Shades of Red

by K. C. Dyer

  The bolt of pain that shot up her leg was singular in its intensity and mercifully brief in duration. She leaned forward and gazed at her leg in disbelief. Her foot lay unresponsive on the asphalt road. And where was her shoe? As she watched, a pool of blood erupted from the cuff of her pant leg, smothering the brown skin. The dark blood puddled and flowed away across the black asphalt, and the jagged bone protruding where her ankle had been was stark in the starlight. Her breath caught in her throat, and she leaned weakly to the other side, supported on her arm, and vomited. This provided no relief from the pain, but it surely meant her dad would come. She never had to be sick alone.

  “Daddy?” Her voice wouldn’t work — so maybe it was a dream after all. “Dad?”

  And in the way of dreams, her dad couldn’t hear her, for he was gone. “I’ll just wait here, Daddy,” she whispered. “You’ll come — it’s getting a little foggy, you just need time to find me.”

  And waiting for her father, Darrell passed out on the pine bracken that had, moments before, saved her life.

  Tears running freely down her face, Darrell turned back to the doomed queen. “I never got to say goodbye to him,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  “Perhaps not,” responded the queen, and she placed her hand warmly on Darrell’s arm. “But he bade his farewell to you, for as the monster took him, I saw him smile.”

  Darrell nodded and sat silent for a long moment. “Thank you,” she said at last, feeling the tears still wet on her cheeks. “Your dream has let me see the truth. I see now that I did not really need to say goodbye to my father. He is always with me — he is in my memories and in my heart.”

  “And on your lips — for your smile is as like his as my girl’s is like Henry’s,” said Anne softly.

  Darrell wiped her face on the lace handkerchief that Anne held out to her and smiled wryly. “This is not as it should be. I am here to offer you solace and instead you have done so for me. I so wish that I could be of further help to you, your Majesty.”

  Anne smiled at her. “My tears are done — all the screaming and denying is over. My heart is at peace, Dara. And if my dream has brought you comfort, then I am the happier for it.”

  Darrell smoothed down her heavy skirts, feeling as though a huge burden had lifted from her heart. What could she do in return? She cleared her throat and watched Anne carefully as she spoke.

  “You said earlier that you are no more a witch than I, and I know that to be true. But I also know you saw us take our leave in Windsor forest. I hope you understand that we are not witches or supernatural — but we are not of this time.”

  “I cannot deny that your stange disappearance that day in the forest ensured my reputation as a witch with Lady Margaret, to be sure.”

  Darrell twisted the handkerchief in her hands, but as Anne’s face showed only calm, she decided to risk a little more.

  “Please hold in your heart the knowledge of this truth. Your daughter will prosper and receive her due as heir to her father’s throne. Though you have not borne Henry a son, know that your greatest hope will come true. Elizabeth will reign strong and sure. Her legacy will outlast all others of her era and her name will be revered for centuries.”

  A trumpet sounded outside and Anne bowed her head. “I know not how you see these things,” she said quietly. “Perhaps your dreams are as vivid as my own. But I thank you, for you have brought my heart peace.” She swept to the window. “And now you must go,” she said, and her voice was no longer that of a frightened woman, but resounded with the will of the Queen of England. “The trumpet sounds to call the court once more into session and I to my fate.”

  She leaned in from the window. “I think perhaps you may want to make your way to the chapel once more, Dara. It is there that my own confessor, Friar Priamos, readies my soul for its journey. It is there, as with all good places, that you shall find your sanctuary.”

  The door to the chamber flung open so rapidly that it bounced against the wall. One of the king’s men stepped across the threshold and took hold of Anne’s arm.

  “You are to come with me, witch.”

  “There is no need to be rough, good sir. I will do as you say.”

  The guard pulled the queen to the door of her chamber. “If you believe me to be a witch,” Anne remarked dryly, “you might take care that I do not think to curse you for your lack of gentleness.”

