In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(10)
The garden was alive and rejoicing in its dark seclusion. Dew fed the roses and hawthorn, each with great tight buds ready to burst open. Crickets sang the same note, over and over, like a needle and thread bobbing in and out of the dark blanket of the night sky. She had worn no wooden pattens on her soft shoes, which she regretted immediately once her feet set upon the garden path. Thousands of small stones were unkind to her soles. She walked down the path, weaving between clusters of sleeping buds and cool vines, moving farther and farther from the palace, watching her linen shift float about her, lit only by stars. Something was drawing her.
Anne saw there was a small chapel at the end of the path she had followed. Despite the hour, a lamp burned within. The chapel was made of stone, with plain windows instead of elaborate scenes of glass. There would be only enough room in such a place for a handful of people and its altar. This chapel was for earnest prayer, surely, and not ceremony. This thought comforted her and pulled her farther in, until she was about to step out from the path and open the door. She would wait here for the voice to return.
She heard a noise that made her throat seize even as her arms jerked. It was a scraping, a thick scraping of stone against something soft, with a gutted moan upon that.
“Deus meus, ex toto corde p?nitet me ómnium meórum peccatórum, éaque detéstor, quia peccándo, non solum p?nas a te iuste statútas proméritus sum, sed pr?sértim quia offéndi te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super ómnia diligáris!”
She was too frightened to peer out from behind the plantings. The dragging continued, and the moans changed to weeping. Something heavy dragged itself along the path, or was being dragged. She strained to hear if there were any more words, until in a wail she understood its pain, ground up and spat out in one word.
“Why?”
When it became visible to her, her fear changed to wrenching pity. A man, clothed in a rough brown cloak, edged his way along to the chapel on bare knees. The stones had bit and cut into his flesh, and she could see he left a glistening black trail behind him.
He collapsed on the steps, crying out. “I have repented, my Lord! God, in Your mercy, give me a way to repair my great sin, so that no more may die!”
His face sank into his arms, and he did not move again. Anne stood in her dark shelter, unsure what she should do. Christian charity would have her comfort him and see to his wounds, but she was alone and unprotected. She looked at the fallen man and feared him for his size and great distress; he might do anything to her if he caught her witnessing this.
She saw the glistening stain spreading out from under his cloak, and the way the cloak moved with his breath. She couldn’t be sure if he was conscious. She bit her lip and looked around, but there was no one in the garden or approaching the chapel. Exhaling hard, she pulled her shift tightly about her and went to him. Kneeling, she stroked his back and whispered what words of comfort she knew.
“Et lux perpétua lúceat eis. Amen.”
His back tensed under her first touch, then softened and his breathing grew strong. He began to sit up, his cloak falling over his face, and she lifted the wet cloth away from his bloodied knees. He wanted to cry out—she could tell by the way a breath was forced back down when she touched his leg—but he did not.
His knees were desperately in need of tending. They were cut at all angles, deep slices shooting out from the center like starbursts, the tiniest stones still embedded. Indeed, these stones were all that was stopping the bleeding in places. Anne looked around for anything she could use and saw a fountain not far from them. She ran and dipped the edges of her shift in it, running back and carefully dabbing at the wounds, hoping to expel the dirt and stones that polluted it. She made several trips, neither of them speaking as she worked, cleaning the wounds and tearing the hem away from her sleeping gown to bandage them.
His hand caught hers as she began to tear.
“You mustn’t do that,” he whispered. His voice was dead, numb from exhaustion. His touch was weak. It made Anne pity him even more and fear him even less. It opened up her heart as nothing else had in this palace of pageant and pretense. She would be glad when her service here was done.
She pressed her hand over his for a moment, then removed it and continued to tear.
“No one here will ever see it,” she whispered and thought of the voice she had heard from her bed. “I think I was sent to you.” She stood, pulling her torn shift close. “I am grieved for you, my friend. May God answer your prayers with swift mercy.”
“Wait!” He fumbled at his neck, removing a gold crucifix. “Wear this, for me.”
“I do not require payment.”
“It is not payment. It will keep you safe.”
She held out her hand to him, uncertain, and he poured the cold chain and cross into her palm. The moonlight made it flash, and she was afraid.
A cock crowed and they both started. He tried to stand, but the pain drove him back to sitting.
“You must return,” he urged. “The others will be waking.”
She ran towards the palace, her feet finding their way through the plots and gathered bushes, straining to find the certain path back to the entrance she had used. But in the growing light the garden’s paths made no sense. When she reached the doorway, she rested her head against the cold stone of the arched frame.
“Lord, I am a foolish woman to go wandering about at night. I should have obeyed the priests; I should not have brought that book with me. Please forgive me, and take me from this place.”