Read Online In the Shadow of Lions by Ginger Garrett - Free Book Online Page B

peeled away neatly from around the room, filing into the computer and appearing again on my screen.
    I hated his smile.

Chapter Eight
    Sir Thomas pushed back the double doors with the heavy iron hinges that guarded his private library. Rose followed, lifting each leg and setting it down with great effort, her body dead even as her stomach danced and her heart battered her ribs. Sir Thomas moved to one side to allow Rose to enter, and she saw him.
    Rose began running the fingers of one hand along the walls. She had to touch the walls and know that this place had been real, that she had not dreamt this remission of suffering. She would lose it all.
    Cardinal Wolsey stood, the parchment in his lap landing on the floor. He made no move to grasp it, staring at her.
    “Rose, you have the extreme privilege of meeting Cardinal Wolsey. He is the highest official in all of England, whether in matters of court or church.”
    She couldn’t move her arms. They were hanging, useless, at her sides.
    “Rose.” Sir Thomas prompted her.
    Rose curtsied, staring too long at the little fibers in the rug, seeing flecks of the rushes Sir Thomas had carried in on his shoes and curling brown leaves from the garden. She took one last breath and lifted.
    Sir Thomas was pleased; she could see it in his face.
    “Cardinal Wolsey was telling me such stories that I could not believe,” Sir Thomas said. “He says that the heretics have grown in numbers and fervour, infecting even the common parishes with their contagion. I myself thought these men to be more select—those rare scholars who crumple under the weight of rigorous studies, easy enough to extinguish one by one, their madness so plain that it would draw none to it. Wolsey needs my help to act.”
    Rose jerked her stare from the cardinal to Sir Thomas and tried to smile. She was afraid it was telling, so she stopped and cleared her throat. “How can I please you, Sir Thomas?”
    “Well, tell the cardinal what you saw in church,” he said and turned to Wolsey. “Rose has a heart of devotion unmatched by any noblewoman I’ve met. She gave everything to the church, even to the point of despairing of her life when she could not make a pilgrimage.”
    “Truly?” Wolsey replied.
    “Go on, Rose. Did anyone ever read from the book of Hutchins? Tell us of the church you attended and if any of these madmen were about.”
    Rose’s mind began the journey back to this story, but her mouth did not move. Her eyes remained on the floor as she saw the great spreading stain blurring her vision, turning even this peaceful refuge an angry red.

    Long ago, he had lain there, troubling Rose with much talk. There was no place in his world for her class, and she resented him always drawing her in, prattering on every time about delicate troubles she would never be graced with. She wanted to stab him on mornings like this, when he arrived dejected, annoyed to be left alone for the day, annoyed that his name was always second on everyone’s tongues, annoyed that the king’s salt was moved out of his reach. He was like a child who needed constant kisses and plucky encouragements. Despite herself, she gave them both. She did not mind that the words rang false. They were, but he paid better when he was happy.
    Her own troubles, what could she say of them? When her two little brothers took ill with the sweats, she begged his help, and he gave it. He arranged for them to be declared orphans and put into the king’s charity hospital. They died before the week was out. She only knew they were dead when she saw another boy wearing their clothes. Her mother had been such a poor weaver that her work stood out, even among the pitiful. Her grief was like a mouth full of pebbles. She was dry and brittle from the choking dust of lost hope, and she had no tears. His petulant stories became a distraction, and his body a refuge.
    “You can’t live on the streets. You’ll lose your looks within a year.” The outbreak