In the Shadow of Lions (4 page)

Rose swallowed so she could lie with a distracting smile. “No, indeed. You must always remember that. There is nothing besides God, and God is within these gates.”

Gardeners worked around them, and she watched them saw and clip the errant branches, burning the refuse. She had never seen a garden, never watched as it was tended. She marveled that their violence produced such beauty, how order was established with the sweep of a blade, making all things more perfect. She had developed an eye for their work, seeing the stray branch that searched for its own light as a nuisance, marking it in her head to point out to the gardeners.

Margaret came and sat beside her. “Father was going to be a priest.”

Rose scooted away.

“He was going to be a priest, but he fell in love with a beautiful girl. She was our mother. She died.”

Rose stopped herself from the quick reply on her tongue. Perhaps the children knew a blush of life’s secrets, of the suffering that found them all. “I am sorry,” she said.

Margaret moved closer. “Father remarried. A nasty woman named Dame Alice. You probably won’t meet her for ages. She’s always away, spending money. She has furious fits, saying she must escape this prison and go into the city for some shopping. She comes home with enormous packages and shrieks about cheating merchants and scandalous prices.”

It made Rose laugh.

Margaret looked up and laughed too. “Father says money never makes anyone happy.” She stood and ran back off to play.

That surprised Rose. The chasm between the two worlds of London shrank.

Her monthly bleeding had begun again, and she felt her past fading. The other servants treated her as an equal, and the children made no distinction between her and the others, except that they loved her more because she never spat on her sleeves to tend to their faces. Perhaps the past could be forgotten, she thought, like a dream that terrorizes but is swept away by light and time … so one only remembers the dread of it, and later, not even that. At night she listened as the other servants dreamed. There was Manny, the pastry cook, a fluffy little woman with doughy cheeks and long white hair that she swirled on top of her head like a meringue, who dreamed aloud of missing ingredients and mice in the larder. And Candice, the tutor, who had nightmares of wrestling with letters that would not stand straight, her vowels running away on the page into a wild life of their own.

It was these murmurings, their nightmares, that finally broke open her heart to this place. If its terrors were no more than mice and ruined parchments, Rose would live here forever. She did not believe in God, or grace, but they were here, and she agreed to live among them. Rose knew pleasure for the first time, and the absence of shame. It was a wine that made her heart light, and it did not turn sour in the dark hours of the morning. With her baby saved, and her safely in Sir Thomas’s house, the past was a washed, clean thing that could trouble her no more.

Margaret, the oldest child, was stealing glances at Rose while they ate. Rose tried to ignore it. Margaret whispered something to the server, who set an extra bowl of porridge before Rose.

“Why do you give me this?”

“Margaret seeks to elevate your status in the house.”

“With porridge?”

“By law, you may not eat as many courses as the children, for they are children of Sir Thomas, a member of the king’s court,” he whispered, pushing to her the crockery filled with the porridge of oatmeal, beef, and thyme.

They saw Margaret watching them intensely, and Rose shook her head, pointing to her full bowl of pottage as evidence of the girl’s machinations.

Margaret giggled and went back to her own pottage.

“It’s useless,” the server told her. “She’s a wild one. Besides, you look very much like Sir Thomas’s first wife, when she was in the bloom of health. Goodness mercy, but he loved her.”

Just then the server’s face went white, and he hurried away from the table. Rose turned and saw that Sir Thomas was in the room. He cleared his throat, beginning to recite the morning psalters, but Margaret raised her hand.

“Yes?”

“Father, Rose needs a hornbook.”

Sir Thomas did not reply.

“She must learn her letters so she can read to us in the garden,” Margaret said, her voice getting higher. “She desires this greatly.”

“Margaret!” Rose’s voice was too sharp. Everyone was staring at her, and she had to say more. “It is time to devote ourselves to prayer, not speak of earthly desires.”

Sir Thomas stroked his chin and did not draw his customary deep breath before beginning the prayers. “Margaret, I have stirred many nests by daring to educate my girls. I see you have inherited my bent for revolution.” Margaret grinned at him. “Rose will have a hornbook, and you yourself may tutor her.”

Rose tapped her foot and stuffed a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. She had never seen a real book until coming here and regarded them with a bit of suspicion. Only the wealthiest knew how to read, and their books were done in Latin. One book could cost four year’s wages for a common man, and there were no common men who could read.

