Free Blood Ties by C.C. Humphreys Page B

Abbot at Montecatini Alto.’
    ‘Indeed? I know little of him. Save this …’ He waved the paper. ‘It was found by someone I trust among his papers, along with certain … implements. I dislike the indiscriminate use of pain, do you not agree? Anyway, they are irrelevant, this’ – the paper again – ‘is relevant. Very much so.’ He paused, squinting at the parchment. ‘Is it true, then, what is written here. Is it true you are the son of Anne Boleyn’s executioner?’
    If he had lived a thousand years, it was the last thing he expected from this man, in this place. It was all his nightmares condensed into one phrase, the yoke of shame his father had placed on him, the family sin he’d fled. No one knew this ghastly secret, no one except those who had taken part in that witch’s quest. No one …
    Then the vision he struggled so hard never to see, that still woke him most nights, came back to him now, and he was there, no more than a child, at the monastery where his parents had reluctantly sent him after months of begging leave to study Christ’s words. He was lying on the floor, ropes biting into his skin, a switch rising and falling, leaving horrible weals, drawing blood, Fra Lepidus, with his mad eyes, wielding it, demanding the full panoply of his sins. And an eleven-year-old boy had nothing left to confess. Nothing save one family secret, bound in a vow of silence. And he broke that vow to stop the pain, told the man with the mad eyes everything. Told him of Jean Rombaud and Anne Boleyn’s six-fingered hand.
    ‘Ah! So it is true then.’
    That voice brought him back from the horror of memory, to the room where his life had just turned awry. To the wrinkled face that now smiled down on him.
    ‘This … relic. It could be useful. The Imperial Ambassador in England thinks so. They are struggling to return the land to the One Church, under their good and pious Queen Mary. Her sister, daughter of that witch queen, may need … influencing to continue the good work.’ He laid gnarled fingers on Gianni’s shoulder. ‘Can you bring us this witch’s hand?’
    The nightmare continued. He lapsed into Italian now, his Tuscan accent strong.
    ‘Holy Fath—, uh, your eminence. It was buried before I was born. In France. I do not know where. Only three people do.’
    ‘And they are?’
    There was nowhere to hide in a nightmare.
    ‘My mother and father. And one other man. If they are still alive.’
    It sounded like the plea it was. Leave me alone! They’re dead. My past is dead!
    ‘And why would they not be?’
    ‘They are in Siena. So many have died there, they …’ He broke off. Suddenly he realized he wasn’t telling this man anything he didn’t know.
    ‘Ah, yes. Siena.’ The Cardinal’s thin fingers dug into the flesh at Gianni’s neck, forced him to take his old weight. ‘Then we have found your mission, my son. You will go to Siena. You will find which of these people is alive. And you will get them to lead you to the hand. Then you will take it to England. For the greater glory of God.’
    At least, even in the worst of nightmares, there was a chance of waking up. He stuttered again. ‘My … Jean Rombaud, Most Holy. He survived terrible torture for this … this witch. And my mother … she would never betray him and his cause.’
    ‘And the third witness? You mentioned three.’
    Another image. Gianni saw again that third person, the kind and gentle Fugger, his one hand waving in the air as he declined some Latin verb, as he coached the gifted child Gianni in his studies. He remembered then a part of the saga, shaming the Fugger when it was mentioned. He had broken his vow, betrayed Jean and Anne Boleyn once, but then had redeemed himself, saving Jean’s life at the last. But now, all these years later, what power of coercion could make him break his vow a second time?
    For a moment, Gianni despaired. Then another vision came, clearing away all the others. A playmate sat beside him at