Shades of Red (9 page)

He reached inside one of his voluminous sleeves and pulled out a rough cloth bag into which he stuffed the various objects that had fallen from the drawer.

“Found?” Darrell was curious. “By whom?”

He shook his head impatiently and thrust the menorah and a few small, more regularly shaped packages into the bag.

“
Señhorita
, the little time we have has almost flown,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “You must place your faith in
nosso Deus
and hold tight to his servant for there is no time for further explanation,” he said, tucking her hand firmly into the crook of his arm.

Darrell nodded. Her head spun a little from the time she had spent without food or water, but a surge of energy coursed through her at the chance to get away. “My friends?” she whispered. “I mentioned them to you before.”

He nodded briefly. “Rest easy,
Señhorita
. I have located your three friends,” he said, his voice low. “And I aim to reunite you as soon as I am able. But for now we must fly.”

Three?
Darrell's stomach clenched again. So Paris had been pulled through time with them, after all.
I'll get him back safely,
she vowed.
I won't let everything that took place with Conrad happen again.

They slipped into the empty passageway, while around them muffled sounds of movement seemed everywhere; shouts and whispers echoed in the sinuous space. Darrell had only taken a few steps down the hall when her companion stopped without warning and knelt at her feet. Darrell stood frozen to the spot,
not sure what to do. She felt a tug on her wooden foot and realized that it was being bound with some kind of soft fabric.

Sure enough, as they started to move again, any sound made by the wood striking the floor of the stone passageway was dampened by the new binding.

Without advantage of a torch or even a candle, Darrell clutched the arm of her rescuer and stumbled along as best she could. The ground was terribly uneven. She smiled a little, glad for the practice she'd had walking on this new wooden foot with its jointed ankle. Now tightly bound in cloth, the ankle had lost some of its mobility, but any creakiness was muffled as well.

Twisting and turning through a series of tunnels, Darrell concentrated on keeping upright and quiet. For what seemed like hours the friar made no sound but hurried along with one hand held lightly to the wall and the other clutching Darrell's arm. Suddenly he stopped short, and Darrell found herself unceremoniously pushed against the cold stone wall.

“Be still,” he hissed. Darrell, heart pounding, did her best to comply.

A door creaked, and her companion gave a sharp intake of breath. Moonlight, bright as day after the stygian tunnels, poured in molten silver through the open doorway.

Darrell felt the breath of his voice once more in her ear. “Stay close beside me. We must melt into the shadows.”

She nodded, and they slipped through the stone doorway into the chill night.

Not a single tree or bush grew near enough to the portal to offer any protection in the clear moonlight. The fingernail moon cast weird shadows through the wind-strewn branches of a large tree that grew at some distance from the door, and it was toward the tree that they hurried. Turning for a look at the building that held her captive so long, she watched too late as the heavy door from which they had emerged swung free, pushed by a gust of wind. The door slammed with a bang.

“
Alto ai!
” The voice came from somewhere outside the door and above. Darrell thought her heart would freeze in her chest.

Her companion pulled Darrell into the shadow behind the broad trunk of the tree and swore quietly. “We are undone.”

Darrell raised her eyebrows. No ordinary priest, this.

A crash of armoured feet mingled with yelling voices. Light blazed as a dozen or more torches were raised on the parapet of what Darrell could now see was an old fort or castle. Among the soldiers, a figure in a scarlet cloak appeared and leaned over the edge to peer down into the trees.

The friar's hood fell back as he clutched Darrell by both shoulders and the moon gleamed off the pale skin of his tonsured scalp. “Do you think you can run on that contraption? It is our only hope.” He gestured at the wooden foot.

Darrell felt numb to fear — there was nothing that would make her return to the cell. “Just watch me,” she said, teeth clenched so they wouldn't chatter.

“Then let us see if we can make it a race.”

He yanked up his hood and took Darrell's hand, pulling her around the back of the heavy trunk. Hand in hand, they bolted down an icy path.

