Free The Bone House by Stephen R. Lawhead Page A

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.

CHAPTER 7

In Which December Proves the Cruellest Month
    T wo 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