Destroyer from the Lost Planet, page 38
Menachem turns, and there, directly beneath the arch, stands a graceful young woman in a rich gossamer dressing gown. The deep red glow of the firelight illuminates her as something in a dream. He wonders fleetingly whether she might not be some beautiful wraith rather than a real woman, but he quickly dismisses the thought, as the bemused stare that holds him motionless is humanly warm and benevolent. Her most striking feature is her long red hair. Not the brassy red that he has sometimes seen affected by fine older ladies, but a rich auburn that reminds him of warm sunshine, newly tilled earth, and roan horses.
She appears to have been interrupted in preparing for bed, as she wears no makeup. Her face is a healthy pink. Though her eyelashes are nearly invisible but for the flimsy shadows they cast on her lids, her dark red eyebrows betray a sharp intelligence and afford her an air of confidence and authority. Perceiving his adulation, she casts him a broad smile with the slightest suggestion of impishness. “Put the potatoes on the wooden board, and bring one to me.”
Menachem lifts the bag off the pediment. It is already hot to the touch and, left where it was, would soon have been scorched from the heat of the dying fire. He places it on the board, where he realizes he should have laid it in the first instance, and opens it to remove a potato for the lady.
“What tune were you humming when I came in?” she asks.
Menachem strains to recall whether he was indeed humming before she made herself known. For an instant he cannot recall any part of his life that took place before she spoke to him. Then he remembers Rachel, and the song. “I think it’s called ‘Greensleeves.’”
“That’s what I thought. My father wrote that song,” she says wistfully. She steps forward, lifts her skirts off the floor, and perches delicately on a bench facing the fire, only a few feet before him. Although he can feel the fire’s heat at his back, all he can think of is the warmth exuding from her.
“Are you a cook?” he ventures.
“No,” she replies, “although this is my kitchen. Are you the grocer’s boy?”
He bows courteously. “At your service,” he pronounces beautifully, just as he was taught by Aunt Sarah.
The Red Lady (which is how he now thinks of her) giggles with delight.
“And what is your name, squire?”
He plays along with her elevated courtliness. “I am known as Menachem, madam.”
“And your surname?” she asks. He looks at her, puzzled. She rephrases her question. “Your family name?”
“I have no surname,” he replies humbly.
“Well,” she says, “I can see you are a quick learner, anyhow.”
“And what, may I ask, is your name?”
She muses for a moment before answering. “You may ask, squire. I think that I shall not tell you my first name, for you may not call me by it. But my surname is ‘Tudor.’” She stresses the word “surname,” as though to caress him for attentiveness to his lessons.
Menachem’s mind races. He has heard that name before. “Is that not the name of the royal house of England?”
She smiles. “Why, yes, Menachem, it is!” When she says his name, it sounds like Manokkem.
After a moment’s thought, he ventures: “Are you a relative of the Queen?”
She regards him forlornly. “Alas, I am not. But where is my potato?”
As Menachem is about to hand it to her, she snatches it away, and her coy expression dares him to snatch it back. She is too quick for him, tossing it from one hand to the other, always too gingerly for him to reach. She giggles, and the music in her voice makes her seem little more than a schoolgirl having him on. She raises the potato over her head, and Menachem, not about to be defeated, places a foot on the bench beside her and steps up. Reaching as high as he can, he tugs the potato from her grasp.
He steps back down and sees that her expression has changed in an instant. Now she seems to be fighting off a sadness. Although he doubts it has anything to do with the potato, he kneels before her and offers it back to her with both hands.
She laughs despite herself, and tries in vain to fight the tears forming at the edges of her eyes. She blows her nose into her handkerchief. “You may keep the potato, Squire Menachem.”
“Why are you so sad?” he asks, sorry for any part he has played in her dismay.
She tries to speak several times, but no voice will emerge.
“Have you any children?” he asks.
She shakes her head, and the tears well up again. He has put his finger on it. He assures her calmly, “You are young and beautiful, and shall no doubt have many happy children.”
She draws herself together, and clears her throat.
“Alas,” she says, “I am so lowly a person that I lack the authority to make such decisions for myself.”
From the corner of his eye, he sees men with torches emerge from a big stone building far across the courtyard.
She sees him notice them. “They’re looking for someone.”
“For whom, I wonder?”
She laughs sulkily. “For me.”
The door behind him bursts open, nearly stopping his heart, and lets in a blast of cold air. It’s Avram, and he’s alone.
“Uncle!”
But Avram’s expression is frozen in amazement. His eyes, wide as saucers, are riveted on the Red Lady’s face, and at first he seems unaware that his nephew is in the room. Then he kneels reverently, his eyes downcast, and pulls Menachem beside him by the back of his shirt, pressing him down onto bended knee.
“Forgive him, madam, please. He is just a boy who knows nothing.”
She smirks. “He has done nothing requiring an apology, Goodman Grocer. But you do him wrong to say he knows nothing.” She casts Menachem an appraising eye. “He speaks English beautifully.” Her glance darts skeptically from the small, swarthy grocer to the tall young boy whose hair is very nearly the color of her own. “Is he of your family?”