  The guard looked so startled he actually dropped her arm for a moment. She gave a final smile to Darrell. “Stay safe, young woman,” she said. “I will remember you in my prayers.” She turned to the guard. “Let us proceed,” she said, and with a much gentler hand, he guided her out of sight.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Darrell stumbled outside to find Delaney sitting with a companion. Lady Jacqueline turned a tearstained face to the sun.

  “We but await the final announcement of her execution date.”

  Darrell hoisted her heavy skirts in one arm and reached down to help Jacqueline up from where she had been seated beside Delaney. “Watching this whole thing unfold is sickening. I feel completely helpless.”

  “As do I.” Jacqueline tucked one arm into Darrell’s. “Do you mind if we walk? I have news that I would share with you,” she said, keeping her voice low.

  “That would be wonderful,” said Darrell with a sigh. “I could use some good news right about now.” She stood still a moment. “It doesn’t by chance have anything to do with a priest in a scarlet robe?”

  Jacqueline looked puzzled. “Perhaps you mean one of the cardinals? No, my news has nothing to do with the church, except most indirectly.” She sighed. “You must be strong, Mistress Dara. The young lad from the stable has just called out that the conspirators in the Tower have been summarily executed. Anne’s brother and the three other men were killed at dawn.”

  Darrell blanched. “And that is supposed to be good news?”

  Jacqueline shook her head. “The only good part is that the king showed his mercy at the last. They were sentenced for treason, which can mean they were to be drawn and quartered before being burned at the stake. The poor men were to be hung high by their necks and cut down before death. Following this they were to be disembowelled while still alive and then cut into pieces before burning — the most grievous punishment the law can mete out. But Henry stepped in and commuted their sentences, so instead of the terrible deaths, they were swiftly beheaded.”

  Darrell swayed a little and sat down on a hay bale. “I saw Mark Smeaton in the dining hall once,” she whispered. “And now he has had his head cut off?” Her hand rose to her own throat.

  “This is not news,” she muttered under her breath. “I knew this was going to happen, I read about it in the library.” She stood with Jacqueline’s helping hand. “It is hard to believe that cutting someone’s head off can be considered merciful.”

  The door swung open, and a young stable boy careened into the stall. He nodded at Jacqueline. “Lady Jacqueline, ma’am, Lady Rachel is looking for you and the other miss.”

  Jacqueline squatted down on the straw-covered floor in front of the boy. “Did she say why, Byron?”

  He shook his head and wiped the back of his hand across his face. “No, miss. She was standing with that priest and with milord Norfolk. She smiled at me and sent me to fetch you to the court.”

  “Did the priest have a scarlet hood, Byron?” asked Darrell urgently.

  The boy nodded.

  “The court!” Jacqueline looked at Darrell, the colour draining out of her face. She grabbed the stable boy by the shoulders and shook him a little. “Did Lord Norfolk say anything?” she demanded.

  The boy grimaced and tried to wriggle out of her grasp. “I heard but a scrap,” he said. “The lady said you were the queen’s women and Lord Norfolk said that your fates should be as hers.” He struggled against Jacqueline’s grip. “ Lerroff!” he shouted. “That be all I know!” With a final violent twist he spun out of her grasp and disappeared out the stab
le door.

  “Our fate shall be as hers?” said Darrell slowly.

  They looked at each other in dismay. “What shall we do, Dara?” said Jacqueline, her face white to the lips.

  “You must leave now,” said Darrell urgently. “We have run out of time if Norfolk has his eye on us. I have read of this man — he will do anything to save his own skin. He’s Anne’s uncle but also her judge. Norfolk has sent his own nephew to his death, and his niece will likely be next.”

  Jacqueline’s hands trembled. “My brother told me it might come to this,” she said. She reached out and took Darrell’s hands into her own. “Come with me,” she pleaded. “My brother crossed the sea with me many years ago when I came with the queen, and he works as a smith in London. He will find us safe passage back to France.”

  “But how can we get out of the Tower without anyone seeing us?” said Darrell.

  Jacqueline strode to the door of the stable. “We shall make our way out the way my poor queen arrived — through Traitor’s Gate.”

  “But that is a gate to the Thames,” whispered Darrell. “How can you make it through the water?”

