own secrets, was she simply lashing out at him? No, he was definitely trying to conceal something from her.

“This is getting us nowhere,” she snapped.

“Agreed.” He sounded as angry as she felt.

“Then perhaps we should simply part until both of us are in a better mood.”

He cupped her cheek. “Rosalind, please . . . tell me what is wrong. Are you ill? Rhys said you consulted the wisewoman today.”

“Rhys worries over me like a mother hen, you know that.” She felt steadier now, the lies slipping past her tongue far too easily. “If I was truly sick, he would tie me up and send me back to Wales without a thought.”

“I suppose that is true.” Christopher leaned in to kiss her forehead. “I’m worried about you.”

“And I’m worried about you.”

His smile was strained. “I can take care of myself, Rosalind.”

“As can I,” she retorted.

“I know that,” he said softly. “But you are my heart. You are the reason I exist. If something were to happen to you, I would no longer wish to live.”

Rosalind felt as if he had just driven a knife into her soul. How could she not tell him about the babe? What if the worst did happen and one of them didn’t survive Anne Boleyn’s wrath?

“Christopher—”

His fingers covered her lips and he whispered, “There is someone watching us.”

Rosalind carefully inhaled. For some reason, breeding had only enhanced her sense of smell, especially when it came to detecting Vampires. “I sense a fox.”

“George?”

“Yes.”

“I hope he does not recognize you dressed as a boy, but we should put some distance between us.” He paused. “Or should we have a quarrel in case he has already worked out who we are?”

Rosalind bit down on her lip. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore, Christopher.”

He contemplated her for a long moment, and she eventually dropped her gaze to his booted feet. His tone became formal. “If there was anything you could do to help me in my struggle with the Mithras Cult, I would ask it of you. I would hope you would do the same.” He inclined his head. “I’ll waylay George so that you can escape. Good night, my lady.”

He bowed and left her standing there, her heart too full of contradictions to do anything to make things better. And what could she do? She couldn’t tell him about the child, and thus she had to deal with her own guilt—and his mistrust. And he might claim that the Mithras Cult had nothing to do with her, but she sensed otherwise. Recently, there was a sense of desperate purpose behind his more lighthearted remarks that made her very suspicious.

Rosalind continued on her way to bed. What would happen to them? Keeping secrets from each other was hardly a promising sign for their future together. It made her dislike herself. She opened the door at the bottom of the stairs that led up to her bedchamber and slowly ascended. Whatever happened, she had a Vampire to vanquish. All of her other problems would simply have to wait their turn.

After making sure that a drunken George Boleyn reached his quarters safely, Christopher returned to the stable yard. As he saddled his horse, he prayed that Rhys wouldn’t see him leaving and tell Rosalind. She was already far too suspicious. And, of course, he’d neglected to mention that Brother Samuel had summoned him to come to Westminster Abbey cloisters at two that very morning.

Christopher drew the hood of his cloak over his head to conceal his features and led his horse out under the archway that guarded the entrance to Hampton Court. Once outside the grounds, he mounted and started his journey back to the center of London.

At this time of night, the roads weren’t crowded with courtiers, the king’s messengers, or the poor traveling to see the king eat his dinner and receive the scraps from his table. Christopher urged his horse into a canter and leaned forward in the saddle. He hated not being able to tell Rosalind the truth, but he couldn’t admit his life was in danger. She’d want to help him, and he would never let her near the likes of Marcus Flavian and the more extreme elements of the Mithras Cult.

Dust thrown up by his horse’s feet made him cough and he sat back a little, easing the horse into a slow trot. Eventually, the black outline of the city and the glinting shine of the Thames came into view. He slowed even further to ford the river, which was at low tide, and was then swallowed up into the narrow lanes and leaning buildings of the city. The stench of rotting refuse and the rats scurrying out from under his horse’s hooves made him want to retch. He much preferred the countryside, could never imagine why anyone would want to live in such a rabbit warren as this.

Westminster Abbey was still lit, a warm beacon within such a seething mass of humanity. Christopher tied up his horse in the same place, and knocked on the arched door. No one answered him, and he knocked again, this time more loudly. He stepped back, one hand instinctively going to his sword hilt. A faint scraping sound drew his attention back to the door, which opened to reveal the face of the young Benedictine monk who had admitted him and Marcus on their previous visit.

“Good evening,” Christopher murmured. “Brother Samuel is expecting me.”

Confusion flickered in the monk’s eyes. “But I thought I’d already admitted you—”

Christopher pushed past the startled monk and headed as swiftly as he could toward the cloisters. A light burned in the far corner of the north cloister and he went toward it, almost at a run.

Brother Samuel was slumped over his desk, one hand stretched out as if pleading for help, a dark red pool of blood around his head. Christopher drew his sword, but there was no one there. He unconsciously licked his lips as the scent of the rapidly cooling blood reached him and despised himself for it.

“Brother Samuel!” The young monk’s anguished cry cut through the stifling silence.