Avram fixes his stare on a place just before the lady’s feet. “He is distantly related, madam. His parents lived in Poland, but … passed away in a fire.”
“How dreadful!” she replies. “His English has nothing of the Pole about it. He is not Polish, is he?”
“Indeed, he is not, madam. His people went to Poland from Flanders many years ago, but they continued to speak English in their home.”
She nods knowingly. “That is because they are English, having been deported to Flanders by my illustrious ancestor Edward the First. Is that not right?”
Beads of sweat begin to form on Avram’s forehead and glisten in the red light of the coals. “You are correct, madam.”
“An achievement of which my family can be right proud,” she says sardonically. “How long has he been with you in England?”
“Less than a fortnight, madam.”
To Menachem’s young eyes, an idea seems to be forming in the lady’s mind.
She cocks her head. “In such a brief time, has anyone in your family grown especially fond of him?” Avram evidently has no idea how to respond. “Do not be coy, Goodman Grocer. You know what I mean. Would your wife or children be bereft by his absence?”
Avram is dumbstruck, his eyes now boring a hole in a spot before her feet. Menachem somehow has the strange feeling that his life is being negotiated between the Red Lady and Avram, and that the Red Lady clearly has the upper hand. Avram appears to be drowning.
“Well, madam,” Avram shrugs. “We all welcome him, but it is the women who seem to be especially fond of him, especially my daughter.”
The Red Lady looks askance at Menachem and smiles bitterly, as though she knows him to be the devil himself. “I can understand that, Goodman Grocer.” She straightens herself and stands up to her full height, a simple motion that nearly causes Avram to swoon.
She regards Menachem, and sighs. “You are beloved of women. You sing well, and speak beautifully. All in all, you seem headed for an easy life, Goodman Menachem.” She brings her chin up to a proud height. “I shall ensure that your life is made less easy”—Menachem looks up at her imploringly—“but far more meaningful”—she hesitates—“and important. Goodman Grocer, would your family object to my placing this boy under my protection, in the custody of an educator at Merton College, Oxford?”
“But, madam, there is the matter of his Hebrew religion—”
She waves away his concern. “His private religious practice will be fully respected, and he will be permitted to visit with you and your lovelorn daughter on holidays.”
Avram’s shoulders fall in relief. Through the windows, torches approach, ever closer to the cottage. The shouts of men can now be heard, some guttural, others belonging to cultured nobility.
“Your name is Añes, is that correct?” she asks.
“It is, madam.”
“Well, let’s make his a little more English,” she says pensively. “He shall be known as ‘Noah Ames.’ Now, will that be all, Goodman Añes?”
“Yes, madam. Thank you, madam.”
“You are most welcome. I will send for Goodman Ames in a few days.”
The torches are now very close. Menachem is sure that, if the kitchen were illuminated by more than glowing embers, the men outside would have discovered the Red Lady well before now. Down the dark corridor behind the lady, there is a loud banging on the heavy front door, through which a man commands sternly, “Open up, in the name of the Queen!”
Now the lady’s eyes open wide. “Go!” she says excitedly, waving them out the rear door.
Avram scoops Menachem violently into his arms and rushes out of the door, shutting it quietly behind him. At first he appears to duck down, but Menachem sees that his knees have buckled beneath him. Avram struggles to stand again, and rushes away toward the oxcart, pulling Menachem behind him by the hand. Reaching the bushes, Avram lowers his head and quietly vomits.
While Avram composes himself and feebly struggles to find a water bladder in the cart, Menachem watches through the windows of the cottage as a strange scene unfolds.
A man and a boy enter through the front door. The man is quite stout, and appears to suffer from a crippling foot injury. Discovering the Red Lady, he claps his hands in relief and collapses into a chair, removing one boot and rubbing his foot, while the boy lights candles throughout the kitchen. The lady’s hair is just the color Menachem perceived in the firelight. The man dispatches the boy through the front door. Although Menachem cannot hear the instructions given the boy, he assumes he has been sent to assure the other search parties that the Red Lady is found.
The man’s voice is too deep to make out, but the words of the lady, though muffled by the windows, can be heard. “Sir Henry,” she says, “I have told you that I will not be kept under guard like a common criminal!” She kneels to massage his wounded foot. “Your gout must be so painful! Poor Neville!” She wags an admonishing finger. “How could you allow yourself to be enlisted on a pointless errand such as this?”
Sir Henry places his hands sympathetically on her shoulders, and peers deeply into her eyes. Although she stamps her foot and turns away, from that point the voices die down, and the lady’s words can no longer be heard.
“Menachem,” whispers Avram, “come over here, out of the light.” He places himself and the boy outside the view from the cottage windows. Sounding exhausted, he points to a stump and says, “Sit.” He stoops and hugs Menachem as though he loves him more than his own life, and begins to quake, although whether from fear or relief Menachem could not say. “It is true, what they say. God protects children and fools. Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, the Lord is One.” He draws his nephew’s face from his chest, holds him squarely by the shoulders, and looks him in the eye.
