Shades of Red

by K. C. Dyer

  “It was the mud that saved me, you know. The frozen road where I waited for death slowly thawed in the heat from the flames. The thick muck, churned into ridges and tracks by the hooves of many horses and the wheels of many carts, softened and plastered itself in a thick mass to one side of my face. The occupants of the house next to Verocchio’s old ruin discovered the flames too late to save their own home but early enough to save all the family members and to peel my remains off the ground. By my very strangeness, they must surely have believed me to be the source of this flaming tragedy. The two youngest sons, stalwart lads in their early twenties, scraped me up and flung me without ceremony into the back of a cart with the few belongings they were able to salvage before their villa burned to the ground. A donkey was hastily hitched to the cart and, led by the lady of the house, trundled to the only place of sanctuary the local residents could imagine: the Church of Saint Mary de Fiores, The Duomo.”

  A quiet knock at the door made Darrell jump as though she had been struck.

  “Father? The lady awaits you.”

  The friar gathered his cloak closely around his shoulders and pulled the cowl back up to shroud his face.

  He turned to Darrell and took her hands in his own. “That is more than enough,” he said, his voice steady. “My first duty now is to my lady in this hour of her most desperate need. All that remains is for me to ask your forgiveness.”

  “My forgiveness?” she choked. “I am here to seek your forgiveness — for leaving you behind in time, for consigning you to a life — in hell.”

  “For sparing me a life in hell,” he said gently. “Think well on this, Darrell Connor. You did not condemn me anywhere. I chose to make my own decisions, right or wrong. And here I have found a life that has meaning for me.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t believe the Conrad Kennedy I knew would ever want to be a priest.”

  He gave his strange half-smile. “The Conrad Kennedy you knew no longer exists. He was lost that day in a terrible fire. But the man that was reborn out of that shell of a boy is able to give some comfort to others. Nearby, a woman will walk to her own death at the hands of her husband, perhaps as soon as tomorrow, and I hope to offer her some comfort.”

  “But — does your religion give you any comfort?”

  His eye gleamed in the candle light. “The truth is, I’ve come to look at organized religion as the source of many of the world’s problems, rather than a cure for them,” he said quietly. “However, I do think everyone has the right to worship in whatever way suits them best.”

  “I can’t believe that’s a very popular viewpoint these days,” said Darrell wryly.

  “You’re absolutely correct,” said Conrad. “And so I wear the habit and follow the rules of the Franciscan order, but like Socorro, I help things along — in my own way.”

  He walked over to the door. “Perhaps we shall meet again,” he said.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Perhaps.” The door closed gently, and Darrell was left alone with her long-ago thoughts. She collected her stick and walked slowly out of the chapel.

  Conrad, found at last — and almost unrecognizable in the end. Darrell paused with her hand on the doorway. But if Conrad was a Grey Friar, then who had been watching her all this time, wearing the scarlet cloak?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  She stepped outside the chapel, and Delaney ran up to greet her. Darrell reached down to pat him, more as a comfort to herself than to him, when she heard her name being called.

  “Mistress Dara! Oh, can it really be you?” To her surprise, Lady Jacqueline, whom she remembered as one of Katherine of Aragon’s personal attendants, was scurrying across the grass. She scattered a group of three ravens as she ran, and they marched out of her way like shiny black soldiers, unable to fly on their clipped wings.

  Jacqueline grasped Darrell delightedly by both shoulders and spoke with her strong French accent. “The queen told me she had seen you through the window of her room, and indeed she was quite correct. She will be simply delighted you are here, on this of all days.”

  “I — I have come a long way to see her, Lady Jacqueline. But ...” Darrell hesitated. How to say it? “Is she all right?” She kicked herself mentally. What kind of stupid question was that? How could the queen be all right? She was facing her own execution.

  Lady Jacqueline smiled. “She is well enough at the moment,” she replied. “She has often been unwell, these past few months, but now she is calm and prepared.”

  “Even with a full view of this — this thing?” Darrell pointed to the executioner’s block.

