by K. C. Dyer
“Thank you so much for your help, Nan,” said Darrell gratefully. “Let me walk you out. Just a moment ...”
She sat on a low stool and bent to adjust the material that bound the wooden foot and ankle to her leg. Glancing up, she was surprised that Nan did not turn away in disgust but stepped nearer to watch the process with interest.
“You were born this way?” she asked, adjusting the glove on her right hand as she spoke.
Darrell quickly resettled the cotton padding between her leg and the wooden casing. “No, I had an accident,” she said, concentrating on rewrapping the cloth as tightly as she could. “I — uh,” she looked up again and saw Nan’s face, burning with a strange curiosity. “I fell off a horse and broke my ankle badly. It would not heal, and so the surgeon removed it.”
“You are lucky to be alive,” Nan said abruptly, tucking her hands under her arms. “With the drunken butcher that passes for a surgeon here, you would never have lived.”
Darrell stood up. “Thank you again for helping us.”
Nan waved away her thanks. Her black eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “This cottage will be a safe place for you to stay until we get you settled at court,” she said. “The truth is, life with Katherine is so dull, conversing with Brother Socorro brought me a little excitement and certainly some knowledge I could get from no other source.” She grinned, showing perfectly shaped white teeth. “I have missed it since he is gone, though Friar Priamos looks like he will take over now that his mentor has gone. And besides ...” Her eyes twinkled merrily. “I have caught the eye of a new beau, a very powerful man. Who knows what will happen at court?”
CHAPTER NINE
The walk through to the village the next morning brought many memories back to Darrell, and she spent the time filling Paris in on some of the finer points of not giving either of them away.
“Just use the language as it comes naturally to you,” she said with exasperation after he spent too long searching for a word when trying to tell her a story. “The slang we use every day isn’t in this variety of English.”
“I’m just not used to speaking Old English,” complained Paris. “I keep trying to find the words to say what I mean and I can’t.”
“Believe it or not, this isn’t Old English. It’s modern English — the same English that Shakespeare will write in less than a hundred years.”
“Shakespeare is considered modern? That’s a good one. I can hardly manage ‘to be or not to be.’”
“Paris, trust me, you’ll be able to do it if you just relax and let it happen. How do you think I felt last year when I landed in fourteenth-century Scotland and found myself speaking Highland Gaelic?” She grinned. “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out. And the sooner you relax, the sooner you’ll stop feeling so sick.”
For Paris was still showing signs of time sickness, though his vomiting had slowed to once every two or three hours. “I’ll be fine,” he assured Darrell after being sick immediately upon waking in the morning.
“I don’t care about it, really,” he said as they walked into town. “It’s worth it to get to see this amazing time. I’ll just make sure no one knows why I’m sick.”
“Oh, yeah, they’d really understand that,” said Darrell, snickering. “I’m sorry m’lady, I’m just puking in your petunias as a result of some kind of negative interaction within the time-space continuum. Don’t worry about a thing.” She paused, feeling more serious. “The big worry is if they think you have the sweats or whatever they call dysentery in this century. They won’t hire us if they think you are sick.”
“I’ll keep it under wraps,” Paris promised through clenched teeth.
They entered the village and were immediately the subject of curious stares from the locals. Looking at the tiny thatched cottages reminded Darrell of the visits to Mallaig that seemed so long ago. The sight of the village square almost made her feel at home. Almost.
Darrell dropped her voice as she continued to tell Paris about what he might expect at the castle. “Just be polite and do what they tell you,” she said. “I really need to talk with Nan about the friar she mentioned. I have the feeling he used to know Socorro. Maybe he can lead us to Conrad.”
Paris started to look a little green again. “What is that smell?” he choked.
“I guess the sewage technology hasn’t exactly advanced since my last trip,” she muttered, fishing a lace handkerchief out of her pocket as they walked the high street up to the castle. Delaney capered at her heel, ears forward and eyes bright, doggishly enjoying the walk and all the smells that went with it.