Christ had held a book too. It beckoned them all to a cross. Why Sir Thomas brought books to his children she did not know. They smelled of leather cords binding down the washed linen, stretched tight across a wood frame to receive the dark ink. To her, it was the stench of death.

“Rose, you may kiss me in gratitude, but only once.”

Margaret beamed at her, a flicker of mischief in her eyes. Rose looked around the room, and everyone was staring at her.

“Come, hurry, let’s not miss our psalters,” Margaret said.

Rose pushed back from the table, feeling the air tingling on her arms, goosebumps rising on her skin. She walked between the tables of servants and children, and leaning down to Margaret, kissed her on the cheek. She clenched her jaw and returned to her seat.

Sir Thomas, pleased, was already beginning the psalters. Rose was too angry to listen, though she loved the way Latin sounded even if she couldn’t understand a word of it. She decided to give Margaret her most punishing of looks, a promise of a bitter scolding to come. Then she saw Margaret wipe a tear from her cheek and, embarrassed, stuff her hands back into her skirts. Rose shot the scowl down to her own shoes instead. She would not cause more tears. Children were indeed a mystery, she thought, but those maturing into adults were simply unfathomable.

So it was that Rose began to love, growing less afraid of them all. They cared nothing of her past; they were too busy weaving her into their futures. The affection she gave them meant nothing to her, though its magic worked within her. Her heart softened and coaxed her arms to hang more loosely at her sides, instead of folded at her chest, so she would receive a hug without bristling. She learned how to give one, too: The proper technique for hugging a child involved sitting on her haunches as the children wrapped thin, tender arms around her neck, pressing their soft cheeks against hers. She learned to wrap her arms around their waists and give a little squeeze back. It was almost always over in a moment, which helped.

One afternoon she settled the children around the table at dinner and retreated to another table at the end of the room to eat her own meal. She lowered herself into the chair, its wood creaking a bit. She had filled out since coming here, discovering little rolls of fat around her waist. Her thighs had lost their harsh definition. She loved the changes, believing them to be proof that she could become a different woman with the regularity of honest work and frequent meals, two things she had never known. Leaning over the children’s books, seeing sketches by the artists of Europe, the fine ladies they drew with round faces and generous bodies, Rose began to believe that she would become one someday herself.

Her face was still warm from the sun, and she was glad to have a moment’s rest. She tucked her hornbook into her skirts, and Margaret made eyes at her. Rose sighed and took it out, setting it beside her bowl. Though she had worked all morning and could read simple sentences, Margaret was not satisfied.

Sir Thomas entered the room and everyone cried out for his attention. The youngest ones giggled and sprang from their chair, forgetting all the lessons of decorum. Their hungry affection for him left no room for pride, and he scolded them only gently as he scooted them back to their chairs. Rose noticed he did not embrace them or return their hugs.

“Come to my study, Rose. I have a special guest who would ask a question of you.”

She swallowed her soup and followed, her thoughts swirling through muddy fear. Sir Thomas opened the door to his study, and she knew. Her stain was discovered.

I was aggravated as I waited for the Scribe to turn the page. It did not turn as a normal book would but had to be coaxed. He spoke a language not of words, but of notes, I suppose, and the pages began to slowly curl, revealing the story word by word.

I was aware of nothing but my breathing. My fingers crushed around a pen, ready to drill out the next chapter. Thomas More, of course, was one of history’s darlings, and every teenager in America was still forced to read his
Utopia
in English class. At least this story had appeal to history buffs, so I would die writing something that might even turn a profit. My executor would be thrilled.

“He’s a hero everyone loves,” I said, waiting for the stubborn page to unveil the next chapter. It snapped closed over the words like a blanket yanked up in a cold room in winter.

“I just meant that your readers will know who he is, if they stayed awake in English class.” The Scribe glared at me, his immobile face making me feel like a child, or an idiot, or both.

“What
you
call history is written by another scribe, one who sets each generation upon the next, like dominoes.”

He shook his head. “Real history is a dangerous, unfinished story.” He heard something and his face turned to the door. I jerked and looked, but there was nothing.

He stared at the door, his eyes narrowing, one hand lifting, pointing to it. He spoke to me, still watching the door, as he nodded and began to lower his arm. “A
selasal
, a roach, is at the door. He desired entrance, but your guardian has removed him. Hurry. They know the Tablets of Destiny has been opened. You are not safe.”