flem-ath

Chapter 1

Tower of London

Christmas Eve

In the moments before she was decapitated Anne Fawcett was content.  Flakes of snow slipped through the turret window of the cell where she worked.  Shivering, she pulled the collar of her faded UCLA sweatshirt up around her neck and ran her fingers over the initials carved into the wall.

The chalk rubbing was nearly finished.  She’d searched for days to find these particular letters, KET, carved by a desperate hand 350 years ago.  Dust tickled her nose and she sneezed.  The sound echoed around the narrow space of the Beauchamp Tower.  She leaned back on her haunches to admire her work.  Picking up a soft brush from the floor, she dabbed it over the neat, squared letters that were now pressed into translucent rice paper.  Nearly finished.

Her executioner’s expensive hiking boots left deep imprints in the snow as he passed Traitor’s Gate; the most notorious entry to the Tower of London.   It was here that Elizabeth I, condemned by her sister, Mary, had drawn her skirts away from the murky water as she stepped from the barge that had carried her up the Thames to her prison.

But this visitor was no tourist fascinated by the history that permeated the walls around him.  His interest was confined to ensuring his own destiny – and finding the woman who was strangling his ambition.  He turned off Water Lane and onto Mint Street which led directly to the Beauchamp Tower.

Anne was surprised by the pulse of satisfaction that passed through her.  It was an unfamiliar feeling.  Especially over the past months.  She poured some coffee from her thermos.  It helped with the chill that penetrated her bones and lasted for hours – even after she was safely home.  Picking up the worn Bible that lay next to her tools, Anne opened it to the passage she’d highlighted.  The passage that she knew so well.  She sipped the Brazilian coffee and smiled to herself as she touched the charm that hung from a gold chain around her neck.  Seona was coming home.  The chill would dissipate sooner than usual tonight.

Somewhere a rusty hinge creaked.

She put the Bible down on the stone floor and glanced around.  Shaking her head, dismissing her nerves, she stood to stretch the kink out of her back.  It would be the Yeoman Warder in his silly uniform reminding her that it was time to lock up soon.  She’d been fortunate that they’d let her come and work for the morning.  Dr. Goodman had made a few phone calls on her behalf.  Allowances had been made since it was Christmas Eve and there were no tourists wandering about the Tower.

It was time to put away the fears – just for a few hours – that were a part of her blood now.  After all, tonight she was going to be reunited with her daughter.  This Christmas there was something to celebrate.  She’d locked the girl away from her for too long.  Finally, she was ready to open all the doors.  But Anne was apprehensive.  What would she say to this stranger of her flesh?  It had been almost twenty-five years to the day and a continent away since she’d too briefly cradled her auburn-haired girl before letting her go.

She shuddered and thought it was the cold.  Her hands were icy and snow was clotting on the window ledge.

‘Get on your knees.’  The voice was thick, as if the speaker was suffering from a bad cold.

Anne turned her head.  A flashlight beam blinded her.  She raised her hand to shield her eyes.  The face of the man who loomed over her was lost in the shadows of the cell’s arched walls.  But she could see that the scarlet garment he wore was wet with snow.

She was puzzled.  She hadn’t expected the end to come like this.

After the break-in at her home she’d taken nothing for granted.  And the threatening letter had shaken her to the core.  So she was careful when she was out at night alone.  Made sure the Security Guard walked her to her car when she stayed late at the museum or at the library.  Always checked the peephole before answering the door. Asked for identification from servicemen and delivery people.

She had never expected her enemies to enter this dark but oddly private place and confront her as a silent snow fell outside.

The Intruder repeated his command.  ‘Get on your knees.’

He forced her to kneel and lower her head towards the ground.

The smell of a hidden cove she had once known flooded her senses.  She could taste the salt from the ocean that had fallen against its rough beach.

Anne allowed herself to believe that he might be merciful.  Tie her up and leave her there; flakes of chalk that had fallen from the rubbing pressing into her forehead while he stole her life’s work and vanished.

When he forced her to put her hands behind her back Anne knew it was over.  Knew that she couldn’t run.  Knew that it was time.  Even though she wasn’t ready.  Who ever is?

The scream that rose in the back of her throat never escaped her mouth.

Her head was severed from her body with one single, expert stroke.

He took his time arranging the corpse.  It was important that the message be left.  The hands removed.  The ritual complete in all its sacred symmetry.

Her keys were in the pocket of her jeans.

To his surprise, his hand shook as he lifted the gold chain from the pool of blood that was quickly flooding the dark stone beneath her body.

He forced himself to look at what he’d done.

She’d been working.  Even on Christmas Eve.  He had to admire the dedication.  Her recognition of the critical historical significance of what she had found.  It was a shame that she couldn’t be trusted.

But the Order had always known that.

It was only as he turned to leave that he saw the Bible lying open on the floor.  A passage from Samuel marked in yellow highlighter.

The Initiate carefully ripped the passage from the Holy Book and folded it into his pocket before picking up Anne Fawcett’s head.

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