Paris nodded. “Don’t tell me that I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing running down this gutter.” He stuffed his own handkerchief over his mouth and nose.
“Yep,” said Darrell. “But it could be worse. In Scotland the women would call out ‘gardy-loo’ and then throw the contents of their chamber pots out into the streets at the same time every afternoon.”
Paris grimaced at the thought. “I think they might still be doing that here,” he said, trying to look anywhere but the gutter.
Darrell grinned through her lace handkerchief. “Yeah, I had a few narrow escapes. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time! But don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”
Though there was no sign of any new greenery on the bare trees, the afternoon sun shone, and there was a hint of warmth in the air. True to his word, between bouts of time sickness, Paris had found a few rough tools in the shed behind the cottage. He had put them to good use and fashioned a walking stick for Darrell out of a fallen branch from a rowan tree.
Darrell threw her cloak back over her shoulders, feeling the warmth of the sun. “Thanks for the cane, Paris,” she said gratefully. “It’s really helping on these slippery cobbles.”
“Sorry I didn’t have time to make it look any nicer,” he replied.
“It’s just fine,” she said firmly. “The part where I hold it is so smooth I’m sure I won’t get a blister, and the bottom is just rough enough that it keeps me from slipping.”
“How is your foot?” asked Paris, curiously. “It looks a lot harder to walk on than that cool machine you wear at home.”
Darrell swung the leg forward and put all her weight on it. “Bit creaky, but not bad. You should have seen the peg leg I had to wear in Florence — it looked like someone had sawn it off a piano!”
Paris put a cautious hand on Darrell’s arm to stop her, and they watched in wonder as a man, his clothing in shreds, limped down the street in front of them. As he walked, he slapped his own back with a long scourge, and the blood from the wounds trickled down behind him into his footsteps as he staggered away.
“What was that?” Paris’s eyes were wide.
Darrell shook her head. “I’ve only read about it,” she whispered. “He must be a flagellant — a person who believes that his own misery can counteract the sins of the world.” She wiped her mouth with her handkerchief, still feeling a little faint from the sight.
“A pretty sickening way to get into heaven,” said Paris as he steered Darrell back onto the road.
“Not for a true believer, I guess,” she replied.
The village high street ended at the gatehouse to the castle, and they stopped there, uncertainly.
It sure looks different than the pictures I’ve seen, thought Darrell. Windsor Castle, home to the kings and queens of England since the time of William the Conqueror. She quailed a little at the thought of what, or more precisely who, they faced inside.
A small soldier, almost a full foot shorter than Paris, stepped out to greet them. His startled look passed from Paris to Darrell, but he addressed his remarks to Paris.
“’Od’s blood,” he said breathlessly. “Just wait until the commander sees you. Lady Anne tells me you are here to join the castle guard?”
Darrell widened her eyes at Paris and mouthed, “Lady Anne?”
Paris shrugged and turned back to the soldier. “We are here to j
oin the castle staff and help in whatever way we can,” he said, glancing at Darrell for her approval. She nodded. “This is — er — my sister, Dara. She is — uh — under my protection.”
Darrell glowered down at the small soldier. “I don’t need anyone’s protection,” she hissed belligerently at Paris.
“Yes, miss — I can see that with my own eyes,” said the little man. He quickly summoned a pair of small pages. Paris, Delaney trailing at his heel, was sent off to meet the captain of the guard, while Darrell was escorted into the main courtyard for the afternoon petitioners session with the queen.
She stood where the page pointed, near the back of a large room. The walls of the room were hung with heavy tapestries, but the windows were thrown open to catch the spring air.
Several people stood closer to the front of the room, an area dominated by a raised dais. In the centre of a small crowd was a woman with a vast sweep of long hair that, unlike the other women, she kept uncovered.
