Cloak of Scarlet

by Melanie Dickerson

Genres: Christian Fantasy; YA Fantasy; YA Historical Fantasy; YA Historical Fiction; YA Romance; YA Fairy Tales & Folklore

Synopsis

In this exciting retelling of the classic Little Red Riding Hood fairytale, Melanie Dickerson sweeps readers away into a thrilling adventure and a charming romance.

Violet—so named because of the unusual color of her eyes—knows almost nothing about her birth mother. She has formed a close bond with her grandmother, who fills her heart with dreams of true love. When Violet has a chance meeting with Sir Merek—a guard working for the villainous Baron Dunham—she immediately dislikes him. As she works to help her people and speak out against the baron, Dunham sends a guard to bring her to the castle—and that guard is none other than Sir Merek himself.

Dunham threatens her grandmother to ensure that he can use Violet as a pawn in his power games, attempting to force her into a marriage of his choosing. Despite Merek’s assurances that he is on her side and working to help her, Violet sees no reason to trust him. But as the baron continues to search for any disloyal subjects, Merek finds himself in danger of his own.

Violet and Merek will have to work together to stop Violet’s betrothal, keep her grandmother safe, and convince the king of the baron’s treachery. Along the way, they must decide if they can also trust one another with their hearts.

• A medieval retelling of “Little Red Riding Hood”
• Part of the Dericott Tale series of stand-alone fairy tales
• Includes discussion questions for book clubs

 

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Release date: August 15, 2023

Publisher: Thomas Nelson

Print pages: 336

Sample

One

Spring 1386

Violet wore her red cloak and carried her grandmother’s favorite foods—Mother’s fresh bread and the apple-cherry cake Violet had made—in a basket in front of her on her mule’s saddle. Grandmother had not been feeling well the last time Violet went to visit her, so she said a little prayer under her breath as she went.

“Tread carefully, Mistress Sally,” she told her mule, patting her soft gray neck. The road was still muddy after all the rains of the past few days.

Violet’s red cloak that her grandmother had given her guarded her against the chill in the early morning air as she traveled in the company of one of their villeins, who was on his way to market in the town of Bilborough.

When they came to the crossroads near her grandmother’s village, they parted ways.

“Take heed and be watchful,” the man said. “Baron Dunham’s men are about.”

“I thank you. I will.” Violet had heard tales of Baron Dunham’s men demanding money from travelers on the road, but she’d never had any dealings with him or his men. Nor did she wish to.

Violet urged her mule into a faster trot, hugging the basket to her stomach.

Two weeks ago she’d met a young man on this same road, just at the crossroads, riding a fine warhorse. He was quite handsome and definitely not from her village.

“Pardon me,” he’d said politely. “Can you tell me the way to Bilborough?”

“Yes,” Violet said, pointing him in the right direction. “If you stay on this road, you will reach Bilborough in about fifteen miles.”

The man nodded to her, his dark blue eyes fastened on her face in a polite but intent way. “I am Sir Merek of Dericott. May I ask your name?”

“Violet of Burwelle.” She smiled, hoping she did not seem overly forward. But the man was a knight, so he surely would not mistreat her in any way. It was against his code of chivalry.

“I thank you, Violet of Burwelle. Perhaps I shall see you again.”

“Perhaps you shall.”

“Fare well.”

“Godspeed,” Violet said, staring after him as he rode away.

But today she was alone on the road. More’s the pity. She had lain awake the night before imagining what she would say to the polite and handsome Sir Merek if she were to encounter him again. Perhaps that was silly of her, but he was the first handsome knight she had ever met.

The weather was glorious after the rains. Flowers grew along the roadside. It would be a shame not to pick some flowers for Grandmother.

Violet stopped her mule and slid to the ground. She listened for horses’ hooves or voices. Hearing only birds singing, she started picking the flowers with the brightest colors—pinks, blues, and purples—along with some white daisies.