  “Even with that. She had just called for her confessor the moment she saw you, so will tarry but a moment with him, I am sure. She is most anxious to see you. Please follow me.”

  Darrell trailed behind Lady Jacqueline, leaving Delaney curled up in his sunny spot outside. “This is the Queen’s House,” said Jacqueline. “Henry had it built here within the Tower especially for Anne, poor thing — before she lost the wee boy.”

  The house was the only building of its kind on the Tower grounds, and Jacqueline led Darrell past a collection of meeting and private rooms, all beautifully appointed. As they entered the personal chamber of the queen, a chorus of mourning arose from Anne’s ladies. They were sitting by the window, watching the progress of the building of the executioner’s block.

  “She is dead, dead,” lamented one, Lady Rachel.

  “Dead to us all,” wailed another.

  “It is her own witchery to blame,” whispered the third.

  “Nonsense,” snapped Jacqueline, with a glance at Darrell’s stricken face. “Lady Rachel, you know Queen Anne is no more a witch than I am.”

  The three ladies shuffled away from Jacqueline, eyeing her warily.

  “Your hair is red,” hissed Rachel.

  “As is the king’s,” said Jacqueline, exasperated. “Or it was before it started to thin out and turn grey.”

  “Anne’s hair is dark,” whispered Darrell, able to speak at last. The nattering of the women left her feeling sick and useless. What good was it to travel through time when there was no way to help those in need?

  “Black as her eyes, black as her soul,” sang Lady Rachel.

  Darrell stepped forward, her hands balled into tight fists at her side. “You are her ladies,” she said incredulously. “Is it not your place to support your queen?”

  Jacqueline turned her back on the others, and Darrell could see her eyes were shiny with unshed tears. She collected her embroidery from a basket by the window. “I am loyal to my queen,” she whispered quietly, “for I have been with her since she returned to this country from the court of Queen Claude in France.”

  “That could be to your peril,” said Rachel and arched an eyebrow at Darrell. “Our first loyalty is to the king and to God,” she said. She pulled a small package from a hidden pocket inside her voluminous skirts and carefully unwrapped an ornate pen from its protective roll of cotton.

  “This pen was given me by the king himself,” she said proudly. “He bade us record every word the witch utters, for evidence at her trial, is this not so, Gwendolyn?”

  “Her ravings have been as of a madwoman,” agreed Lady Gwendolyn, smoothing her skirts. “One moment laughing, the next she is on her knees bewailing her fate.”

  Darrell turned on her furiously. “In her place, how would you feel? Not sure if you would live or die, your fate imposed upon you by the man you love?”

  “Perhaps,” said Rachel, batting her eyelashes knowingly. “And perhaps she loves another. At least one of her lovers awaits his fate in the Tower.”

  Darrell sat weakly down on a cushioned window seat. The words of Anne’s ladies sounded like so much chattering of blackbirds. “What is she supposed to have done?” she asked despairingly. “I know he says she is an enchantress who bewitched him away from Queen Katherine. But is that enough to have her executed?”

  “My lady the queen is accused of plotting tr
eason against the the kingdom of Britain and its monarch,” whispered Jacqueline.

  “She is a traitor in more ways than one,” crowed Gwendolyn. “She is accused of adultery and of plotting against the king, her fine husband.”

  “If Elizabeth had been born a boy, Anne would have been untouchable,” hissed Jacqueline. “Queen Anne has always spoken her mind clearly, and Henry has tired of her as he did of Katherine when she was unable to produce a male heir.” She wrung her handkerchief in her hands. “If only she would hold her tongue rather than always speaking her mind! The king looks now to the modest and quiet Lady Jane Seymour instead of his beautiful Anne.”

  “Is there no one who will speak to her innocence?” asked Darrell.

  “The queen herself confesses to nothing, beyond humbling herself before God and the king,” insisted Lady Jacqueline.

  “And what of her supposed suitors?” asked Darrell.

  “Smeaton,” breathed Rachel, and the ladies all sighed, a sound so synchronized it might have been rehearsed.

