A Bed of Thorns and Roses
Page 46
She had been saying a lot more prayers lately, especially since it seemed certain now that the War to End All Wars had ended nothing, that it had actually been a prelude to even greater abominations. Who knew better than she that the world could hold unspeakable evil? But no one could have conceived until now the grand scale of evil mankind was capable of.
Isabelle bent forward and with a gloved hand lovingly smoothed the grass covered mound. “I wish you could have been there today, my love,” she whispered. “You would have been proud.”
Johns Hopkins Medical College had finally found a way to honor their most generous donor, who insisted that they must never name a building for him, nor any of the academic chairs he had endowed over the years. Sadly, the honorary degree had come too late for him to accept it. His widow had attended the ceremony in his place.
“Dr. Nashe.” She said it aloud, wanting to test the sound of the honorific. “Doctor of Philosophy.”
She smiled, remembering how he loved to debate philosophy. The title suited him. She missed their conversations.
Isabelle traced her finger over the single word carved on his simple gravestone. It was the epitaph he’d wanted. A promise to her.
She held the flower to her nose and inhaled its fragrance. The scent filled her head, it seemed to expand, enveloping her senses, all of them, until she could feel and taste and touch it.
Jonathan.
She laid the single rose atop the grave. Its red petals stood out vividly against the green grass.
His epitaph brought back the memory of their wedding day. Memories were all she had left of him now, but she had so many, all of them good. Isabelle smiled in spite of her tears, recalling their wedding vows. For richer, for poorer. In sickness, in health. She couldn’t remember the exact order. It didn’t matter. But Jonathan had balked at the end, refusing to repeat after the minister. He insisted nothing would ever part them, not even death.
“Aunt Isabelle.”
She dabbed at her eyes, hoping Richard wouldn’t see.
“We’d better go now,” he said. “The ground is still damp from the rain. Your joints will grow stiff if you’re not careful.”
He offered his arm, and Isabelle allowed him to help her to her feet. He led her down the gentle slope to his car, the two of them a pair, she thought fondly, he with his artificial leg and she with her arthritis.
Isabelle stopped suddenly, nearly throwing Richard off balance. “Did you feel that breeze just now?” she asked. “Did you smell the roses?”
“Yes, Aunt Isabelle.” He patted her arm indulgently. “A lovely scent of roses.”
Richard probably thought her senile as well as feeble. But she didn’t care. She knew what she felt was real.
“Let’s go then,” she said, and started walking again, at the last minute unable to resist looking over her shoulder to read Jonathan’s epitaph once more. The promise he had made to her on their wedding day. The promise she had made to him.
Forever.
# # #
About the Author
Sondra Carr comes from the Bluegrass state of Kentucky. A proud Boomer who likes to travel, she can most often be found these days inside the pages of a book. In fact, some of her best friends are characters.
Connect with me online:
Twitter:
http://twitter.com/SondraCarr
Blog:
http://sondraallancarr.blogspot.com
Website:
http://www.SondraAllanCarr.com
Coming Soon:
The World of Pangaea
The new fantasy series by
Sondra Allan Carr
Excerpt from Book I: The Beast
Lost to us in the shadows of time, before the years were numbered as they are now, the continents still lay in one another’s arms. And when they drifted apart like forgotten lovers, or perhaps were torn asunder like ones betrayed, what mysteries were lost to us? All that remains of this former age are the faint echoes heard in our languages, our stories and, some say, even in the communion of our dreams.
In that time, as in our own, men and women were born and died, and lived their lives for good or evil. They have faded from our memory, their heroes unsung, their wisdom lost. Their story has never been told.
Until now.
* * *
Nekros observed his vigil that night in solitude. Outside his window, the stars had faded. The horizon appeared as a faint outline in the distance, where the dawning sun whispered the first hint of its arrival.
On the table beside him a single candle guttered, then weakly pulsed back to life, its flame nearly spent. Much like a human life, he thought, brief and readily devoured by darkness.
The screams from the room across the hall had ended. The long months of waiting were at last near fruition.
They would come for him soon.
It had been a most enjoyable way to pass an evening, sitting in the dark room, listening to her cries of agony—anticipating the moment of his revenge. No one betrayed him without suffering the consequences. No one thwarted his will. Especially a woman.
A timid rap at the door interrupted his thoughts.
Eagerness was an emotion he never permitted himself. Staring at a sky poised between night and day, Nekros waited until a second knock sounded, even more timid than the first.
“Enter.”
There was a whisper of well oiled hinges followed by silence. Nekros allowed his visitor time to struggle with the dilemma of whether permission to enter constituted permission to speak. Then he languidly turned to face the door.
“Joyful news, my king.” The woman strained to deliver the words with the proper enthusiasm and, sadly, failed; her fear of him, along with her advanced years, robbed her voice of its strength. Like an uninvited guest, her announcement hovered uncertainly at the threshhold.