She once told her mother, “I like the way the white daisies make the color in the other flowers seem even brighter and prettier.”

Her mother gave her a slight smile and shook her head. “You think about the strangest things.”

She was very different from her mother, who seemed to think only about things like cooking and cleaning and never about singing or dancing or reading books. “You are like your grandmother,”

her mother told her once, “always staring at the clouds and memorizing psalms and poetry. Someday you may be a poet yourself.”

“Or a troubadour, writing songs?” Violet teased, lifting her eyebrows.

“Oh no, not a troubadour.” Her mother scrunched her face in a sour look. “Troubadours are wanderers and thieves. You don’t want to be like them.”

Mother’s dislike of troubadours was well known.

Violet’s grandmother, on the other hand, had been known to run out of her house when she heard troubadours passing by and beg them to sing her a song. Grandmother also liked to sing while she worked and picked flowers for every room in her house. Perhaps that was why Violet liked visiting her so much.

She placed the large handful of flowers on top of the cloth-covered food in her basket. When she tried to remount her mule, she nearly spilled everything. She decided to walk the rest of the way and lead the mule by the reins.

Her mind wandered, as it often did, to Mother’s expectation that she would marry Robert Mercer, the son of the landowner who lived on the other side of the stream, the boundary between their lands. But Violet didn’t like Robert. He never spoke to her directly. If the man wanted to marry her, as he said he did, then he might at least talk to her and find out what she liked and disliked. Besides, two years ago she’d overheard him saying to her brother, “What good is it for a woman to learn to read?”

She hadn’t heard the rest of their conversation, but his words made her sure that she would not marry Robert Mercer.

Father had taught her to read when she was very young, before he died of a fever. He’d been the younger son of a knight, and he had inherited the plot of land she and her mother and brother, as well as their villeins and tenants, now farmed.

After she’d indignantly related what Robert had said about women learning to read, her mother said, “Robert may not even know how to read himself. He has no need for reading because he has a goodly amount of land, and he has plenty of people to work the land. He knows how to cipher, does he not?”

At the time Violet had shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t know, didn’t want to know. Now, as she led her mule toward her grandmother’s house, she found herself thinking that if no other offer of marriage came along, she might actually give in and marry him. She hated the thought of disappointing her mother, after all she had done for her, taking her in when she was an orphan with no one to care for her.

But Grandmother thought much differently from Mother. When Violet said that her mother wanted her to marry Robert Mercer, Grandmother had smiled, a wistful look on her face. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” Violet answered. She imagined her future love as a handsome man who was brave and capable, who wrote and played songs like David

in the Bible, who loved her more than anything. And the man she wanted to marry would never disapprove of her knowing how to read.

“Perhaps it is not likely to happen,” Violet told her grandmother, “but I would marry a man who reads and writes, who is noble and good-hearted, and who is in love with me.”

“I have faith that you will marry just such a man.” Grandmother gave her a mysterious smile. “Do as you wish, my dear, and don’t let anyone tell you that love is not important. Love is everything.”

As she picked her way down the muddy road, Violet said softly, rubbing Sally’s neck, “Love is everything.”

She soon arrived at her grandmother’s cottage and called out in a singsong voice, “Grandmother! It’s me, Violet!” Then she pushed the front door open.

“Oh, my dear! I was just wishing for a visit from you.” Grandmother made her way quickly across the room, then hugged her and kissed her cheek. “And what is this you’ve brought me?”

“Some flowers I picked, and cake, bread, and some cheese.”

“Oh, my sweet Violet. How thoughtful you are.” She kissed her cheek again. “And how fetching you look, with your red riding cloak against your dark brown hair.”

“I love you, Grandmother.” Violet gently embraced her frail shoulders. “Let me put the flowers in a vase for you.” Violet hurried to get the pottery vase and fill it with water. When she returned, she asked, “How are you feeling? No more headaches, I hope.”

“I am well enough, well enough.”

