by Carl Waters
“The Red Hood doesn’t fight little girls,” I said, recalling my mother’s words.
“That is correct,” said Mama. I felt the warm weight of her hand settle on my shoulder. Even through the fabric of my tunic, I could feel the rough calluses on her fingers, earned through years of fighting. “I have little patience for these childish games, Alison, but if it will clear the air between us, I will spar with you. And I will best you as I have a thousand times before.”
Aunt Alison smiled. “Tomorrow, then. Staves at first light.”
If Alison’s was the sly smile of a cat, Mama’s was the predatory grin of one of King Philip’s lions. “A good choice. You wouldn’t want to risk my blade scratching your pretty face before your wedding day.”
Mama turned to go, shepherding me out of the room before her. As we reached the short flight of stairs that led to our bedrooms on the second floor, Alison called out.
“One more thing,” she said. “Before you fight me, you must take off the red hood.”
3
The next morning, I arose late after a fitful, restless night. The sun was already peeking through my window, and in a panic I threw myself out of bed and dressed hurriedly, dragging on my training leathers and tying back my unruly hair. Mama had little patience for tardiness; her usual punishment was an extra hour of chores for every minute I was late.
So eager was I to avoid Mama’s wrath that I did not remember the events of last night until I was halfway down the stairs. There would be no practice today because my mother and her sister, my glamorous and mysterious Aunt Alison, were going to settle their differences with quarterstaffs. I doubled my speed and collided with Mama, who had just emerged from the kitchen with a steaming bowl of porridge in her hands. It flew from her grip, but before it could hit the floor, she caught the bowl without spilling a drop.
“Giselle,” she scolded, “I brought you up with better manners. No running in the house; you’ll wake our guests.”
I looked around and noticed that Alison—and, thankfully, her creepy coachman—were nowhere in sight. It appeared that my aunt kept what Mama called “city hours,” meaning that she did not rise with the cockerel’s crow as we did. Mama’s disdain for Paris and its people was well known to me. I wondered now how much of it had to do with her sister. She and Aunt Alison seemed to have much more than a childhood quarrel to settle. From my aunt’s angry words last night, it sounded as if she were jealous of Mama’s position. To be sure, being the Red Hood gave Mama a title of nobility and a generous stipend, but couldn’t Aunt Alison get those same things by marrying her new fiancé?
I glanced at Mama. She was, as always, wearing her crimson cloak, wrapped about her shoulders like a trusted friend. If it were not the title itself my aunt coveted, then it must be her position as King Philip’s protector. But if Aunt Alison wanted to live in the woods and hunt bandits, she was welcome to it. Although it had been my dream to fight by my mother’s side since I was a little girl, a small, treacherous part of me wondered if there wasn’t more to life than chasing fugitives through the forests. Mama was gone more than she was at home lately, and when she was home she pushed me to train harder and hit faster. Was that all there really was to life?
A secret smile crept onto my lips. I’d had this very same argument last summer with Théodore, the woodcutter’s son who lived near Grandmère. As children, we had spent almost every summer together while Mama was away on the king’s business, up trees or knee deep in the muddy stream. The last time I’d seen him, I’d been surprised to find that he was no longer a gangly lad but a fine, tall young man with a shock of blond hair that was forever falling in his eyes. We sat together on the ground, sharing a picnic lunch packed by my grandmother. I’d felt the oddest desire to brush that lock of hair from his forehead while we talked. Grandmère’s watchful eyes prevented me from doing it.
“It’s no use,” he’d said, spreading his work-callused fingers wide. “My father is determined that I take over the family business, and nothing I say will change his mind. It’s going to be all tree sap and blistered fingers from here on out for me, Gigi.”
I remember blushing at his nickname for me; no one else called me Gigi. “If you’re that determined not to follow in his footsteps, then just don’t. Make your own way in life.”
He’d raised one tawny eyebrow and said, “You’re one to talk. When was the last time you stood up to your mama?” He paused, frowning. “Then again, if my mother was always heavily armed, I might not cross her either.”