Awaiting a response, the midwife shifted her weight from foot to foot, while her arms fluttered at her sides like the useless appendages of a bird too large for flight. Cast in silhouette by the light from the room behind her, she gave the appearance of a shadow puppet manipulated for comic effect.
The sight might have amused him, had the creature not been grotesque.
“You have a son. A healthy boy,” she ventured.
He had a son. Ha! Bitter laughter danced inside his chest, trapped there by the fury constricting his throat.
“Clean him and bring him to me.” His words came out a hoarse whisper, powerful nonetheless for the venom they carried. The midwife dropped a hasty curtsy and hurried to do as she was told.
Nekros rose from his chair, stretching the stiffness from his body, then reached for the candlestick and carried it to the window. He waved the candle back and forth several times, moving slowly to protect the flame. His guards, watching for their signal, would arrive within moments.
“Sire?”
The midwife had returned quickly. Nekros smiled to himself. Even the feeble find swiftness in fear.
He waited, his back to the door. The old woman’s discomfiture grew until it became a palpable presence, as real to him as the ugly crone herself. He relished her fear, deliberately prolonging the silence before he turned to fix her with a cold stare. She held the tightly swaddled infant in her arms toward him, shielding her face as with a warding amulet against his evil eye.
As if such a weak talisman could deter him from his purpose. He averted his eyes from the child, fighting back the bile that rose in his gorge. “Am I the first to see it?”
“Yes, my king, by your command.” She continued to hold her arms out stiffly, mutely offering the baby.
The rhythm of heavy boots marching in lock step filled the narrow corridor. The midwife shrank back, protectively hugging the child to her bosom. Tears seeped from her rheumy eyes when the guards rounded the corner, a half dozen ugly brutes who plodded toward them with the inexorability of Death itself. Their boots slammed down in unison on one last, resounding beat as they halted outside the door.
“And what of the old nurse?” the captain asked quietly.
“Kill her.”
Nekros waited for the guards to escort the midwife and her loathesome bundle out of his sight. He had not chosen these soldiers for their valor, but for their stupidity. As they were also obedient, killing them was an unnecessary waste. Cutting their tongues from their heads would suffice. Then the illiterate dolts could never reveal what transpired this night.
Nekros closed the door and crossed the room to a far corner where a rough hewn crib lay hidden in the shadows. As he bent to examine the child sleeping there, his lips curved upward in a faint, albeit satisfied smile. The naked child’s arms splayed defenselessly against the bedding, his tiny fingers curled into fists. His ribs, small as those of a chicken carcass, rose and fell with each shallow breath.
Nekros felt almost grateful to the little wretch for being the instrument of his revenge. Gently, mindful not to disturb the infant’s slumber, he removed one of the pillows on which it rested. With a delicacy that approached solicitude, he lowered the pillow over the infant’s face.
Not a sound escaped through the dense feathers. The tiny limbs flailed in protest, then with one last spasm fell limp.
Nekros wrapped a cloth around the child. If it had voided itself at the moment of death, he had no wish to be soiled. He picked it up and carried it into the room across the hall where the harlot, his betrothed, had given birth.
She turned her head toward him as he entered the room. Fatigue had drained her face of color and left dark smudges beneath her eyes, yet her beauty remained undimmed. Her golden hair lay across the pillow in tangled disarray, still damp from the labors of childbirth. With eyes blue as sapphires, their radiance overbright from exhaustion, she watched him cautiously.
Her beauty galled Nekros. Once it had swayed him, had plucked at his heartstrings. No longer. Just as her virtuous demeanor no longer deceived him. Her youth, not her virtue, lent her an air of innocence. Yet she was no more innocent than he of this babe’s death. She must pay for her wantonness.
He commended himself on his cleverness for thinking of the thing certain to cause her the most pain. Death would have been too merciful. Better a lifetime of suffering.
“Congratulations, my princess. It appears you and your exiled lover have had a son.”
Brief emotion sparked behind her eyes at the mention of her lover. In the next instant she tamped it down, but not before he had witnessed the rare unguarded moment. He smiled, knowing he was about to shatter her defenses completely.
“Too bad your lover will never live to see his child.” Nekros went to her bedside, where he hovered over her menacingly. To his great annoyance, she did not flinch. He shoved the infant into her arms. “It is time for you to take your bastard and return to your own kingdom.”
The princess stared down at the lifeless child and screamed. “You have murdered him!”
Triumphant, he sneered at her as she clasped the child to her breast and rocked it, keening her loss. The sound was sweet music, a song he would forever remember. With one last look at the woman who had spurned him, Nekros turned his back on her.
“Murderer!” she shouted after him. “Beast!”
He smiled at her angry epithets, for as he left, he had the most pleasing of thoughts. Call me what you will, whore. One day your bastard son will cause L’aiahn to forfeit his crown to me.
Then both kingdoms would be his.
* * *
If you want to read more, visit my web site to find out about the upcoming publication of the first book in the series, Pangaea, Book I: The Beast.
http://www.SondraAllanCarr.com