She was very plump and sat surrounded by her attendants, including Nan, who looked striking in a black velvet gown and headpiece. Darrell noticed that Nan wore the same frivolously ruffled gloves that she had worn the day before. A tiny girl of eight or nine years sat at the feet of the queen, demurely embroidering a piece of fabric in a small hoop.
A young man stepped forward from the crowd before Queen Katherine, twisting his hat nervously in his hands, and cleared his throat. She nodded her head at him sagely and he dropped to one knee.
“Beggin’ your Majesty’s pardon,” he said, “but my wife ailing with the sweats, I felt I had to come before you and ask that she be spared from her labours at the castle until she returns to full health, if it be your pleasure, m’um.”
The queen lifted her handkerchief delicately to her nose.
“That is quite all right, my good man. We have no wish to have further exposure to that dreadful illness here in the castle. What is your wife’s position, good sir?”
“Why, she works in the kitchen, yer Majesty. She’s a helper to the cooks.”
“All the more reason for us to wait cheerily for her full health to return before she comes back to us.” The queen paused. “And what is your labour, good sir?”
“I works in the smithy, m’um. The smith gave me the time off to come and speak to you today.”
“Good man.” The queen dropped something into the hand of one of her ladies, who ran forward to hand it to the queen’s petitioner. “This is for you and your good lady, young man. And pass a farthing on to your smith, for his kind will in allowing you to appear before me today.”
The young man beamed up at the queen. “Lor’ bless you mu’m — I — I mean yer Majesty. Thank you most kindly for your charity.”
The queen smiled serenely. “The Lord looks fondly upon charitable works, young man. Good day.”
Dismissed, he walked backward awkwardly until he reached the rear of the room and then fled, clutching the money given him by the queen like a badge of honour for all to see.
Darrell could see Nan lean forward and whisper in the queen’s ear. The queen stiffened but gave a quick nod to Nan.
“Is there a Mistress Dara present?” she called out, her tone more strident than regal.
Darrell swallowed hard and stepped forward.
“Curtsy before her Majesty, the Queen Katherine,” hissed the page. Darrell did her best, feeling a bit roughish in the curtsy department.
“Queen — uh — Katherine?” began Darrell.
Beside the queen, Nan Bullen smiled and nodded encouragingly.
Darrell smiled back at Nan. “My brother and I have come from afar, your Majesty, to escape the sickness that swept through our village. When we arrived here we came straight to the castle to offer our humble services.”
The monarch nodded gracefully. “Lady Anne has told us your story,” she said. “You may know that the dreadful sweating sickness has recently passed through our own court. It is imperative that we replace the courtiers that were taken ill with healthy staff.”
Lady Anne? thought Darrell again. What is Nan up to?
Queen Katherine raised her hands and two of the ladies who sat by her side immediately leapt up to help their mistress to her feet. She stepped down off the dais and limped heavily over to where Darrell stood. Up close, it was clear she was substantially overweight and appeared to be expecting a baby as well.
Nan stepped down behind the queen. “I think you will find, your Majesty, that the new attendant I have found you is in excellent health.”
The queen leaned forward and peered closely into Darrell’s face. In addition to her other physical disabilities she was apparently very nearsighted. Darrell’s attention was drawn to Nan, still standing behind the queen. She dropped an eyelid and touched her finger to the side of her nose in a cheeky gesture.
“You do appear to be in extremely good health,” the queen said, having to look upwards six or eight inches to Darrell’s face. “I cannot remember seeing a young lady quite so tall for many years.”
“Thank you, your Majesty.”
Nan came forward and put a hand on the queen’s arm. “This lovely young girl shows no sign of the sweat, dearest lady. And look at her! It’s been years since I have seen an attendant in such a bloom of good health. She will be strong as an ox — think what a help she will be!”
Another of the ladies stepped down off the dais. She flared her nostrils at Nan as though a bad smell had swept through the room and walked over to whisper into the ear of the queen. “She appears to be missing a leg, milady. Indeed, as all can witness, it is apparent that she requires a stick in order to walk. ’Od’s truth, I believe she walks not upon flesh at all.”
