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Back The Rose Labyrinth Save as PDF
Chapters (45)
  1. Cover
  2. THE ROSE LABYRINTH
  3. Titlepage
  4. Copyright page
  5. Dedication
  6. PROLOGUE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. EPILOGUE
  42. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  43. BIBLIOGRAPHY
  44. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  45. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“Ross!” she called up the stairs, and Lucy and her chaperone were left waiting in poor light.

32

ST. GEORGE’S DAY, 1608,
AT THE WHITE HART INN, NEAR LONDON

THE CANDLES SPUTTER, AND TWO LARGE SALVERS ARE CLEARED FROM THE rose-strewn trestle. More wine is passed around, and a toast proposed.

“Now does our project gather to a head. In this last hour of the feast of St. George, let us drink: To Berowne!” Seemingly unaffected by the amount he has been drinking, the man at one end of the table springs energetically to his feet, shunting back his chair. The theme of the toast is heartily espoused by all of his companions. Some places at the table are empty, and the room rings out with intoxicated laughter in the smoky light.

“But, Will, you ask of him the labors of a true initiate. How shall he, then, inspire the speechless sick to smile?” A long-limbed man interrupts the release of smoke from a pipe to address his master of ceremonies.

At the other end of the table an old man moves forward. He is clearly the chief of this company. His face is lined and scarred with worry, but alive with interest at the unfolding discussion.

“And what hope has he, Will, besides, to turn the heartless zealots from their course? Those who would bear the sword of heaven should be as holy as they are severe. Into what poverty of spirit these men have fallen, and what they hide inside, though angels on their outmost side.” He pushes a small crystal sphere away from him.

The younger man seats himself again. “Good Doctor, and Lord Francis, know ye not, love is tutored in a lady’s eyes, giving every power an added power. Such love boasts the labors of a Hercules. The poet, indeed, ought not take up his pen until his ink is tempered with love’s sighs…Oh, he will triumph—for have we not willed it so? The red rose king shall win back his white rose queen, and naught shall go ill. In black his lady’s brows are decked, and thus again shall she prove that unfashionable complexion fair. A true angel of melancholy. Her dark beauty is heavenly and her countenance wise—the inspiration to his genius, and a spur to his wit.”