The Thornless Rose Read Online Free PDF Page A

happened to them?”
    Eyes widening, a young monk held up his crucifix. “Woman,” he said, straining to see Anne, “why dost thou speak gibberish? Hast thou no wits?”
    “But this is Westminster Abbey, isn’t it?”
    “Aye. But if thou seeketh absolution, thou must find the bishop, for we are at prayer.”
    Anne took a deep breath and crossed into the light. Gasps exploded from the monks as they gaped at her shorts and bare legs.
    “Strumpet! For shame!” a monk shouted.
    “Princess of Sodom!” cried another. “Get thee gone!”
    Anne backed up, anxious to escape, and quickly turned to avoid the royal tomb directly behind her. She stopped and stared. The place looked nothing like before. Instead of a marble sarcophagus, there was a pile of broken stones heaped on the floor.
    She spun toward the monks, still frozen against their misericords. “Where’s the tomb? Queen Elizabeth’s tomb?” she croaked.
    “Elizabeth?” The young monk rose to his feet. “Would that the foul heretic were dead! There,” he pointed to the heap of stones, “rests our true Catholic queen, Mary Tudor. God rest her soul.”
    “Brother Daniel, silence!” shouted another monk. “If the queen’s men hear thy words of sedition...”
    But the young monk, Daniel, shook his head, eyes blazing. “Witch, I’ll send thee back to hell!” He lunged at Anne.
    Instinctively, she put up her arms, covering her face in a defensive posture. Then, in disbelief, she realized she felt nothing, no contact with her attacker. She turned just as Brother Daniel tumbled behind her onto Mary Tudor’s grave.
    Anne looked down at herself, realizing for the first time she was fading away. Her body looked transparent! “Oh, help!” she shouted, panicked. “Help me!”
    She started, blinked, and stared. The monks had vanished, the crowd of tourists surrounding the queens’ tomb the same as before. She held out a trembling hand. Her skin looked as it’d always been—she was whole again.
    It took her a moment to get her bearings, to steady herself, but then a voice brought her fully around.
    “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” a woman said. “Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine,” Anne muttered, even though she knew she wasn’t. She hurried off, only to run into a group of tourists standing at St. Edward the Confessor’s shrine.
    “There are ghosts about,” the tour guide warned.
    Anne twisted to face him.
    “Oh, we’ve all heard the usual,” the man continued, “about chains rattling.”
    Giggles, nervous and expectant, spread through the crowd.
    “But in recent years the most compelling tale involved an angry monk...”
    Anne’s heart froze.
    “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this monk confronted tourists, berating them about their inappropriate clothing. They did not view him as strange, however, until he walked straight through a wall and disappeared. Since many persons witnessed this, and because monks have not dwelt or prayed at the Abbey since Elizabeth I forced them out in 1560, it would seem this particular apparition may have credence.”
    1560? Shocked, Anne looked at her shaky hands, again solid, part of the here and now. She shoved them into her pockets and walked on. What just happened?
    She picked up her pace, intent on leaving. She shouldn’t have had that shandy on an empty stomach.
    The lights suddenly dimmed, the atmosphere hushed, expectant. Just like before!
    She halted in her tracks. Flickering candlelight and deep shadows, no tourists. The Abbey was even darker than it had been when she’d seen the monks.
    What the hell is going on?
    “Anne! Anne!”
    Stunned, she turned. A man in costume ran toward her.
    “Go back,” he shouted, “back where it’s safe!”
    She stood transfixed. As he came closer, she recognized him—his eyes, the scar.
    He halted and pulled her tight against him. “I love you, Anne,” he whispered into her hair, “but you have to go with him. Save yourself.”
    “But––”
    He stilled