As Red As Blood

Story By StormDancer

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I have always found it odd that it was my hair that is red. My admirers and sycophants call it fiery, or even something as prosaic as brick or tomato red, but I know what it is. It is the red of newly shed blood, of grief, of the life which I have caused spilt.

My sister’s hair was black. Not an innocent colour, to be sure, a hue that hints of death and hidden things. She was the one of us who killed hundreds if innocents, who unjustly sentenced so many, including myself. She caused more bloodshed than I ever did, but her hair wasn’t red.

I do not wantonly spread destruction as so many other rulers do. Me sister is called Bloody Mary, but I am known only as ‘the Virgin Queen’. I have not started any needless wars. Spain attacked me because if my sister, not because of anything I did. If she had not married Philip in the first place, then he would never have thought of marrying me. But if I had accepted his proposal, if I had not been so proud of my reputation as a single queen, how many men could I have saved? I can never know, yet their unknown blood, perhaps needlessly shed, is soaked into my hair.

People tell me I take after my father, not my mother. Perhaps it is true, I will never know. For my mother’s blood is on my head as well, for it was because of me she was killed. She did not provide my father with a proper male heir, and thus she died, blood spurting from a cut neck. All this despite the fact that I have ruled more capably than the proper male heir ever did.

The only person in my family who had red hair, besides me and my father, was my cousin. Hair as red as mine, soaked with as much blood. Perhaps not as much, for all her blood is mine. My poor cousin, the woman who was always and yet never queen, Mary of the Scots. My hair was always said to be more brilliant. Redder. More bloody.

People think it vain I dye my hair when it should have properly faded into white or grey. Oh no, it is not vanity. I do not want the constant reminder of not only the father who despised me, but also the blood I have had spilt, none of it mine. And yet I need the reminder. I need to always remember the pain I can and have caused. I need to be reminded, so I can forever learn. If my hair were grey, I might think I was as wise as my years should make me, and as pure as only the old can be. I cannot fall into the trap of belief. I am not innocent. My hair shall always reflect what I am. Red. Blood Red.