In the Shadow of Lions Read Online Free

scheduled for surgery last May and was put on a diet of nothing but clear liquids the day before as they prepped her. Mariskka found her in the courtyard drinking pilfered vodka a few hours later. She had protested that it was clear.
    He adjusted her covers that had begun to slip down and looked around the room. Seeing the blanket across the chair, he motioned for me to grab it. I handed it to him, and he draped it over her.
    “It’s too cold in here,” he said. “She has bad dreams when she’s cold. Mariskka blames the drugs and never checks the thermostat.”
    We walked back to my room, where he continued the story.
    “The one on the path with her was Aryeh, the guardian of her line. He is more lion than angel, but these things are hard to explain in your words. She smelled her son because Aryeh had held him.”
    “An angel held her son? So is he dead?”
    “Let the story continue,” he replied.
    “How can I be her heir if her son died?”
    The words glowed like burning coals, and I heard a noise like a broken bow being dragged across violin strings. The words strained against the page. I could see them rising up. I swallowed and sat back, my fingers returning to the keyboard.

    She came to in a large bed with an embroidered coverlet, in a room of tapestries and tables laid with pitchers of wine and a bowl of dried apple rings. She could hear the soft warblings of a lute being strangled, its player having not much skill, and children’s laughter.
    An elderly man, possibly a doctor because of his thick spectacles and a faint odour of vinegar, pulled the coverlet up around her shoulders and patted her cheek, having a few whispered words at the door with a younger man. She could remember nothing but images: her son, a great horse bearing down on her, his cold snorting breath clouding her vision of his rider, and … something else. A warmth, a cocooning sleep in which she felt nothing but peace.
    The younger man approached her, his hands behind his back, his face fleshy and soft, with rough whiskers all around his cheeks. He had a peasant’s broad nose and whip-thin lips. He eyes were wide and brown, much like the eyes of a boy, with thick lashes … eyes that lingered innocently, revealing no fear or desire.
    “What is your name?” he asked.
    “Rose.”
    “Rose, I am Sir Thomas More, and this is my home. Do you know how you arrived here?”
    The name disturbed her, but she could not think why. She could only remember those last moments. “I threw myself in front of your horse, and you saved me.”
    “No,” he said, frowning. “I quite trampled you. In my horror, I could not turn the horse fast enough, my reflexes being frozen. But you survived, though you have lost much blood. To my poor mind, it is a miracle, God’s work.”
    Rose turned her face to the wall. Little images strung themselves together—beads of thought and memory making an unbroken line at last, and she groaned. The blood was not from the horse.
    “Why did you want to die?” he asked.
    “Because I could not afford a pilgrimage,” she replied, thankful to be facing the wall so the sarcasm would show itself only in the turn of her mouth. “And I was wearied of my sin.”
    “My child.”
    The words carried such tenderness that she turned to him. He was so kind. Had she witnessed the burning, or was that a dream? The man she saw was too tender and soft to commit such strange violence.
    “Do you have a home?” he asked.
    “I am an orphan.”
    “You are not married or betrothed?”
    “No. I have never known a man’s love,” Rose lied. It was true.
    He was silent for a moment. “You will stay on with us as a house servant. If your great passion for God is matched in obedience to men, you will find this day to be the happiest moment of fortune to befall you.” He smiled at her. “I am a gentle master. You will have no harsh treatment and the best of provision. This is a home of great peace.”
    She hardened her eyes and watched