Menachem can no longer bear the silence. “Who was the Red Lady?”
Avram regards him incredulously. “Who did she say she was?”
“When I asked her, she would not tell me her first name, and said her family name is ‘Tudor.’ But she said she is not related to the Queen.” Voice full of concern, he asks, “Will they hurt her?”
Avram regards him skeptically. “Think hard, Menachem. Is that exactly what she said?”
“I—I asked her if she was a relative of the Queen, and she said”—his eyes roll up in deep recollection—“‘alas, I am not.’”
Although Avram is apparently losing patience, he says indulgently, “Menachem, we are Jews. We live by our wits, or we do not live long. If a lady at the Tower tells you she is named ‘Tudor,’ but she is not a relative of the Queen, then who is she? You know this. Who is she?”
Menachem’s furrowed brow slowly relaxes. Much of what he has heard and seen begins to fall into place. Tears stream from his eyes.
“She is the Queen.”
Can’t wait to see what happens next? Get your copy of A Second Daniel here.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Neal Roberts and his wife live happily on Long Island, New York. They have two grown children and a handful of grandchildren. Neal is a practicing attorney and adjunct law professor, and spends as much time as possible researching his next novel while enhancing his lawyer’s pallor. When he’s not writing contemporary sci-fi novels or practicing law, he can generally be found teaching in the field of intellectual property law. Connect with Neal at his website or on Facebook and join his mailing list to know when upcoming books release and to grab your free short.
ALSO BY NEAL ROBERTS
In the Den of the English Lion
A Second Daniel, In the Den of the English Lion, Book 1 (Historical Mystery): London 1558. An orphan from a far-off land is renamed “Noah Ames,” and given every advantage the English Crown can bestow.
London 1592. Now an experienced barrister, Noah witnesses what appears to be a botched robbery outside the Rose Theater, a crime he soon suspects to be part of a plot against Queen Elizabeth herself. Steadfast in his loyalty to the Queen, Noah must use every bit of his knowledge and skill to lure her most disloyal subject onto the only battlefield where Noah has the advantage … a court of law – though in doing so he risks public exposure of his darkest secret, a secret so shocking that its revelation could cost him everything: the love of the only woman who can offer him happiness, his livelihood … even his life.
The Impress of Heaven, In the Den of the English Lion, Book 2 (Historical Mystery): LONDON 1600. When the Earl of Essex is removed from command and placed under arrest for reaching a forbidden truce with the Irish rebels, Serjeant Noah Ames reluctantly accepts a commission to investigate the earl’s fitness for command, and the two are pitted against each other once again. Meanwhile, Noah’s beautiful daughter, Lady Jessica, has sought to remarry into the nobility, but events have thus far frustrated her plans. One day, Noah attends a briefing where the Queen’s new commander displays maps of English military positions in Ireland. Noah’s suspicions are aroused when he sees that one map is missing a watermark appearing on all the others. When he informs his young barrister friend Jonathan of his concern, he inadvertently sets in motion events that throw Jonathan and Lady Jessica together on a journey across England into ever greater peril.
A Dragon in the Ashes, In the Den of the English Lion, Book 3 (Historical Mystery): LONDON 1600. When an attempt is made on Queen Elizabeth’s life, Serjeant Noah Ames races to her rescue, then sets out to identify the culprit among a band of foreigners who’ve newly arrived from the Continent to join with the seditious Lord Essex. In the course of his investigation, Noah uncloaks an unmitigated reign of evil that has resulted in the murders of kings, queens, and religious minorities … and which now threatens Noah’s life for reasons no one would ever suspect. Will Noah pay the ultimate price for forgetting that the past is never past?
All the Men as Mad as He, In the Den of the English Lion, Book 4 (Historical Mystery): LONDON 1600. Though Queen Elizabeth has ordered the Earl of Essex’s release from confinement, she’s thwarted his return to social and military grace by barring him from court for an indefinite term. Unsatisfied with this humiliation, the Queen considers whether to cut off his sole remaining income, as well. Noah Ames strongly advises against it on grounds that the Queen will thereby lose any remaining influence over Essex’s conduct and also place him in desperate financial straits. When several seemingly unrelated men are found murdered, Noah begins to suspect that such murders reveal Essex’s treasonous intention to return to court in bloody defiance of the Queen’s order.
Shakespeare’s Treason, In the Den of the English Lion, Book 5 (Historical Mystery): LONDON 1600. The Earls of Essex and Southampton, imprisoned in the Tower of London pending their trial for high treason, incriminate Noah Ames’s dear friend Sir Henry Neville. When the one man whose testimony can save Sir Henry suddenly vanishes, Noah must solve the mystery of his abduction and bring him back in time to save Sir Henry from a traitor’s death.
From Heaven to Earth They Came
Goddess from the Lost Planet, From Heaven to Earth They Came, Book 1
Maker from the Lost Planet, From Heaven to Earth They Came, Book 2
Destroyer from the Lost Planet, From Heaven to Earth They Came, Book 3
Neal Roberts, Destroyer from the Lost Planet
