The Thornless Rose by Morgan O'Neill Page A

tingly leg, he watched as the guardsman passed by his hiding place.
    An’ how will I get out o’ here, without gettin’ run through by a sword? How the devil will I escape?
    …
    The gatekeeper walked through the graveyard, his back to Anne as he continued to patrol the grounds. She opened her mouth to shout to him, to let him know she had to leave, but he turned a corner and was gone.
    Thunder drummed in the distance, and Anne scanned the greenish-gray clouds. In a moment, she knew she’d be drenched.
    Glancing back at the hospital, she imagined a warm sanctuary beyond its tightly shut door. She considered knocking again, pleading with the crusty Scotswoman to let her in. Raindrops plopped on her hood. Anne rushed over, huddling in the church’s arched doorway. Where could she go to wait?
    She jumped as lightning flashed and the answering clap of thunder rent the air. The full brunt of the storm would hit soon. She tried the door and to her relief it gave way. Inside, the foyer was dark. Anne paused, letting her eyes adjust, then found another door and opened it, revealing the entrance to the choir.
    An oriel window barely illuminated the church’s interior. She walked through the holy gloom, stopping at a painted tomb near the altar. She touched the cold stone. The figure of St. Bartholomew stood at the feet of a reclining monk.
    What had she heard about this guy? A court jester, he’d survived a disease—malaria? —and then, in thanks to God, he’d become a monk and established St. Bart’s.
    “Rahere, do you still haunt this place?” Anne whispered. “Well, if you can hear me, what should I do?”
    Dim noises echoed from the shadows, as if someone, or something, had answered her. With words? Footsteps?
    Blood raging in her ears, Anne crouched by the tomb and held her breath. She exhaled slowly, listening, but heard nothing more. Then she spotted a niche in the wall, a place where secrets could be kept from prying eyes.
    Until now, she hadn’t considered what would happen if someone found the contents of her handbag. So, Rahere had spoken to her, after all. Hide your things , he’d said. Hide them with me .
    …
    Will Dawkins skulked in the shadows, watching the witch-woman remove things from her satchel and secret them near the tomb.
    He smiled covetously, counting his heartbeats, waiting for her to leave the church. When the door finally closed, he ran to the tomb, dropped to his knees, and reached inside the crack. Jesus, no! he thought, wrenching back his hand. What if she’s cursed her things? I might burn me fingers, or find meself turned t’ stone . He paused, eyeing the crack. Nay, if the witch cast a spell , he reasoned , I would’ve heard her magic words .
    Will took his dagger and pushed it inside the crack. He moved it around until he made contact with something, then pulled back, flipping the thing onto the floor. A small, leather purse. He opened it, finding dozens of pockets filled with little, flat rectangles, about the size of gaming cards. He removed one and sniffed it. Nothing. Placing it in his mouth, he chewed it a little, noting its wondrous smoothness. Not paper, nor leather or metal.
    He studied its strange, indecipherable markings and lone silver square. Turning it to catch the light, he recognized one symbol—a crown. He peered at the square. The image of a dove seemed to float within a marvelous depth. He tilted the card back.
    Holy shyte, the bird moves! It’s still alive! God blind me, the she-devil must’ve trapped it!
    What riches could such a wicked marvel bring? Will’s mind raced with the possibilities. He stared at the crown again. It was surely worth a king’s ransom.
    He eagerly reached into the crack with his bare hand, pulled forth a wealth of strange objects, and stuffed them into his pockets. Then, holding his dagger before him, he hurried to the door and slipped away.

Chapter Ten
    Anne left the church feeling better. The worst of the storm had passed as