“I have ears, my child.”
I swallow, hard.
He continues in that self-assured, no-nonsense tone of his. “I know the risks I face by helping the Priests. All it takes is one word breathed in the wrong direction and everything I’ve worked for will come crashing down around me. I wouldn’t survive the fallout, that I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because we’re put on this earth to believe, and it is up to us to decide what we believe in. I choose God or, perhaps, He chose me. That belief lives in my veins, in my soul. It is who I am.”
“And Queen Margaret?”
“Others may say that He chose her, and so we all must too.”
I slide my arse to the bench’s edge. “But you don’t think that?”
Silence reigns, casting a chill over my skin. Then, “I believe that the queen has peace in her. I believe that she leads with love, where her father led with fear. I believe that, if we only offered her a chance, she would give us unity, safety, and a country that inspires hope, not never-ending deceit.”
Deceit.
Here I am, doing exactly that.
Because I don’t believe—not in the Crown, not in our queen, not in anything that carries the stamp of King John.
“I think . . . I think that the world needs more people like you, Father Bootham.”
He issues a soft chuckle. “My child, the world is already filled with people like me—if only you look hard enough.” Before I can edge another word in, he adds, “Now, let us get to it, shall we? The congregation has been chatty, and while most of it sounds quite the norm, one thing leaves me worried.”
My ears perk up. “Whatever it is, I’ll be sure to pass it along.”
“We all carry our struggles,” he says, almost as if he’s reassuring himself, rather than confiding in me, “and those struggles weigh heavily on our shoulders.”
Even though he can’t see me, I nod. “Yes.”
“You asked me who I believe in. I believe in the Lord, I believe in our queen, and I believe in the Priests. And believing in the latter two is the cross I bear, for when they cross hairs . . .”
I have no idea how Saxon does this twice per week. Listening, lying to the priest’s face, pretending all will be well before turning around and using the information to further dismantle the institution.
Guilt strains my fingers as I knit my hands together in my lap and bite my tongue to keep from shouting, “Please! Don’t tell me!”
My morals are slipping away faster than I can even think to tie them to me for safe keeping.
“A mother came in,” he continues, the angst in his voice weighing down my own conscience. “Her son attends Queen Mary.”
Queen Mary. As in the same university that Peter attends, Queen Mary.
Thank God for the screen separating us because Father Bootham goes on, completely unaware that all the blood has drained from my face. “In any other circumstance, I might hesitate to relay this information, but I find that I cannot hold my tongue. When the son visited for family dinner, he was . . . inebriated. He confessed that he had joined a group—led by one of the university’s professors—who believe that . . . that Saxon Priest killed the king.”
“He didn’t do it,” I whisper, feeling every bit the liar that I’ve become. “It wasn’t Saxon.”
“I know.” Father Bootham sighs. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, you know. I know when someone gives me untruths, just as I know when someone bleeds good faith.”
I tremble.
Right there in the confessional, before God, before Father Bootham, I tremble with fear. Saliva sticks to the roof of my mouth, and no matter how many times I swallow, I find myself on the verge of tearing out of this prison box of worship and hightailing it out of Christ Church, never to return again.
I half expect Father Bootham to wait me out until I confess to all of my misdeeds, but he doesn’t, too wrapped up in his own quandary to ponder my sudden silence. “I was told they’ve hatched a plan to do away with Saxon. The details are sketchy, at best, and not entirely reliable. The boy was drunk, and the mother too horrified that her son was concocting a murder scheme to demand he tell her everything.”
Finally, I manage, “Did she go to the police?”
I can practically imagine Father Bootham shaking his head. “The Met is unreliable, as you well know. They’d just as soon put her boy in a prison cell as praise him for doing what most of the city wants done.”
The likelihood that this boy and the men that Peter overheard talking are two different groups seems far-fetched. Peter told me in warning, so that I wouldn’t inevitably involve myself and get caught in the middle. Father Bootham is telling me now so that I can warn Saxon.
Which I’ve already done to no avail, the stubborn bastard.
I run my fingers through my hair, digging my fingertips into my scalp. “If I tell Saxon, you know what will happen.”
A small pause before, “That is my own sin to bear.”
“But you believe in him.”
“I believe in him as much as I believe in myself.”
I’m working with a stubborn bastard and a foolish priest who can’t see the truth staring back at him. Saxon Priest is not the hero in this nightmarish fairytale. He hates the Crown, and he hates it enough to manipulate a good man like Father Bootham into thinking that they’re working together for the same cause.
A man like Saxon, who claims to be heartless, clearly has no qualms about the subterfuge. But I . . . It feels so utterly wrong to sit here and tell the priest that he’s doing the right thing in saving Saxon’s life, when he’s doing nothing more than turning on the people who are actually his allies.
The boy. The mother.
Slowly, I drag in a breath, letting it fill my lungs with renewed purpose. Of why I’m here. Of what I’ve suffered to be in a position that allows me to chart my life as I see fit. “You said the details are sketchy but if we’re to help Saxon, I need more. Did the mother know where her son met for those meetings? Which professor banded all the students together?”
“Yes,” Father Bootham answers softly, like the word has been torn from his moral compass. “I know it all.”
A pained smile crosses my face as I slip my hand into my coat pocket to pull out a pen. I press the tip to my palm and test the ink. Black beads on my flesh. “I’m listening, Father. Go on.”
17
Saxon
“You’re done.”
Mouth gaping open, Jack shoves a thumb into his chest. “Me? I’m the one who’s bein’ sacked?”
Elbows planted on my desk at The Bell & Hand, I meet the gaze of the man who’s been by my side since we opened. Over the years, I’ve saved him more times than I count, even when logic told me to let him go. Jack’s a loose cannon on the best of days and a walking disaster on his worst. Temperamental might as well be his middle name. Yesterday’s backtalk, however, sealed his fate. “Today will be your last shift.”
Jack leans across the desk to jab a finger in my face. “Hold on. You’re sackin’ me but you’re keeping that fuckin’ bint?”