Running.

Slowing in an effort to haul more cold air into already burning lungs and then running again. Tree branches whipping her face. Countless stumbles, three bad falls, and Darrell still didn't know who she was running from. All she knew was that she did not want to go back to the cell. The air outside was cold, but it tasted of freedom and was enough to give her tired limbs the strength to push on a little farther. Mostly she ran, clutching tightly to her companion's hand, with little time to wonder about anything but where her next breath was coming from. The treed area around the fortress had quickly given way to tightly crowded buildings and homes, and they ran through the dark streets of a city asleep.

If Darrell had felt lost in the underground passage she was positively baffled now as they wove in and among lanes so narrow that in many cases they were forced to run single-file. The air had a rank, stale odour, as if no wind was strong enough to blow the smell of humanity away. The footing was uneven, and Darrell was glad of the dark because she did not want to see some of the things she knew she'd stepped in. Houses and buildings gave way to lean-tos and shanties and then back to large houses again. In this night, black as a raven's wing, it was hard to distinguish one building from another. Most of the doorways they passed were barred and dark, but the occasional gleam of light through a shutter was apparently enough to allow the priest to find his way through the tortuous route.

A new smell floated in on the fetid air, and Darrell's head snapped up in alarm.

Fire.

Something was burning — something big.

Sounds of pursuit had long faded into the distance, and Darrell was about to gasp out her need for a rest when the priest stopped running and slipped through the open doorway of a small cottage.

The place was empty, though a low fire burned in a central pit on the floor. The priest closed the door behind Darrell and dropped a heavy beam into the scarred wooden supports on either side.

He smiled at her grimly. “You must not be fooled by the present lack of pursuit,” he said quietly. “The Dominican brothers have been making speeches in the market today, and I fear they will stir the rabble against your people. And I do not like the smell of the fire in the air. Anything more than the whiff of small kitchen fires is unnatural at night and brings fear into my heart. It is imperative to keep you away from public view just now. I must leave now to fetch your friends.”

Relief coursed through her again. “Are they nearby?”

He nodded. “One of my — colleagues — took them for beggars when they were found wandering outside the Tower of Belem. It would seem they worried as much for you as you do for them. But I must leave explanations for another time. The Jewish population of the city is being gathered together, and I fear the worst.”

“Who
are
you?” she asked curiously.

“It is better that you not learn my true name,” he replied. “But you must know that I am sworn to keep you safe as I am able until it is possible to get you over the border and into Spain.”

“Spain?” Darrell began to feel lost again. And yet — perhaps this was where Gramps's lessons came in. She ventured a guess. “How can it be safe there? What about the Inquisition?”

The priest stepped quietly over to the single window and peered outside before shutting and barring it as tightly as the door.

“Spain is much calmer these days now that Torquemada has been dead these seven or eight years,” he said quietly. “And as you must know, the Inquisition has been in abeyance here in Portugal under King Manuel.”

Well, I know now
, thought Darrell, with some satisfaction that her guess had proved right.

“He is a just man,” the priest continued, “though I suspect he values the physical properties of the Jewish community more than their spiritual souls. Still, I fear the Dominican thirst for blood will rise once more. You may not know that before he was the Spanish queen's personal priest, Tomás de Torquemada was a member of the Dominican order. And here in Portugal, even though his influence has passed, they are relentless in routing out
conversos.
” He folded his arms into his sleeves. “Our escape from the fortress did not go unnoticed.”

“But I keep trying to tell you,” Darrell protested, “I'm not Jewish. Why would the Dominicans care about me?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You need make no denials to me,
Señhorita
,” he said gently. “I have been finding sanctuary and a means of escape for members of your faith for many years, since even before the Inquisition took hold in Spain.” He smiled. “If you are not Jewish, how did you
find your way to the grotto? It has been my primary meeting spot for
conversos
for the past several years.”