  Jacqueline drew a small velvet bag from within her skirts. “I keep my jewels and a few pieces of gold with me always — they will pay our way,” she said. “The gateman will turn his eye away from me, with enough persuasion.” She shook the small bag, and its contents rattled gently. “My brother’s smithy is just across the Thames. We need only to swim under the wharf — a matter of a few feet. It is near darkness now — we must leave at once. It is our only hope.”

  Darrell smiled grimly. “Then you must take it. But I will not come with you.”

  “But, Dara, if you do not escape with me, Norfolk will have you to the block with Queen Anne!” She glanced down at Darrell’s walking stick. “Do not fear your crippled foot will slow me down, dear lady — I have seen how well you manage. You must take off the wooden peg for the river, of course, but my brother will surely make you a crutch or even a new peg when he hears of our plight.”

  Darrell peered out the door of the stable and stilled Jacqueline’s outburst with a raised hand. “You must go at once,” she said urgently. “Norfolk has just emerged from the Garden Tower and crosses the Green. You have a workable plan, my lady, but I’m afraid I cannot go with you.”

  Jacqueline paled. “But you will surely die with our beloved queen.” She drew herself up. “Perhaps I should do the same. It is only right that I stay in service to my lady to the end, no matter how bitter it may be.”

  “Nonsense.” Darrell tried not to let her alarm show. “Think of your brother, Jacqueline, and your family in France. Besides,” she said, smiling a little, “I have no intention of letting Norfolk separate me from my head. You must trust that I have another way out of the Tower, dear lady. You did not see me enter, remember? I will leave as I arrived and will stay safe, I promise. Now please see to your own safety. Run!”

  After shooing the still-weeping Jacqueline out the rear stable door, Darrell dashed back to the window. Norfolk had vanished from sight, but behind the newly erected executioner’s block, she confirmed what she had seen but not told Jacqueline: a swirl of scarlet robe.

  Delaney at her heels, she hurried as fast as the awkward wooden foot would allow across the open Green towards the Chapel of St. Peter. She had just reached the site of the scaffold when a hand shot out from behind the wooden framework and clutched her arm in its iron grip.

  Delaney growled at the liveried soldier who held Darrell pinned tightly in his grasp. The soldier swung a heavily booted foot at the dog, and Delaney backed away a few feet, his teeth bared.

  “One of the queen’s ladies, is it not?” The oily tones of a voice that could only belong to Norfolk whispered out of the shadows. The duke stepped forward into the setting rays of the sun. “To where do you hurry on this clear spring evening? Shouldn’t you be with your queen at the occasion of her final sunset?”

  Darrell wrenched her arm out of the soldier’s grip. “How can you speak that way? Anne is your own niece — your brother’s daughter. Have you no pity for her?”

  The duke laughed. “My dear niece has outlasted her usefulness. You may be interested to know that just moments ago she was condemned to death. On the morrow, her head will rest easy on a soft cushion, courtesy of a fine swordsman’s blade.” He smiled. “In her extremity, it is my fondest wish that her loyal ladies accompany Anne on her final journey.”

  Darrell glanced over the duke’s shoulder, judging the distance she would have to sprint to reach the small shed behind the chapel. The distance seemed impossibly large — not exactly the convenient escape route she had described to Jacqueline. And where was Delaney?

  “I — I am but a visitor to the queen on her final day,” she said, stalling. Where had the dog gone? “Anne’s ladies are loyal first to King Henry — surely you know that, your Grace? They carefully copy her every word for use at the trial.”

  “It was I who presided at her final trial, goose,” he spat. “’Twas I who read the words written by her ladies. But it is not of those ladies I speak. The Frenchwoman — Jacqueline is her name? Originally from that harridan Claude’s court, if I am not mistaken. Yes, I do believe that Anne should have company on her final walk, and you two ladies, true to the last, should meet your ends with the fallen witch. Take away this slime,” he snarled. “And I’ve seen the other one making eyes at the guard at Traitor’s Gate. Ensure you take both the woman and the guard to meet their just ends.”

