Shades of Red (16 page)

Darrell raised her eyebrows. “I'm not so sure he's feeling up to it. His stomach is still bothering him a little.”

Anne fiddled with her gloves at the wrist. “Perhaps I can find a way to help with the problem,” she murmured. She thrust the dusty arrows into Darrell's hands and strode over to the window to examine the preparations.

Darrell joined Anne at the window. “Rovers?”

“It is a most wonderful game, with the archers moving from target to target across the field,” Anne explained. “Look — there is the first — that large figure painted on the board. The archer closest to the heart of the figure will win that one. And there ...” She gestured farther afield. “See that brightly coloured creature atop the tree? That is the popinjay, and the archer who unseats him from his perch is the winner.” They leaned out the window for a moment, watching as the targets were scattered across one section of the large field. “Each target taken means a prize for the winner, and the overall champion might win the king's favour — unless he himself competes, and then the prize might be something else entirely.” Anne, catching sight of someone below, blushed slightly and waved her handkerchief.

Darrell looked down to see a tall man striding across the field, bellowing orders. It took her a moment to recognize him, but when she did it was hard to take her eyes off him.

King Henry himself. More than six feet tall in a time when the average male topped out at five foot six, he was an imposing figure. He looked nothing like the pictures Darrell had ever seen of him. He was not overweight so much as he was huge, a giant of a man who had no trouble exerting his own authority. He marched around the field truculently directing the servants as though he were readying for war.

Darrell felt a knot form in her stomach, a mixture of interest and fear, of wonder and loathing as she looked at this man — younger even than her uncle — who wielded so much power in his large fist.

Anne had drawn her fan up over her face and peered over it coquettishly. “I wonder who I should choose for my champion,” she mused, her eyes distant and preoccupied. “Perhaps,” she glanced at Darrell, “perhaps I shall choose your handsome brother, for surely he will be among the winners.”

Darrell, still feeling stunned from her first view of the king, made a remarkable show of feigning indifference. “Suit yourself,” she said and turned casually again to look out the window. Banners and flags snapped in a brisk breeze and fine smells floated out
the window from the kitchens.

Darrell felt a momentary pang for Paris. When she'd seen him in the stables this morning he had looked pale as paper, and though he said he had not been sick all night, he had not been able to eat anything, either.

“Smells like roast ox,” Anne said with a grin. “Henry's favourite.”

Darrell thought of Anne's little wave and a slow suspicion began to grow in her mind.

Anne looked at her curiously. “You do not object if I choose your brother for my champion?” she asked.

“Champion? How can Paris be the champion when he has not even participated yet?”

Anne laughed heartily. “You must choose a champion who will take your token,” she said. “Bring a silk scarf or a bit of lace handkerchief, and he will tie it to his sleeve and compete in your honour,” she explained, as though to a child.

“Perhaps I should be my own champion,” said Darrell recklessly. “You have just shown me that you have the arrows. Why can't I compete?”

Anne's jaw dropped and clutched Darrell's arm. “You surely jest.”

Darrell laughed and shook her head. “I do not. Where I come from, Lady Anne, I have seen women in
circumstances where they would often compete with each other and with men.”

Anne picked up the unstrung bow from the table. “But these are just toys, Mistress Dara. Even in games all the equipment used is real.”

Darrell tossed her head. “I'm not afraid of playing bows and arrows,” she said. “I just need to get myself out of this dress.” She plucked impatiently at the laces that threaded down the front of her gown.

Anne looked on for a moment in amazement and then laughed again, loud and long. She turned to Darrell. “Come with me,” she demanded, her eyes dancing with mischief. “I believe this day will bring a new sort of champion to Henry's court.”

The tournament began with a near royal tragedy. The first event of the day was the joust, and the competition was well underway. The king competed enthusiastically in a new suit of armour of his own design. Darrell, now dressed in castle livery with her hair tucked into a cap, stood nervously with Paris on the sidelines of the jousting lists. People from all around the town of Windsor and the neighbouring villages crowded into the lower ward to watch the contests.

