Blood Ties Read Free Page B

another, one more bead threaded onto the rosary of his redemption.
    He lifted the lid, set it aside, his nostrils prepared for the surge of corruption they had received before. But there was nothing, no scent except … yes, there was something now, mere mustiness and within it something soft, almost honeyed. It was there, for a moment only, and it was gone again, as if someone had held a flower to his face and then moved away. She had lain within this casket for nineteen years. The worms he had seen moving in the dead hand of another short-lived queen, would long since have finished their feast here.
    The dead hand of a queen. He had frozen there – his steady breaths, the sweet scent that had wafted away, the flickering of the lamps, all had lulled him. But the image of that hand roused him again. He had his duty to perform. All he had to do was find what should be there, and when it was found, he would make his report and return to the warmth of his lodgings, the night fading into another disagreeable task executed for the greater glory of God. His master would have to find a different method of coercion. His master was good at that.
    The skull lay at the bottom of the chest, to his right, beside slippered feet. There were yet some shreds of hair, coiled up, its famed lustre long since faded. Someone had wrapped a cloak around the body, but the wool had unravelled and he was able to reach easily to the damask dress beneath, its material un-frayed by the years. Reaching up, he found the sleeve at the shoulder, traced it down to where the garment ended.
    And there it was. A hand, or the bones of it, exactly where it should be. Clenched, no doubt a dying gesture, which the hardening that follows death had solidified. It was such relief to find it, his body flushing warm for the first time in an age. He was able to go back and say the strange report they had received from Rome was untrue. Thomas had no reason to love the woman within this barren chest. As an English Catholic, all the woes of his family had been caused, in a way, by the spirit once housed within these bones. But he’d seen the love she inspired in a man like Tucknell, the pain this exercise in duty was causing the warder. He was glad he would be able to end that pain, just by counting the fingers within the clenched fist.
    As he reached down he noticed again that the skull was to his right. By the feet. So he was holding the right hand. The skull had confused him, because he knew, the rumours told him, he should be looking at the left. The relief he’d felt evaporated, coldness returned, squeezing his heart. Suddenly he knew. Yet knowing was not enough, he needed proof. His master would accept no less than the testament of his eyes. Leaning across, he pulled at the remains of cloak that clung there, throwing aside the clumps of wool, scrabbling at the heavy grey sleeve that was somehow rolled under the body. It was light, mere bones, yet it took an effort to pull it out. Finally, it gave with a crack, as if something had separated within the folds. Gasping, his eyes closed, he held the dress at the shoulder and ran his hand swiftly down the arm within the sleeve.
    To nothing. There was nothing there. Where there should be a hand, a deformed, six-fingered hand, there was a void. He looked, though he had no need to open his eyes. His touch had told him the story, the prickle of shattered bone at the wrist digging into his questing fingers.
    Somehow he forced the dress back down, the remains of cloak back over. Somehow, he reached behind him, to grasp, to slam the lid onto the arrow chest. The sound was accompanied by a sob he could not prevent, both noises echoing in the vault of the chamber.
    When he opened his eyes again, feet were before him on the edge of the hole. Tucknell reached down, wordless, grasping the arm Thomas had thrust out as if to ward off evil. Pulled from the pit, his bad knee buckled again, and he slumped onto the nearest pew.
    ‘Done your