The Thornless Rose by Morgan O'Neill Read Free Book Online

unusual, no ghostly visitations by long dead kings.
    She felt a measure of relaxation return as she glanced down at herself and smiled. “How could the Elizabethan lords and ladies stand those elaborate get-ups, Grandma? I guess jeans and T-shirts wouldn’t make it in those days, would they?”
    Catherine shook her head. “No, you’d be taken for a stableboy, at best.”
    “Thanks a bunch.”
    “Now then, ladies and gentlemen.” The costumed tour guide pointed to a large painting, the centerpiece of the room. “This is a copy of the famous Holbein mural of Henry VIII and a few members of his family,” the man said, “done very near the end of His Majesty’s reign. It is one of the first paintings to show royal subjects in full-length. We see his parents, Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, who were long dead by this time, and the most dutiful wife, Jane Seymour, who bore him his long awaited son, Edward, even though the poor lady did not survive the birth by more than a fortnight.”
    Anne looked into Jane’s eyes, but did not feel a connection. In fact, no one in the portraits called to her—not like him, not like Brandon’s photo had—and she was relieved. No unsettling hocus-pocus, no hint of anything weird or overwhelming.
    The guide went on, “Unfortunately, the original Holbein mural burnt along with the rest of Whitehall Palace in 1698.”
    Anne and Catherine followed their tour group out of the portrait gallery, heading for the Chapel Royal, where Henry VIII and his descendants had prayed. They trooped down a long hallway, until the guide halted everyone before a wooden door.
    Anne glanced about. The hall had an eerie feel.
    “And you may have heard rumors about the tragic ghost that seems to reside in this hall.” The guide’s voice rose dramatically. “The terrible screams of Henry’s fifth wife have been heard in this haunted gallery many, many times over the years. She’d been accused of adultery and sought his mercy. But Old King Hal would only put up with his own philandering, not that of his wives, and Katherine Howard was taken to the Tower to meet her fate.” He placed his finger to his lips. “Shhh. I rather hope Her Majesty will grace us with her royal presence.”
    Everyone grew quiet, straining for a look down the corridor. Finally, someone in the crowd made a ghostly wail. A few snickers followed, then a scattering of quiet laughter.
    “I would assume,” the tour guide said, chuckling, “our Queen Katherine had a previous engagement today. However, on occasion, her ghost has even been seen running down the haunted gallery, skirts flying, face twisted in agony, trying to get to Henry VIII, who was inside the chapel.”
    Relieved to be leaving the spooky hallway, Anne and Catherine followed their guide into the Chapel Royal. The magnificent vaulted ceiling had been painted blue and decorated with tiny golden stars, its great arcing beams and figures of cherubs gilded with gold leaf.
    “Rather posh,” Catherine whispered as Anne nodded. “You can almost imagine the sounds of the Elizabethans’ silks and satins as they knelt to prayer.”
    They continued on through the royal apartments to the gardens outside. Nearly everyone in their tour group searched through their handbags, looking for sunglasses or hats to shield their eyes from the brilliant morning sun.
    “Ah, this is as summer should be,” said Catherine as she adjusted a pair of dark shades on her nose. “None of yesterday’s lumpy skies.”
    Anne smiled.
    “Which room did you prefer, darling?”
    “Hard to say. Definitely not the hallway. I think maybe the Chapel Royal with that fabulous ceiling. I’ll have to buy some teaching aids for my unit on English history.”
    “Yes, we can go to the gift shop before we leave,” Catherine said.
    The crunching sound of horses’ hooves on gravel made Anne start and jump back. Men and women—dressed in red or black hunt jackets, respectively—rode out of a far courtyard.