I had laughed and tossed a bit of bread at him, which he’d swatted away easily. “I want to be like Mama when I grow up,” I protested. “She’s brave, and strong, and good.”
Théodore’s face grew serious. He reached out and rested his hand lightly on mine. “Yes, but when was the last time you saw her laugh?”
“Giselle, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
I shook myself free of my reverie. Mama was glowering at me, one hand planted on her hip. She sighed at my look of blank incomprehension. “Go out to the training yard and see that everything is ready. Your aunt and I need to prepare,” she said. Then, turning away, she mumbled, “If Alison ever gets out of bed.”
While Mama ate her breakfast, I scurried about the training yard, sweeping the hard-packed dirt pitch, redrawing the chalk boundary lines, and checking the rack of staves in the outbuilding where Mama kept most of her weapons. She had other caches of daggers and swords hidden away around our house and the surrounding woods. Mama hid weapons the way squirrels hid acorns.
I finished checking the wrapped leather grips on Mother’s favorite quarterstaff and tossed a few handfuls of fresh sand onto the pitch. There, done. Mama and Aunt Alison could hit each other with sticks for a while, and then we’d all go for a lovely walk around the village.
When at last they emerged from the house, Mama in her usual canvas-and-leather kit and Aunt Alison in an extravagant gold-and-red costume that was sure to be ruined within minutes, I hopped down from the fence where I’d been waiting and handed them their staves. Mama took hers with a rare smile.
“You’re a good girl, Giselle,” she said, reaching out as if she wanted to brush my cheek. She let her hand fall, however, and her usual no-nonsense expression returned. “Keep working on your left block, and we might make a fighter of you yet.”
“Yes, Mama,” I said.
“You should let Giselle hold the hood for you,” said Aunt Alison. She was limbering up with a series of stretches, but her eyes never left the red cloak.
“I shall,” said Mama. “Although it won’t make any difference. I’ll still best you.”
Mama paused and looked about, almost as if scenting the air. Frowning, but satisfied, she unfastened the gold toggle at her throat and whipped it from her shoulders. She held the cloak for a moment, as if she were reluctant to part from it, and then thrust the bundle of red wool into my arms.
“Take good care of her,” Mama said. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or the hood. It was surprisingly light, weighing almost nothing at all, and yet it was deliciously warm. I sat down beneath the chestnut tree at the edge of the practice pitch to watch, Mama’s cloak spread like a blanket across my lap.
Mama and Aunt Alison took up positions at opposite ends of the ring. They bowed to each other—my mother’s, a short, warrior’s bend and Alison’s, a courtly flourish. As they faced off, I tried to guess how the contest would go. Mama was shorter and stockier than her sister, and her reach was shorter. However, she was also more heavily muscled and could hit harder. Aunt Alison was tall and graceful, more like a dancer than a fighter. It was a contest of strength against speed, and I confess that the prospect of seeing someone give Mama a challenge was thrilling.
At first, the two women circled each other, looking for openings. Mama held her staff horizontal across her chest while Aunt Alison spun and twirled hers. Its movement was so mesmerizing that I almost didn’t notice when she finally
struck. Alison whipped out the end quarterstaff toward her sister’s knee, but Mama blocked it with a crack.
They went back to circling each other. Mama attacked next, aiming at Alison’s shoulder. Aunt Alison ducked out of the way, but Mama’s strike had been a feint. She brought the end of her staff up under Alison’s weak guard and would have clouted her under the sternum—a move I knew all too well—had Aunt Alison been an instant slower. Instead of jumping back, she moved forward and past the end of the staff, spinning around and landing a solid blow across Mama’s lower back.
I gasped. Although the blow hadn’t been hard enough to do more than make Mama grimace, I hadn’t really expected Alison to hit her at all.
“I hope you marked that, Niece,” called Aunt Alison. “First blow goes to me.”