“Is something wrong? Are you in pain?”

“No, no, I am well. Just the same few aches that a woman my age can expect to have. No, but I will warn you that there have been some brigands—”

“Brigands, here? Did they harm you?”

“They did not harm me, but they took the money I had planned to use to buy a goose and a pig. You knew that my pigs died, did you not?”

Violet nodded. “I remember. They got the wasting disease.”

“The money they stole was what I needed for my winter meat. Without it . . .” Grandmother shook her head.

Violet knew. It meant that she would go hungry.

She longed to assure her grandmother that they would provide her with a pig, but the disease had spread through their herd as well. And even if they had a pig to offer her, Grandmother wouldn’t take it.

“Who were these brigands who took your money?” Violet asked.

“Not the usual kind. I would call them liars who rob from the poor to give to the rich. It was Baron Dunham’s men.”

Violet gasped and covered her mouth.

“He’s been sending his men all over the village to steal from the villeins and

also the landowners, who then force their villeins to pay for what Baron Dunham’s men take from them. His men have been all over in the past week. I’m surprised they didn’t accost you on your way here.”

“How dare he do such an unlawful thing! He is a baron, so he is wealthy already. Why must he take from the poor?” Her heart ached as she thought of her grandmother being so cruelly treated, as well as other widows who were perhaps even less able to afford what was taken from them. “But what excuse did they give for doing something so dastardly?”

“His men said they are collecting a protection tax, to protect our lives and our property, but there haven’t been any brigands around our village—nary a one—in at least ten years.” Grandmother’s face grew tense as she spoke.

“Did they take all your money?” Violet asked.

“I am afraid so.” Grandmother gave a wan smile. Then her eyes narrowed, and she lifted her chin. “I told them they would get nothing from me unless they took it, that they were cowards indeed to threaten and steal from an old woman.”

“What happened?”

“They searched the house until they found my coins, and they took them.” She said it matter-of-factly, staring placidly back at Violet.

“How dare they?” Violet breathed out the words, drawing her hands into fists. “What were their names? Where are they now?” She was ready to find the men and force them to give her grandmother back her coins.

“Baron Dunham’s men—knights, some of them—are well trained and we cannot fight them. There is nothing we can do. Our best hope is that word will reach the king and he will do something to stop the baron.”

Violet had heard talk of Baron Dunham taking an unlawful tax from the people who lived near his castle and village of Bilborough. She’d also heard a song the troubadours sang about a robber baron who stole from the people and used his castle as a base for his thieving. She marveled that anyone could dare to offend God in such a way, deliberately violating the Holy Scriptures, which condemned rich men who oppressed the poor, the orphan, and the widow.

“What kind of men would do such a thing?”

“The men were obeying orders from Baron Dunham. He is the one who is most to blame. They were ordinary-looking men, except for the one in charge. He had a scar that went from the bridge of his nose down to the corner of his mouth.” She drew a line on her own face with her finger.

“What kind of man, but especially a knight, would obey those kinds of orders? If I were a man, I would—”

“You would get yourself killed, my dear. I am glad you are not a man.” She waved at Violet to sit at the table. “Come, let us not speak

of it any further. It will only make us angry. Instead, let us enjoy these beautiful flowers and this delicious cake you made.”

Grandmother lifted the dense cake from its cloth wrapping and held it to her nose, closing her eyes and taking a long breath.

“Mmm, it smells so good I can almost taste it.”

Violet did her best to push away the feelings that made her chest ache and set about cutting the cake. They both ate a large piece.

“You are a very good cook.” Grandmother smiled at her.

“Mother makes better bread. I am apt to forget what I am doing and let things burn.”

“Do not be so modest. When someone gives you a compliment, it’s all right to believe them. And even if you don’t believe them, just say thank you.”

Violet smiled and looked into her grandmother’s eyes. Even with saggy eyelids and the faded blue, she had the loveliest eyes. “Thank you, Grandmother. I am glad you like the cake, and I’m glad you are well.”

