Shades of Red (21 page)

“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?

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 treason 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.