“Quiet.” Christopher reached out a hand and slapped it over the monk’s mouth. “Calm yourself, Brother. We don’t want to rouse the whole monastery.” He could feel the monk shivering through his fingers. “Let me at least see if he is alive before you panic.”

Christopher released the monk and cautiously stepped forward into the candlelight that focused the eye all too clearly on the ghastly scene. It appeared that Brother Samuel’s throat had been slashed. Christopher circled him and noticed a scrap of yellow parchment still clenched in the dead monk’s fingers. With all the care he could muster, he extracted the parchment and smoothed it out.

In the poor light, he could hardly make out the closely written script. He squinted hard at it and made out the word “Vampire,” but couldn’t calm his breathing sufficiently to make any sense of it. He folded the scrap in two and stuffed it into his leather pouch while he continued to study Brother Samuel. There were no other signs of a struggle. It appeared that whoever had killed the monk had simply walked up behind him, cut his throat, and walked away.

But who would do that, and why? Christopher stared into the blackness of the cloisters as if the answer would magically appear. Next to him, the young monk was praying, the sound soothing and rhythmic. The ancient words calmed Christopher so that he could at least think.

“What is your name, Brother?”

“It is Cedric, sir, Brother Cedric.”

“I do not know where your allegiances lie, Brother Cedric, but you need to make a choice. You must either alert your brethren to what we have discovered, or go back to bed and wait for him to be found like this in the morning.”

Brother Cedric drew a shuddering breath. “I am Brother Samuel’s successor as keeper of the Mithras Cult records. I must preserve them at all costs, though it means abandoning my poor master’s body. I will not betray your presence here.”

“I thank you for that,” said Christopher, and grasped his hand. “I need to know what was on that parchment. Can you search the records and let me know what is missing? It might be important.”

Brother Cedric grimaced. “It was obviously important enough to kill for. I will do my best to help you bring the killer to justice.”

“The man you admitted earlier, the one you thought was me—did you get a clear look at his face?”

“No, sir. His face was concealed by his cloak and he didn’t speak a word. I was a fool. I just assumed it was you, and I didn’t question him.”

Christopher patted the distraught monk’s shoulder. “A perfectly natural mistake. Do not blame yourself.”

They walked back through the deserted cloisters to the doorway, and Christopher put away his sword and bowed formally. “Brother Cedric, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You’ll find the killer, won’t you?”

“I will, and I’ll let you know when I do.”

“Thank you, sir.” Brother Cedric made the sign of the cross. “God be with you on your quest. Brother Samuel did not deserve to die in this way. He was a good and faithful servant both to God and to the Mithras Cult.”

“Amen to that. I’m sorry to have brought such trouble on you.”

Brother Cedric managed a smile. “I knew the risks when I agreed to become Brother Samuel’s apprentice.”

Christopher opened the door. “Be careful all the same, Brother Cedric. I doubt the killer will return, but please, be on your guard.”

“Indeed I will, sir. Good night.”

As Christopher mounted his horse, he considered the young monk’s remarkable composure. He felt no such certainty that Brother Samuel’s murderer would be found, mainly because he had absolutely no idea where to start looking for the villain. The possibilities were far too wide.

He threaded his way back through the narrow streets toward the Thames, his thoughts in chaos. What had Brother Samuel wanted to show him, and who on earth had decided the information was too dangerous for him to see? His faint hopes of finding a way out of his vows to the Mithras Cult had taken a death blow. His very survival was in doubt.

For a moment, Christopher stared into the murky depths of the river and considered fleeing. But there was still a Vampire to deal with, and a betrothal to put an end to. He couldn’t leave quite yet.

Chapter 19

“G
ood luck,” Elias murmured.

Rosalind glanced up at Rhys as the door closed behind them with an almost silent click. Elias had hidden them in a secret room off the chamber where the Lady Anne was listening to a sermon from her chaplain, William Parker. Through the thick paneled walls, his voice sounded like the drone of a wasp, his actual words incomprehensible.

Rosalind fingered the dagger in her hanging pocket and swallowed hard. Rhys was a study in silent concentration, his expression calm, his hazel gaze fixed on the small peephole that allowed them to see into the other room. Elias had shown them how to work the latch that opened the door into Anne’s room and left them to ponder their mission.

After what seemed like hours in the small stuffy chamber that resembled nothing more than a glorified linen closet, Rhys held up a finger and moved away from the peephole. Rosalind crowded close behind him.

“She is alone and Elias promised he would keep her that way for as long as we need,” Rhys whispered.

“Then we might as well get on with it,” Rosalind said, surprised at how calm she sounded. Rhys nodded and gave his attention to the complexities of the latch. The panel swung silently open and they stepped out just as Anne Boleyn looked up in surprise. She still held her prayer book, and calmly placed it on the table at her side.

Rosalind held up her hand. “Please don’t call for help. We just want to talk to you.” She hated having to sound so amenable, but they’d all agreed it was the only way to approach Anne.

Anne drew herself up to her full height and smiled, her fangs elongating. “I don’t need help. I can rip out your throats in less time than it takes to scream.”