Darrell struggled to find an answer. “I cannot really explain,” she said at last.

He wiped his hand across his forehead. “And I do not want you to,
menina
. Nothing is safe these days.” He looked at her piercingly. “Even if, as you say, you are not Jewish, anything that connects you with those who facilitate escape for others puts you at risk.” He gestured at the cloth bag. “Before you on that table is evidence enough to ensure us both a trip into the flames.”

“What kind of priests burn people to death?” whispered Darrell.

The old man looked incredulous. “It is common knowledge that the Holy See has granted the Inquisition power to impose the ultimate sacrifice on unbelievers,” he said. “Torquemada said it first: ‘Convert, leave, or die.' His idea of the route to heaven was often through the flames. Since the great Spanish expulsion, Jews have come to Portugal for sanctuary, but I am afraid those days are over. The route east across the water to Turkey is the safest now, in spite of the small dangers provided by pirates and their ilk.”

“I have never thought of pirates as being a small danger,” said Darrell.

The priest laughed bitterly. “Compared to the dangers to those not baptized into the Catholic Church,
pirates are as fearsome as a child's doll,” he said. “My own brethren, the Franciscans, believe that fire purifies the soul. The Dominicans and priests of other orders share those beliefs. And those who will not recant their heathenish ways must burn.”

“But why are you different?” asked Darrell. “Why aren't you out collecting victims for the new Portuguese Inquisition? You are a member of the Catholic faith.”

He smiled gently and gestured towards the doorway. “I have tarried too long already and to answer your questions would delay me even further. I must send word that Lisboa is no longer safe for those seeking sanctuary from the Inquisition,” he said. “I promise to return as soon as I am able, and I will try to help you understand a little more at that time.”

“But what about my friends?” Darrell asked, stalling. “Soon enough,” he replied. “I must go.” The priest leaned toward the table and collected a small tallow candle that he quickly lit. He rummaged in the cloth bag and removed the menorah, slipping the candle into one of the slots. He clasped one of her hands in his own and looked at her closely. “Perhaps the story you have told me is true and perhaps not. You certainly seem unlike any young woman I have met before. However, it matters not at all — I would still see to your safety.” He smiled wryly. “I am sure my Jewish friends, be they your people or not, will forgive our use of their menorah.
They would understand your need for a light in the darkness.” He wrapped the remaining items in the cloth bag and tucked it under Darrell's arm.

Darrell clutched it tightly. “I'll bar the door behind you,” she said, “but how will I know when you return with my friends?”

He knocked swiftly on the tabletop — two sharp raps and one long. “This will be my sign. Do not open the door to any voice but my own, and if you hear soldiers, climb through the window and take refuge on the roof. They haven't time to search every rooftop, and there is no other place to hide.” He pointed at a sideboard. “Please refresh yourself and eat. There is sweet water, bread, and cheese. I will return as soon as I am able.”

Darrell slid the heavy beam across the door as it closed behind the priest and drank deeply from the pitcher on the table before sitting down to wait. Though it was still only an hour or two after midnight, noises and shouting came from near and far as the city roused around her. The smell of smoke was pervasive, and she could hear voices from the surrounding houses raised in concern.

She put another small piece of wood on the central fire in the cottage and sat down at the table, making short work of the bread and the piece of hard cheese the priest had left under a linen cloth.

Stomach full for what seemed the first time in days, she walked over to stand beside the shuttered window.
Resting her face against the rough wood, Darrell could peer through a large knothole for a view out front. People were on the streets now, some running, others walking; almost all headed for an area behind the cottage and out of Darrell's visual range. She watched, barely breathing, searching for her friends and the only man who could bring them their freedom.

Vermilion dawn streaked the sky, and Darrell found herself close to panic. She pried her eye from the knothole and paced the room in an effort to both keep warm and decide what to do next. Soldiers were now marching through the streets, and it seemed that the whole city had come awake. Whatever was happening was spreading like wildfire, perhaps literally.