  “So handsome — such a waste,” said Lady Gwendolyn, and Darrell could hear a catch in her voice that wasn’t present when she spoke of her doomed queen.

  “A true gentleman of the court, Mark Smeaton,” continued Lady Rachel. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The king has declined him mercy, and on the morrow he is to endure the most grievous pain of death the courts can impart.”

  Lady Jacqueline jumped to her feet and burst into tears. “Speak of it no more,” she cried. “For think upon this. If these honoured members of the court are so treated when unjustly accused, what of ourselves? What shall be our fate?” Clutching her handkerchief, she stumbled through the door.

  Darrell stood up to follow Jacqueline and glanced over at the remaining ladies-in-waiting. Gwendolyn’s skin had gone very pale, though Rachel shot Darrell a venomous glance.

  “Anne is not a witch,” Darrell repeated. “And she is the mother of a little girl. This is not justice.” She stepped out to find Jacqueline standing in the hall, her composure somewhat restored.

  Lady Jacqueline bowed her head. “The king has kept the queen away from her daughter, but these last seventeen days Anne has been allowed to spend time with Elizabeth. The queen has now left her confessor and will spend a few moments with her daughter at present. Would you join them?”

  Darrell nodded and glanced back into the room to see Rachel furiously scribbling on a long roll of paper.

  “I simply could not believe my eyes when I spied you coming out of the chapel,” Anne said, smiling gently. “I am more delighted to see your face than you can possibly know.”

  Darrell nodded dumbly as Anne waved Lady Jacqueline out of the room. She clutched her stick and walked over to where Anne was sitting with a sleeping child in her arms. The tiny princess’s face was serene, and Anne clutched her protectively. An old brass pendulum swung to and fro, dully reflecting the firelight across the toddler’s round, sleeping face.

  Anne placed the child in a raised trundle bed and leaned wearily on the corner of small wooden frame. “Hard to countenance that until an hour past she was still running and making merry,” she whispered.

  “Are you tired, milady?” Darrell placed her walking stick in the corner near the door and sat on a stool next to the fire.

  “I am tired.” Anne smiled and tucked a strand of fine red hair into place on the sleeping girl’s head. “But I enjoy the child’s company, while I have her.” She quietly lifted a hard wooden chair from near the window and sat down beside Darrell, and her voice dropped. “Sitting here, I am loath to believe this beauty’s father has vowed to put her mother to death.”

  Darrell reached over to squeeze Anne’s hand. “Perhaps he’ll change his mind. Could he not grant you a divorce?”

  Anne shrugged, but her smile was sad. She stood and drew a curtain across the alcove where Elizabeth slept and then returned to sit with Darrell.

  “I knew you’d be back — he told me he thought you would.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Priamos, of course. I spend most of my time with him, these days.”

  “But when I last saw you, you told me Friar Priamos was leaving.”

  “He did leave — for a while. But after Elizabeth’s birth, he returned. He said he thought I might need some comfort, and indeed, he was correct.” Anne touched Darrell’s shoulder. “I am ready, you know. Whether it be tomorrow or next week, I know my heart is true to my sovereign and to my God.” She looked at Darrell with the large, dark eyes that had beguiled one of the most powerful rulers of all time. “I am not a witch,” she whispered.

  Darrell swallowed hard. “I know that, your Majesty. I just wish you could convince the king.”

  Anne shook her head. “That is immaterial now. He believes me a traitor and a witch, therefore it is true. My only hope now is for my daughter, that she be given her rightful due as heir to the throne. I fear for her now ...” Anne bowed her head, unable to continue.

  Darrell bit her lip. What to say to comfort a woman who would surely be dead within days? “Your daughter has the same fire in her eyes that you carry, your Majesty,” she whispered. “You must not fear. Have ...” Darrell stopped herself short. How could she counsel this queen to have something she could not find in her own heart — faith? “Have strength, your Majesty,” she finished lamely.