But her thoughts drifted to the men who were stealing from her grandmother and everyone else in the region. Even though her grandmother obviously didn’t want to spend Violet’s visit talking about that, the injustice of it simmered just below the surface of her mind, along with the fear that her grandmother would go hungry this winter, a thought that kept Violet’s chest tight.

After a meal of bread, cheese, and cake, her grandmother took her outside to the vegetable patch. They walked around observing the new growth of her plants, and Violet helped her pick the peas and beans that were ready.

Violet’s grandfather had been a free man, and as such, he had been called on a few times to fight for the nearest lord, who happened to be Baron Dunham’s father. Had he not paid in full everything he owed the baron? Indeed, Violet didn’t understand why he owed that man anything. And now the baron’s men were raiding the widow of that faithful and loyal man.

“It is so unjust.”

Grandmother looked up, the pea pod in her hand half shelled. “What is the matter?”

“Those men took your money.”

“They were following the orders of the lord of the land.”

“But it was not right. The Holy Writ is very specific about not mistreating and robbing poor widows.”

“I am not so very poor.” Grandmother went on shelling peas with a small smile on her lips.

Violet huffed out a breath. “You know what I mean. This is an injustice . . .”

Grandmother stopped shelling and gazed straight at Violet. “Is there anything

you can do to right the wrong?”

Grandmother was trying to get her to accept it. Instead, Violet said, feeling a bit obstinate, “Perhaps there is something.”

“No.” Grandmother shook her head. “Baron Dunham is the lord of the land. He may as well be the king, as far as we are concerned. And a king may do as he pleases with his subjects. So why do you fret so?”

“Because it was your money, not theirs.”

“You and I do not love money. If money is all they want, then let them have it.” She recommenced her pea shelling. “We will never be content, as God intended, if we rage against the things we can do nothing about. It is better to accept them.”

“I don’t know how to do that.” Violet shelled the peas in her lap with a bit too much force, sending a pea flying through the air. “And if we do nothing, then how will anything ever change?”

Grandmother was tucking the shelled hulls in the palm of one hand while her fingers quickly and methodically shelled another and another, finally throwing the empty hulls in a bucket by her feet.

“You are right, Violet.”

Uh-oh. Grandmother usually only called her by her name when she was a little annoyed or feeling serious.

“If you are able to meet with the baron someday, then you can complain, if he allows it.”

It seemed a strange thing for her grandmother to say. Why would she ever meet with the baron? He lived miles away.

“But in the meantime, what good does it do to upset yourself?”

“It does no good, of course, but I cannot control my feelings the way you do. When I see something happening that is unjust, it makes me so angry. I don’t know how not to feel what I feel.”

Grandmother slowly nodded her head. “I understand better than you think. I was just like you when I was your age, and for a long time afterward, but I learned, through my many years, that I am only hurting myself by not accepting injustice when I have no power in the situation.”

Violet stared hard at the peas as she shelled them, finally saying, “I know you are probably right, but what they did was wrong, and I cannot help but feel angry about it.”

“It is all well and good to feel it, but don’t let your anger linger, leading you to do something foolish.”

They shelled in silence while birds chirped and chittered away through the open windows.

Grandmother pulled her shawl down over her upper arms and pinned it under her chin. “I believe the wind is bringing rain. Will you stay the night and go home tomorrow?”

“I told Mother I’d be home today.”

“She will understand, especially if it rains.”

“I don’t want to worry her.”

“Very well.” Grandmother placed a portion of the peas in a cloth bag, then quickly stitched the top closed. “Take these to your mother.” Then she also tried to give her some apples and a bunch of leeks

“We have plenty. Keep them.” Violet kissed her grandmother’s soft, wrinkled cheek. “I love you, Grandmother. Pray for me.”

“Of course, my dear flower. I always do.”

“And I always pray for you.”

She patted Violet’s cheek. “I thank you, lovey.”