The queen peered nearsightedly back at Darrell. “Is this the case, petitioner?”
Darrell lifted her chin and glared at the lady-in-waiting. After a long moment of silence, she spoke. “It is. However,” and in two strong strides she crossed the room to stand in front of the whispering lady, “my foot may be of wood, but it serves me well, and I would do the same for this household, m’lady, if you will have me.”
The queen tilted her head to one side. “Unlike you, Lady Margaret,” and she extended a hand to the whispering lady, “I am inclined to take Lady Anne’s word on behalf of this petitioner.” She stumbled on the step up to the dais and seated herself with difficulty. “We are inclined to support the cause of this young lady, for she looks to me to be in excellent health and fine spirits. Besides,” she turned to Darrell and smiled benignly, “after the recent losses, beggars cannot be choosers. We welcome you!”
“Thank you, your Majesty.” Darrell took a deep breath and swept to the ground in a full curtsy that would do any ballerina proud. “Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Lady Margaret,” she muttered as she started to walk away.
“Never turn your back on your queen,” hissed the page, gesturing wildly.
Darrell spun around quickly, her face flushing at the breach in protocol, but the queen waved her benignly away. “Cannot imagine trying to walk backwards with only one leg,” she said jovially to her ladies, who all laughed politely.
Darrell seethed in silence and vowed to master the art of walking backwards with a wooden foot, even if it killed her.
The page ushered Darrell away, and Nan, after whispering a few words and bowing prettily before her queen, hurried after her.
“Queen Katherine has freed me to take you on a tour of the castle,” she said, “but you’ll see it all soon enough. I have something else to show you. Follow me.”
As they walked, Darrell noticed that while many of the men about the castle doffed their hats or even bowed deeply to Nan, the young women were more inclined to turn their backs. “Nan,” she said carefully. “I noticed that the queen referred to you as Lady Anne. I am sorry, but I am not aware of your full title ...?”
Nan giggled. “I’m afraid I haven’t shared that with you, for during the time I spent with Queen Claude in France, I was called Nan
, and it is a name I like my true friends to use. But of course in England, everyone knows it is only a nickname for Anne.” She dropped into an effortless curtsy, her nose nearly whisking the floor. “I am known as the Lady Anne, daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn,” she said with a dimpled smile.
CHAPTER TEN
“Your brother will be billeted in the stables until room is found for him in the barracks,” whispered Anne. “And you shall stay with me. I have a small solar that I share with two others of the queen’s ladies, but very soon I will have apartments of my own within the castle.”
Darrell nodded, not really listening, and looked around the magnificent chamber in which they sat. St. George’s chapel was a stunning room with hugely vaulted ceilings and soaring windows of stained glass. Anne had brought her up to the choir loft for the best view of the beautiful chapel.
“It’s only just been finished,” said Anne, keeping her voice low. “Henry ordered it to be completed so he and the Knights of the Garter can engage in their ceremonies here.” She held Darrell’s hand in both of her own. “And it is here that I plan to be married,” she whispered.
Darrell smiled politely and tried to think of a way to steer the conversation around to find out more about Friar Priamos. “Will you be married by the friar?” she asked.
Anne arched an eyebrow. “Of course not. He and I only discuss secular matters and changes within the church. No, I will be married by the highest priest in the land, as is befitting a queen!”
Darrell turned her head and pretended to study the detailed architecture. She was running out of energy for Anne’s prattling about marriage. She tried a new tactic.
“Perhaps I could meet Friar Priamos,” she suggested. “We could talk more of the ideas of Luther.”
Anne waved a heavily gloved hand dismissively. “Perhaps.” She clutched Darrell’s arm. “The king invited me to sit at his court this morning, and he was soon bored of his paperwork.” She laughed aloud. “Such a manly man, don’t you think?”