  The soldier’s glove closed around Darrell’s shoulder once more, and the walking stick was wrenched from her hand. Panic rose in her throat. Delaney? She struggled against the soldier, landing a decent kick to his shin with her wooden foot. He reached around and lifted her bodily off the ground.

  As soon as he could see Darrell was no longer a threat, the Duke of Norfolk stepped close to the soldier. “Take her to the Garden Tower,” he hissed. “And she may await the morrow with the French woman and her gate guard.”

  “A word in your ear, your Grace.” A quiet, somehow familiar voice carried over the sound of Darrell’s struggle with the guard. She looked over and gaped. The scarlet-cloaked figure stood in the shadows of the wooden scaffolding, the wagging tail of a dog just visible behind the heavy woollen robes.

  The last ray of the setting sun glanced off a weighty gold chain around the priest’s surplice, and Darrell found herself temporarily blinded by the searing glare.

  “Allow me to take your prisoner for a final word of comfort. You have my word that she will meet due justice.”

  Norfolk spluttered a little. “But Monsignore — you would not deny this supporter of the traitor queen her just reward?”

  “Not at all.” The voice was calm and very cool to the duke. “No more than you would question my authority to give this poor soul her last rites?”

  The duke shrugged, acquiescing with thinly disguised disgust. “If I have your word, Monsignore, then I know it is as if I had the word of Rome. Take her away. I trust you know your way to the Garden Tower?”

  The red hood nodded curtly and leaned toward the duke. “A bloody final waiting place, indeed,” the priest said in a low voice and put a gentle hand on Darrell’s arm. With the glare of the sun still in her eyes, Darrell snatched her walking stick from the guard’s glove and hurried after the scarlet robe as it swept in through the side door of the Chapel of St. Peter.

  Dashing into the chapel door, Darrell ran straight into the arms of Friar Priamos. Darrell rubbed her eyes, trying hard to adjust to the near darkness inside.

  “To the shed at the back,” he said. “There is no time to waste. Norfolk will soon see through the ruse when he finds the Monsignore has actually been with Henry all this time.”

  “What ...?” Darrell couldn’t find the words to put to the dozen or so questions that bubbled all at once into her brain.

  “No time,” the man who had once been Conrad Kennedy repeated. He hustled her into the tiny
shed behind the chapel. “Be safe, Darrell — and Delaney.” Priamos reached down, and though Delaney ducked his head a little, he stood bravely in place as the priest patted a final goodbye.

  Darrell stepped through the doorway of the shed. “I am Dara,” she said to the figure inside.

  “Yes,” came the response in a familiar voice, “though I know you better by another name.”

  Darrell’s jaw dropped as she found herself gazing into the deep green eyes of Professor Myrtle Tooth.

  Grasping her dog tightly by the old knotted rope around his neck, she took the hand of the scarlet figure, and together they stepped under the doorframe that bore the burning symbol of a dying falcon.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Darrell sat on the bottom of the stone steps leading up to the school library. She swirled a mint in her mouth and, after a moment, remembered to offer one to her travelling companion.

  “I thought you were Conrad,” she said quietly.

  Professor Tooth nodded. “He told me so. I have a certain fondness for that scarlet robe, you know. Buried in its folds I can pass almost anywhere Anno Domini. But perhaps I need to take off a few pounds. It is remarkable how often I am mistaken for a male member of the clergy.”

  Darrell noticed with a grin that her teacher pocketed the mint. “Mistaken? Professor Tooth, you can’t fool me — you deliberately disguised yourself.”

  “But in fact, I could fool you — and did, as I recall.” The school principal dusted off the sensible wool skirt she now wore. “As you well know, Darrell, the cultural mores of the sixteenth century do not reflect any sort of equality between women and men. If I must make my way through the centuries dressed as a male, so be it.”

  Darrell nodded. “I have been trying to find you all term, Professor. Have you been with Conrad the whole time?”

  Professor Tooth smiled a little. “I have been back and forth, my dear. A school principal has many things to attend to these days, but my students’ welfare takes absolute precedence.”