As Violet rode back toward home, she imagined being with her grandmother when Baron Dunham’s men came to demand her money. Violet saw herself shaking her finger in their faces, saying, “Shame on you, taking a poor widow’s money!”

Depending on what kind of men they were, they might look ashamed and apologize, then leave without taking the money. Or they might yell back at her and restrain her while they took the money, threatening or even striking her before riding away.

Violet rode along, letting her mule go slowly, ruminating over how difficult it was to fight against injustices when one was neither wealthy nor powerful.

The sound of horses’ hooves gradually entered her consciousness. Could it be brigands, or worse yet, the baron’s men?

The sound grew louder as she looked over her shoulder. Two men on horseback were bearing down on her. And they wore the colors of Baron Dunham’s guards.

 

Two

Violet moved her mare to the side of the road and waited for the men to pass. She sat straight and tall, with her chin up, to make sure they did not mistake her for a poor villein who would not put up a fight.

The men slowed as they approached. Her stomach sank, but she glared at them as they neared her. It appeared as though they were not going to pass her by without a word, as she’d hoped. But she refused to make it easy for them and urged her mule forward.

Mistress Sally, a bit spooked by the strange men and horses, lurched forward but then fell into a steady trot.

The men followed her.

“Pardon us,” one of them said, bringing his horse alongside her mule. “We would like a word with you, if you don’t mind.”

She turned her head to look at the man speaking to her, recognizing both his voice and his face. It was Sir Merek, the young and handsome knight she’d met two weeks before. He was one of Baron Dunham’s men!

“I do mind.” Turning forward to face the road, she kept moving. But she’d seen the look of recognition on his face as well.

“Violet, it is Sir Merek. We met on the road a fortnight ago.”

She didn’t answer him. How dare he seem so polite when he had probably been the one to take Grandmother’s money?

“I am a knight in the service of Baron Dunham, and this is Sir Willmer. We only wish to ask for directions. Is this the way to Lappage Valley?”

Her blood boiled inside her as she tried to think of what to say. Should she control her temper, as her grandmother had advised?

“Isn’t your name Violet? Did you hear me? I am Sir Merek Raynsford of Dericott, and we are on our way—”

Violet turned and glared. “How dare you go about the countryside stealing from poor widows?”

“What did you say?” Sir Merek squinted at her. “Stealing from widows?”

“Yes. How dare you take money from my grandmother and all the other people of her village? I suppose you also shoot arrows at orphans for sport.”

“I haven’t taken any money from your grandmother, nor anyone else.” He leaned back in the saddle as he stared back at her.

“Do you dare to say that you and the other guards have not been going about demanding money on behalf of Baron Dunham?”

“I dare, for I have done no such thing. I am an honorable English knight. I do not take money unlawfully from grandmothers.” Again, he had the gall to look affronted, staring right back at her as if he wasn’t lying like a common slithering snake.

The frightening part was how sincere he sounded, but how could this knight possibly be ignorant of what the baron was doing? How could a knight in the baron’s own guard be unaware of the evil practices of the baron he served under?

“My grandmother’s money was stolen, demanded of her, by Baron Dunham’s men.”

“For what reason?”

“They claimed she must pay a tax to the baron in order to remain under his protection.”

“Good maiden, why would you fabricate such an outrageous lie? Baron

Dunham’s men are doing no such thing. We protect the villagers from brigands and thieves, and we do not take money for our service. It is a lord’s duty to protect his people, and Baron Dunham does his duty to his—”

“Me, fabricate outrageous lies? You were born for the task, I see.” Violet’s breath was coming fast and shallow as she struggled to stay calm enough to speak. “What form of chivalry is it to accuse a lady of lying? Are you saying my grandmother, who is practically a saint, lied and that you did not take money from her?”

“Someone is lying, because neither I nor any of Baron Dunham’s men would do such a thing.”

He did sound as if he was telling the truth, ...