Stephen Lawhead - The Bone House

“Not as simple as we could wish,” said the king, who went on to describe the fear that the child might be dead inside the mother. “Have you ever encountered such a request?”

“Only once, my king. It was many years ago.” He put a finger to his pursed lips. “I used a ram, then, as I recall. I don’t think I would use a ram now.”

“No?”

“A lamb would be better,” he said. “Or even a kid. With an older animal you risk too many complicating factors. It could cloud the issue unnecessarily. You want a young beast, and a healthy one.”

“Wise counsel, Sethre. I yield to your judgement,” said Turms. “Yes, as I think about it now, I would like you to assist me this evening. See that an unblemished lamb or kid is prepared.”

“As you will, my king.”

Satisfied that all was in order for the ceremony, Turms returned to the lodge and, after informing Pacha that no one was to disturb him, he helped himself to a plum from a bowl on the table outside his chamber. He removed his robe, hung it on the stand beside the door, then lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. But he did not sleep.

Instead, he turned the events of the day over in his mind and was instantly overcome with a sense of the rightness of all things. Everything that happened in life happened for a reason. His long acquaintance with Arturos, for example: the happy years they had spent together in one another’s company and, later, his own troubled ascendancy to the kingship and the years of intense study and preparation that followed-perhaps it had all been leading to this day, a day when that friendship could be called upon in a time of need. Turms was impressed once again, as he often was, how even the most seemingly insignificant and trivial actions and associations could, in the fullness of time, command great import.

Despise not the day of small things… Was that how it went? It was a saying he had learned in Alexandria from a bearded eastern sage-a wise man of the cult of Yahweh-the god, it was claimed, who reigned above all others, who ordained and sustained all things for his creation, and who was worshipped by Hebrews to the exclusion of all others.

Turms the Immortal thought about this, and his heart soared anew on the knowledge that in the eyes of the wise there were no small things.

In a little while, when the sun had begun descending into a sea like molten bronze, he rose, stripped, and made his ablutions from the bronze bowl, performing each action three times. Then, dressed in his crimson robe and seer’s hat, he departed, leaving orders for Pacha to bring Arturos and his wife at the appropriate time for the ceremony.

The king walked slowly down to the temple with deliberate, measured steps, his mind already searching the myriad pathways of the future for the sake of his friend.

Two lonely figures, muffled and wrapped against the cold, shuffled through the snow-covered streets of the unfamiliar city of Harrogate. A mother and her young son, they were newly arrived, having travelled by night coach from London. “Stand up straight and tall,” the mother advised. “Mind your manners as I showed you.” She glanced down at him doubtfully. “Will you do that? Promise me.”

The boy nodded, his small face pinched tight against the cold.

“You will be a gentleman soon,” she added, softening her tone. “Think of that.”

“What if I don’t like him?” the little boy wanted to know.

“Of course you will like him,” she chided. “Anyway, he is your father. It doesn’t matter if you like him or not.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s your father, that’s why,” she told him in a tone that let him know there were to be no more questions about it.

They walked on. The early-morning streets were still dark. In the frozen depths of December, light came late to northern towns. Beneath a flickering streetlamp, they paused to rest a little and warm themselves by stamping their feet and blowing on their bare hands. A few paces up from where they stood, a baker unlocked his door, stepped out in his flour-dusted apron, and proceeded to take down the shutters covering the windows of his shop. The aroma of fresh bread wafted out into the street on a gush of warm air.

“I’m hungry,” piped the little boy, his eyes wide as he gazed at the bakery.

“We will eat soon,” advised his mother. “Your father will give us a nice meal. I expect he has all kinds of good things to eat, for he is a fine gentleman and lives in a great house with butlers and maids and footmen and a carriage and horses.” Taking his small cold hand in hers, she pulled him along past the bakery. “Come along, Archie. We best move on before we get too cold.”

They slogged on through the slush-filled streets of the town. It had been a long and sleepless journey in a cold and uncomfortable coach, and she had used almost all of her meagre funds to purchase the tickets that had brought them this far. There was nothing left over for niceties like a cab or necessities like hot rolls. To keep her young son’s mind off the hunger and cold, his mother told him stories about his father and the mansion he would soon enjoy as part of his birthright.

Eventually they left the High Street and entered a broad avenue lined with large redbrick houses. Here they stopped to rest again. “I’m tired,” complained the boy.

“It is just a little farther,” said his mother. “We are almost there.” She pointed to a large, grey stone house at the far end of the street; three stories tall, sprawling with out-flung wings to the right and left, and surrounded by a high iron fence, it stood in impressive solitude amidst an expanse of gardens at the end of a grand, sweeping drive. “See, Archie? That is his house. It is called Kettering House, and it is very fine indeed.”

She had been there only twice, but knew the place well. The first time she had come was as an uninvited guest to a summer party on the lawn. The occasion had been the birthday of a prominent minor royal and peer of the realm, and she, newly arrived from London to visit her best friend, had simply tagged along. “Do come, Gem,” her friend had urged. “It will be such fun. There will be ever so many people-no one will even know you’re there, and Vernon Ashmole is the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.”

Egged on, she overcame her innate reluctance, and the two young women went along together. And while it did seem that half the town turned out to help celebrate this illustrious citizen’s birthday, someone did notice that she was there: only a few minutes after slipping into a garden festooned with Chinese lanterns and red silk bunting, the pretty young women attracted the intense interest of His Lordship’s son.

A glass of wine in his hand and a knowing smirk on his well-featured face, he stared at the two young ladies with the predatory gaze of a lean and hungry wolf, and then, downing his wine in a gulp, tossed aside the glass and strode to where they stood half-hidden inside a rose trellis. “How is it,” he began, looking directly at Gem, “that I know everyone here, but I don’t know you?”

“Oh, Vernon! I didn’t see you sneaking up on us,” gasped her friend.

“Nonsense, Juliana,” replied the heir apparent, never taking his eyes off the strange interloper. “Now tell me, who is this ravishing creature?”

“This is my dearest friend, Gemma Burley,” said Juliana, somewhat taken aback by the young man’s interest in her friend. “She’s come up from London for a few weeks, visiting. I asked her to join me, as I didn’t want to come alone. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, but I’m afraid I do mind-terribly,” he protested. “It is a very grave infraction of the fearfully strict Ashmolean Code of Social Conduct, my dears. You simply cannot come barging into one of Lord Ashmole’s festive celebrations unbidden. There are dire consequences, you see.”