Blood Ties Read Free

avoided, for unless you desired to spend time with the unquiet dead, why would you go there?
    Out of sight of the others, Thomas crossed himself, then allowed Tucknell to pass him, to lead again, moving swiftly to the side aisle on the right. There the warder proceeded more slowly, bent at the waist, his lantern swinging close to the ground in a semi-circle before him. The labourers waited at the doorway, barely across the threshold and Thomas heard, rather than saw, a flagon being passed, a gulping. He knew he should chastise them for their irreverence, within these holy walls. But he found himself envying them their solace.
    The lantern ceased its circling, was placed now on the floor. Tucknell stood, head lowered, silent, about six paces before the smaller altar on the right arm of the Transept. Thomas joined him, bent to investigate the flagstone. It looked like any other there, a pitted surface though smooth-sided, half a man’s height in width and length.
    ‘Are you sure this is it?’
    Tucknell made no move to speak, gave no sign that he had even heard, his eyes gazing down as if through the stone to some private past.
    Thomas pressed. ‘This stone is like the rest of them, Warder. Was there no mark to distinguish her?’
    Tucknell grunted. ‘Distinguish? His Majesty, the late King Henry, God forgive him his sins, ordered that there be no tomb, no monument. Wanted her driven from our memory as swiftly as from his. No funeral tears to stain his wedding day the following week.’ The warder made no effort to keep the contempt from his voice. ‘There is a mark, if you know where to look.’
    He pointed, raised the lamp. At first Thomas saw nothing unusual; then, on closer scrutiny, he made out what he’d passed over as just another scratch. A rose was etched there, in the top right corner, faint, tiny, no bigger than a little finger. Perfect. Someone had laboured with care to carve it, to make it beautiful yet inconspicuous. Thomas had heard, among the many rumours, that despite the erasing of her name, the blackening of her memory, a single white rose appeared every nineteenth of May in this chapel, on this stone floor. Someone would not forget her, nor the anniversary of her death. He looked up again, but Tucknell’s face was hidden in the gloom. His voice, when it came, was brisk, uninflected.
    ‘Shall we proceed?’
    More lanterns were lit, hung from brackets on the pillars, perched on pews pushed back, a little cave of light. The scent of old incense, of polished wood and tallow candles was replaced with that of burning oil and, soon, of earth freshly dug. The flagstone, and the four nearest it, were prised up and stacked. The three men set about the earth with a speed that showed their desire to be gone from this place, the clay-rich soil a growing pile, the men sinking slowly.
    ‘How deep must they go?’ Thomas called.
    Tucknell had withdrawn into the darkness and his voice came muffled, as if from afar. ‘Not very.’
    Despite his knee, Thomas was unable to sit. He leaned against a pillar, focusing forward, willing the men to greater exertion, to swifter result. He was tempted to leap into the widening pit, to aid them. His training had emphasized hard labour, good works, examples set … but he knew he would just get in the way. The shovel was not a tool that fitted easily into his hand. These days, it was the crucifix. Once, it had been the sword.
    There was a crunch, different to blade on earth, a rending and splintering of wood, a cry from the workman who struck of triumph, the note of it changing swiftly to fear. The three men scrambled out, moved into the shadows, crossing themselves, mumbling prayers behind their hands cupped over nose and mouth. Thomas willed his body forward, the lantern held before him like a weapon, its frail spill of light spreading across till it touched on something white at the centre of the darkness below. As it did, the stench reached him, putrid, some sick sweetness