  Anne stood up and strode across to the window. Darrell watched her look out upon the afternoon, sunny and fine. Workers scurried to and fro across the courtyard, erecting poles for banners and string lines that would be used to hang bunting and other colourful indications of her own death.

  “It is hard to feel a part of the world anymore,” she said quietly. “Soon the country will celebrate the death of the Great Enemy. The witch.” She turned from the window and looked at Darrell. “And yet, here I am. I am still of the world. I eat. I long for my child and for those few years of happiness I shared with my husband.” She laughed a little. “I sleep — I dream. Dara, I dreamed of you last night. It is how I knew you would arrive to be with me today.”

  She swept over to sit beside Darrell, her black skirts and crinolines rustling as she primly tucked them into place. She looked down at her hands and impatiently began to undo the fine buttons on the lace gloves she was rarely seen without. She tossed the gloves on the floor.

  “Yet another pretence cast aside,” she said disdainfully. She lay her long hands on her lap, the small protrusion on the side of her right finger hardly noticeable in the dark room. “Sign of the witch, this thing.” She laughed again and patted Darrell’s leg. “I am no more a witch than you, Dara.”

  She was quiet a moment, staring into space. A smile fluttered around her lips. “You were flying, in my dream, Dara. On the back of some strange beast — surely not akin to any horse I have ever seen. And on the back of this beast, I could see where you clung to an apparition.”

  Darrell’s stomach contracted in a knot and she clenched her hands in her lap. This was not supposed to happen. She was here to say goodbye — not to hear portents that hovered too close to the truth from a woman too close to death. Anne took Darrell’s hands in her own.

  “I thought the apparition at first to be death — my own death, riding on a black horse, with you clinging on behind. But no — in this dream, death was seeking you, Dara, not I.”

  Darrell swallowed. Her mouth felt strangely dry. “It was only a dream, your Majesty,” she said quietly. “Think of it no more.”

  “No — no. I must tell you. A strange piece of black helm covered your head and masked your eyes, yet I knew it was you. You were little more than a baby, perhaps nine or ten years old. The apparition I thought was death turned out to be an angel — a dark angel, but one who would deliver you from the long, dark sleep.”

  The sounds of the workers outside seemed to fade into the distance as the doomed queen spoke. Darrell felt herself drawn into Anne’s words, images that could have been pulled from the shreds of her own memory.


  “When death appeared, all I could see were the impossibly round, yellow eyes as it advanced, unblinking, upon you. I knew you would be swallowed alive and I cried out, but of course, no sound could I make for it was a dream. The strange steed you rode veered to one side, and I could see the knight who rode with you wrestling for control. And — it was as though time stood still.”

  Darrell sat as if paralyzed. How could Anne know these things? She felt as though she were drowning in the dark pools of Anne’s eyes.

  “He bore no weapon against the great monster death, your knight,” Anne continued, speaking as though still deep in the dream. “But in that last instant before it sprang, his strength was greater than that of a thousand men and he needed no weapon. With a single arm he swept you up and hurled you away from the path of the monster.”

  Anne dropped her head, her voice muffled. “And then death took him, and I knew it as I awoke.”

  Darrell’s vision fogged and she struggled to stay conscious. “The accident,” she whispered. “How could you know, your Majesty?”

  Darrell looked past the queen and stared blindly out the window at the workers as they readied the block for Anne’s dance with death below. And remembered ...

  She had awakened in the dark, with something wet running down her face. There was no pain, at first. It was more like a gradual widening of her mind followed by a critical assessment of her body. Her first view was of the sky, the stars reflecting dimly in the water of the Sound.

  Sky. Stars. Not rain on her face then. Her neck was stretched back, her head draped downwards. For a moment, the beauty of the night took her breath away, borne on a fragrance of broken pine boughs. Too beautiful to be real — perhaps it was just a dream? She lay without motion, gazing at the inverted night world of wood and water. How much more beautiful it would be the right way around — she should sit up. With her first movement, though, came sure, black knowledge. All was not well. Perhaps there would, in fact, never be beauty again. She couldn’t lift her head, so instead struggled to roll onto her side.