While Alison crowed over her small victory, Mama was already setting up her next attack. She approached, sparring like a seasoned knight, always planning three moves ahead. It made her a formidable fighter—as long as her opponent was playing the same game. Mama’s technique was perfect, but Alison’s was both sloppier and more unpredictable. She wielded her quarterstaff in a style that I had not seen before, and it obviously surprised Mama. Alison landed two more blows, one to the right arm and one to the left thigh. Mama blocked doggedly, but Alison’s staff seemed to be everywhere at once. When she planted the end of her quarterstaff in the dirt and used it as leverage to leap into the air, aiming a kick at Mama’s ribs, I began to fear that my mother might actually lose the fight.
As they continued to spar, however, Alison was able to find fewer openings in Mama’s defenses. She tried to snake the end of her staff toward Mama’s collarbone and earned a sharp crack across the knuckles. Mama grinned. I realized that until now, she had merely been watching, getting the measure of her sister. Now Alison was on the defensive, blocking a flurry of blows. Each one made her stagger—not that I blamed her, for I knew the force of Mama’s strikes.
“You’ve gotten better since we last fought,” said Mama, smacking her sister across the forearm. Alison winced and nearly dropped her guard, but she brought up her staff just in time to block the next blow.
“You flatter me,” Aunt Alison said. She dodged and rolled, coming up behind Mama and rapping her across the shoulder blades. Mama pivoted and slammed her staff into the side of Alison’s knee. It buckled, and she fell, her long rope of red-gold hair tumbling across her face. Mama waited, clearly unsure if her sister was truly hurt or feigning to gain an advantage.
“Do you yield?” asked Mama.
Alison looked up, cold anger in her eyes. “To you? Never.”
She leapt to her feet and flew at her sister. Mama sidestepped her attack, and in three precise strikes she disarmed Aunt Alison and laid her out flat on the dirt. She lay there panting, the end of Mama’s staff at her neck.
“I ask again, do you yield?”
After a long, tense moment, Aunt Alison snarled, “I yield.”
“You fought well, Sister. There is no shame in yielding to a superior opponent.”
Mama reached down and offered her a hand. Alison gripped it and allowed her sister to pull her up. She dusted herself off, scowling at the ripped fabric over one knee. Well, I thought, that’s what she gets for sparring in such fine clothes. Mama looked no worse for wear, but it was strange to see her without her cloak. I clambered to my feet, shaking the pins and needles from my legs, and held out the red hood. Mama turned her back on Alison and began walking toward me.
“Adela,” said Aunt Alison sweetly. “There’s one more thing you can do for me.”
“Hmm?” Mama held out her hand for the cloak. Before I could give it to her, Aunt Alison moved in as swift as a viper and slid a slim dagger between Mama’s ribs. I stood, frozen, as my mother turned, her eyes wide. It was the first time I’d ever seen her frightened.
“You can die, dear Sister,” said Alison. She drew back the dagger and stabbed again and again. There was a feral, cold smile on her lips as she stepped back and admired the ruby smear of blood on her blade.
Mama staggered toward me, hands outstretched. “Giselle,” she gasped. “Take…hood…to Grandmère.”
I hurried to her side. “Mama, it’s all right. You’re going to be fine.”
She shook her head weakly. “This is a killing wound,” she said. Her voice was little more than a whisper as she sank to the ground. I knelt beside her, cradling her as if she were the daughter and I the mother. “Do not let her have it.”
Her eyes slid shut. Heedless of the blood, I threw my arms around her and wept.
“Give me the hood,” said Alison.
I looked up, my vision blurred with tears. “You killed her.” My voice sounded small and weak in my ears.
She laughed. “Yes, and I will kill you, too, if you don’t give me what I want.”
The cloak was still in my arms, crushed between me and my mother’s body. “It’s not yours,” I said numbly.
“The Red Hood is my destiny, you little fool.”
Mama’s eyelids fluttered. “No,” she whispered. Louder, she cried, “No!”
With the last of her strength, she struggled to her feet, putting herself between me and Alison. She leaned heavily on her quarterstaff. Her side was slick with dark blood. I hesitated, torn between wanting to stay and fight and following my mother’s orders. As if sensing my thoughts, Mama said quietly, “You are not yet ready for this fight. But you must be soon. Run to Grandmère, Giselle. Run and don’t look back.”