Paris was also dressed in the castle livery and held an unstrung bow of some six feet in length.

“I haven't eaten anything in days,” he said weakly. “There is no way I'm going to be able to shoot this thing.”

“Something tells me you are going to have another role to play today if Anne has anything to do with it,”
hissed Darrell. “Besides, I plan to make short work of the competition with my fancy archery skills.”

“That calls for a drink,” said Paris, “since you've probably never drawn a bow in your life.” He pulled out a small flask and took a tentative sip.

“What on earth is that?” asked Darrell, alarmed. Behind her, the horse thundered by and with a deafening crash one of the jousters was unseated. A roar went up from the crowd.

“Lady Anne gave it to me,” he said. “I don't know what's in it, and it tastes just horrible, but I haven't been sick all afternoon.”

Darrell nodded sympathetically. She looked up to the stands where the nobility sat in a tapestry-draped section. Anne was deep in conversation with a hooded figure in a scarlet cloak.

Darrell nudged Paris. “Look! Can you make out who Anne is talking to?”

Paris shrugged. “No. Too far away.”

Darrell craned her neck. “It must be Friar Priamos. Anne is up to something. I need to talk with that man before she gets him caught up in some kind of scheme.”

She hurried over towards the stands just as the final joust began. The horses thundered toward each other, and a gasp went up from the crowd. Darrell, who had decided right away that she was not at all fond of jousting, looked up instinctively. She was just
in time to see the lance of one horseman smash into the open visor of the other.

Shouts of “The king is down” resounded across the field, and the entire crowd fell silent. Darrell hopped up on a fencepost to crane over the sea of heads.

A single cry rang out. “He stands!”

The crowd roared their approval. Darrell hopped off the fence and hurried over to the royal box. Anne, her face troubled, leaned over the edge of the box, gesturing toward the newly re-horsed competitors.

Darrell noticed that the queen was not anywhere to be seen in the royal stands.

“Just a scratch, worry not,” called the king to the nobles in the stands. He waved to the crowd, who once again cheered resoundingly. Darrell could hear the other knight babbling. “A thousand apologies, your highness, I did not see your visor was not firmly in place.”

The king turned his head, and Darrell could see where the point of the lance had opened up a small wound beside his eye. “A scratch only, my dear Suffolk. Think nothing of it. I am well and ready to joust again.”

While the courtiers tried to talk Henry out of his armour, Darrell sidled up through the stands to Anne. The cloaked figure was nowhere to be seen.

Anne smiled with relief when she spied Darrell. “He is well, with little damage done,” she reported. “And your
livery suits you, young sir,” she whispered with a grin.

“I was wondering ...” began Darrell.

“Milady, a token, perhaps?” Darrell spun around to find herself face to face with King Henry, who had ridden to the royal box and leaned inside, still mounted. The saliva in her mouth suddenly dried up.

Anne rewarded the king with one of her dazzling smiles. “I had been about to give my token to this archer,” she said coquettishly.

Darrell raised her eyebrows in alarm.

The king snorted. “You would choose a common archer over your liege and ruler of all the land?” he asked, carefully turning his face so as best to expose the wound.

“Never, my lord!” declared Anne, and she made a show of pulling a lace handkerchief from her dress and tying it around the king's arm. The soft cloth slid down to his wrist, and with a final grin to Anne he galloped back to the middle of the field waving her token at the still-cheering crowd.

Meanwhile, the courtiers had begun to dismantle the jousting lists to make way for the archery competition, so the disappointed king finally dismounted. His voice could be heard over the crowd insisting that he could compete again and would, in fact, challenge any man present to prove himself. To Darrell's relief, everyone had the sense to keep quiet, and the call for the archery competition soon rang out.

Anne pushed through the crowd to stand between Paris and Darrell as the crier bellowed the order of the targets for the competition.

“Wasn't that exciting?” she said quietly. “And did you see how the king took my favour — mine?”

