Lorrieann’s World

Chapter 4

Thomas slipped silently into Stonehaven Chapel, obediently dipping his fingers in the font of holy water. “In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti.
Amen.”

He knelt in the first pew before a bank of votive candles. Assuming an appropriate posture of prayer, he waited. The pungent aroma of incense mingled with the candle smoke, and the dank smell of the stone walls helped him affect the convincing air of melancholy he would need for his mission.

He glanced up at the stern, intricately carved faces of the marble statues that surrounded him. For a moment, he felt the queer sense that the cold, hollow eyes had all turned to look on him. Did they know what he was about? Did they judge him? Did it matter?

He glanced upon a statue of the Holy Mother cradling Her newborn son. The artisans had cleverly—or morbidly—arranged her gaze to fall not upon the sleeping child in her arms, but upon an older version of herself across the way, posed with the corpse of Her son lain across Her lap. Would She judge him?

High above him, the crucifix hung from the vaulted ceiling on long iron chains, its shadow dominating every part of the sanctuary. The lifeless stone eyes of the Christ figure stared down. He would most certainly judge me. Thomas lowered his head into his supplicant hands, blotting out the judgmental eyes of the statues. They’re stone. Wrought by human hands. Easily broken.

He had come to clear his mind; to contemplate the wheel of events he was about to turn; to weigh the implications, the ramifications, and count the souls that would be affected. How many? He had not worked it through that far. Did he have the wit and strength to carry it through? Did he calculate all there was for him to gain? Indeed, all that could be lost? He knew at this moment he had time to reconsider. Time to abandon all thought of what he was about to do. He could simply bow, intone a benediction, turn, and leave the chapel.

Then again, he was not one who quit easily. There was power and wealth to be had, and he wanted it. Ogham would pay him well to gain control of Sutherland. Wesley and Drunbalk would certainly find it worth his price should he help them dissolve the treaties William had negotiated. Ambros Woodhall had become a laughingstock after William tricked him and would be more than happy to line Thomas’s pockets just for spite.

He grinned, pleased with the simple solution he concocted to bring all these untidy ends neatly to the middle. He marveled at how easy it would be. He had taken the seed that he and Bryndah had planted and nurtured it to a full and terrible blossom. Enchant, did you say?

He folded his hands and found the prayer that suited him. He did not ask God to tell him what was right or what was just, but only prayed to win. He offered no prayer for the life he was about to tear apart, but beseeched the Prince of Peace for his own protection and gain, with no sense of the perverse irony of his meditation.

With bowed head and clasped hands, Thomas ran the gamut through his mind again. He knew the hour was late and at sunset he would have to be in the great hall of Drumoak for Edward’s convocation. To miss that meeting would be ruin before he began. He needed to see the response of the nobles to judge who he could best use in his plans. He was fairly certain William would not miss this opportunity to wave the banner of his favorite personal cause. Thomas was counting on it, in fact, when he realized the obvious flaw in his newly hatched plan. The nightshade powder.

If William succumbed to the nightshade, there would be no need for Woodhall or the others to give him so much as a farthing, let alone align with him. Surely it’s too late to prevent William from drinking. Thomas wondered if Bryndah was wrong about the dose she had given his brother. Perhaps he would not drink any of it. And if he did, someone would likely find him in time to prevent his untimely demise. He squeezed his fingers together and allowed a small prayer to that effect. Dear God, allow my brother to be spared this day. Outside his prayer, he continued his thought: I need to use him.

He waited in silence, listening for the sound of the bishop’s footsteps as his cue to begin his performance. When at last he heard the vestry door swing open and the muffled footfalls of the cleric, Thomas began to utter his prayer in a loud, grief-stricken voice. “Please, Father in Heaven, why . . . ?”

Bishop Dunkirk placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “My son, why do you seek the divine guidance of the Lord?”

Before answering, Thomas looked to the stained glass windows depicting biblical heroes and tales. His eyes lingered on an image of a man with a stone clenched in his raised hand, the other hand gently resting on the shoulder of his brother as he tended his crop. I certainly am not my brother’s keeper. He drew in a long, deep breath and slowly turned his doleful face to Dunkirk.

“Your Grace, I request to receive the sacraments as I fear a dreadful evil has befallen me.”

“Of course, my son.”