4
Although it broke my heart, I followed Mama’s orders one last time.
I ran away.
I ran without thinking, not toward the woods where Grandmère lived, but into our cottage. From the yard, I heard a cry and that terrible, cold laugh once more. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Alison shoving my mother to her knees. And then I saw the glint of her blade as she raised it high. I didn’t want to see any more.
Sobbing, I sprinted into the kitchen and found the coachman waiting for me. He tried to grab me, but perhaps he was not expecting this sixteen-year-old girl to be a trained fighter. I jabbed him in the eye, elbowed his breastbone, and kneed him in the nethers for good measure. He fell to the floor in a heap, curled up and gasping for breath. I smiled grimly. Mama had trained me well.
She had also trained me for what to do in case bandits caught me home alone. There was a hidden door behind the pantry that could only be accessed by pressing a particular knot in the wood. I left the coachman wheezing on the floor and ran for the pantry. Blinded by tears, it took me three tries to press the secret latch, but I found it at last and slipped into the narrow space behind the shelves. I closed the door behind me, plunging the tiny, stone-flagged room into darkness.
I slid my back down the wall and sat, clutching Mama’s cloak and crying silently, until at last exhaustion and horror overcame me and I fell into a kind of daze.
My mother was dead.
I turned the thought over in my mind, studying it from different angles in an effort to make sense of it. Mama couldn’t be dead. She was King Philip’s Red Hood. She was invincible. No one had ever bested her. Until now. Alison—her own sister—had defeated her through trickery and deceit. And now I was in possession of the thing Alison wanted most.
I brushed my hands over the fine wool of the cloak and then lifted it to my face. It smelled like Mama, a blend of forests, leather, vanilla, and blade oil. It was a curious mixture, one unique to a mother who spent most of her days fighting.
From somewhere in the house, I heard voices. My treacherous aunt was talking to someone; from the gruff tone of the response, I assumed it was the coachman, recovered from his encounter with my knee. I heard doors slam and an odd knocking that I soon realized was the sound of someone searching the walls for hollow spaces. I shrank down, trying to make myself as small as possible, as if that might save me.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” called Alison in a singsong voice.
I stayed sile
nt as a stone, willing her to give up and leave me to my grief.
“Giselle, your dear mother needs your help. She is not dead, but if you don’t give me what I want, she soon will be.”
I turned my face to the wall, trying to block out her words. I knew in my heart that Mama was gone, and I would be twice a fool if I believed her murderer’s lies now.
“I know you’re here, child.” Her voice was closer now, just on the other side of the wall. “Join me, and we shall rule together. Adela thought you were weak, that’s why she held you back for all these years. But I know your true potential. Stand by my side, and you will have power and wealth beyond your wildest dreams. Just give me the hood!”
Never. The word was halfway to my lips, but I bit it back. I would not join her, nor would I give her the satisfaction of rising to her bait. Shivering, I wrapped the cloak around my shoulders and fastened it beneath my jaw.
The moment I pulled the hood over my head, everything went black.
* * *
A winter’s night. The full moon is caught in the branches of a skeletal tree. All around lay the bodies of the dead, blood black in the moonlight. Their throats are torn out, their supplies raided. It is as I feared. The frost-hardened ground shows no tracks, but I catch a familiar scent on the air. I smile. Time to hunt.
I woke up, heart pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps. My dream felt so real, almost like a memory. I looked down, half-expecting to see blood on my fingers. Instead, I saw the crimson wool of Mama’s cloak. For a moment, I couldn’t figure out why I was wearing it or what I was doing on the stone floor of the secret room. Then I remembered. Mama was dead. Her own sister had killed her. I knew she would kill me, too, given the chance—all over a cloak and a title.
And I, little fool, had gone to ground instead of running like Mama told me. I shivered and hugged the warm woolen cloak tighter around my shoulders.