It was just at that moment that something clicked into place in Darrell's memory. “Anne Boleyn,” she said aloud without thinking. “I remember now — you are to marry the king!”

Anne beamed at her. “It is my fondest hope,” she whispered. “And I hope to convince Friar Priamos to work with those that have the ear of the pope. Henry plans to have his marriage to Katherine annulled and to marry me in her stead.”

Darrell shook her head. “Isn't the queen going to have another baby soon? What if she has a boy?”

Anne shrugged. “The queen was delivered of a stillborn child yesterday,” she said with a coldness that shocked Darrell. “It was that event that has brought Henry to make up his mind at last. It is his fondest desire to annul the marriage to Katherine. She is barren, and I am to be queen!”

Darrell sighed inwardly. If Anne was to be married, she would never have time to help find Conrad. She clutched Anne's arm. “I must speak with the friar,” she pleaded. “I believe he can tell me of the person I seek — someone who once assisted Brother Socorro.”

Anne sniffed. “I thought you were interested in the teachings of Luther,” she said curtly. “I thought you cared about the changes that are taking place in the church, changes that may well open the way for me to be queen.” She turned her back, glancing just once over her shoulder. “Friar Priamos is too busy to see you,” she said. “And you have a contest to enter.”

Just then a voice called out from the crowd. “The horses! A group of lads are stealing the horses!” Suddenly all was chaos. Anne melted away into the crowd, and Darrell and Paris found themselves being hustled across the field along with the other footmen in pursuit of the horse thieves.

Darrell clung to Paris's arm. “I can't chase down horse thieves,” she gasped. “I can hardly walk without my stick.”

“You there — come with me.” Darrell watched as Paris, with a last helpless glance in her direction, was yanked away into a group of men who charged out of the castle gates and down into the surrounding forest.

Darrell felt frantic. None of this was going as planned. Paris was weak from having not eaten for days and had been suddenly sent off with a group of young men, rabid for the blood of horse thieves. Anne was preoccupied with winning the heart of a married king, and Darrell was no closer to finding Conrad after two full days than she had been when they arrived.

She limped back into the castle and found her walking stick tucked in a corner of one of the kitchens. Around her, preparations for the post-tournament feast were well underway. Darrell walked though the dining hall in the round tower and glanced up to see Anne walking with a figure, this time in a blue cloak.

Darrell dashed to the stairs, but was thwarted by guards. “Above stairs is closed, young sir,” said the guard, and Darrell realized she was still wearing the castle livery. “The queen is ill and will abide no interference at this time,” the guard added.

Darrell nodded and turned on her heel. Perhaps it was better to let Anne cool down a little, anyway. And right now, she needed to make sure Paris hadn't been pulled into more trouble than he could handle.

Paris lifted his head groggily and tried to get his bearings. The air was smoke-filled and still, with any sounds of turmoil fading far into the distance. He felt nauseated and hollow. He tried to roll over and sit up, but found his legs were pinned tightly to the ground. It took him a moment to realize that there was a person lying on his legs — or what used to be a person.

The sight of the dead body draped across him brought nausea rolling through his gut again. Panicked that he couldn't get free, he tried to kick his legs, to no
avail. In the end, he pulled himself away by wedging a sword he yanked out of the dead man's hands against his weight.

As the blood rushed back into his legs, Paris felt as though insects were crawling under his torn woollen trousers. Still panicky, he scrabbled sideways, crab-like, the mud squelching up between his fingers in a thick paste. He stopped only when his shoulder made painful contact with the ragged stump of a tree. Wiping his hands as best he could, Paris closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the stump.

He remembered running with the group of foot soldiers and then being tackled from behind. After that, things seemed fuzzier.

Aside from the dead man a few feet away, the main problem seemed to be the smell. The wide variety of strong odours hadn't helped his nausea throughout the journey, but right now there was no escaping the sick-sweet stench. He felt like it had been in the air for days, but at a distance, somehow, like something rotten in the next yard. But the sudden turn of events had brought the reek of death into pinpoint clarity, and once again panic rose in his throat.