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Louisa,
the Italian stowaway, died giving birth to us. A woman by the name of
Marie de Coucy, wife of Viscount Antoine Ragnvaldsson of Rheims, claimed
us as her own. She and Jean Bourgeois swore an oath that they would tell
no one that Marie had not given birth to us herself. Not even her husband
would know. Marie had been sent to Italy for several months to visit with
one of Antoine’s half-sisters whilst she was ailing.
I heard them rehearsing their parts right after my rebirth, whilst the
two swaddled Daniel and me below deck. Through a cloud of mucous I witnessed
their blurred forms lugging Louisa’s dead carcass around after dark,
and I heard the water splashing as they tossed it overboard. After her,
they tossed the third baby, who was near death. It was only after the
babe hit the cold water that it did scream.
Marie had wanted to jump in after it but Jean pulled her back. “That
babe will not survive,” he told her, “let him go to Our Father
in Heaven.”
“But what if we can save him? Listen! He screams!” She whispered
frantically.
“If we could save him, he would no doubt spend his life miserable,
crippled and always fighting to breathe. Be merciful, for God’s
sake, my Lady. Come...let us go below deck now. We have twins. That is
enough. Come…”
She and Jean disembarked in Marseille with a set of twins, and from there
rode a carriage to Orléans. Although I could see no more than colors
and barely distinguishable shapes, I came to realize over the next couple
of days that the abode into which we were brought was a fine one. The
homes of the noblesse were filled with scents and sounds that quietly
affirmed abundance.
Three days after our arrival in Orléans, Marie received notification
that Antoine’s father had been slain in battle. She left us in the
care of her servants and went to a small town nearby. A steady flow of
visitors handled us and I will say now that I loathed being touched. Since
I was four in my very first rebirth, such displays of familiarity had
made me feel as if maggots were crawling under my skin. My aversion to
people touching me you will also come to understand later on.
In the passing of ten days I awakened one day spring to discover that
the cloud of childbirth had finally lifted from my vision. I could not
yet lift my head to peer about, but I was able to turn it from side to
side. I glanced toward my twin and my blood turned cold. He had been gazing
steadily at me through gold-amber eyes, which meant that he too, was a
blood drinker. He bore an accusatory gaze that whispered, I will get you
for this. A heartbeat later that expression was replaced with a very innocent
smile. I wondered if I had imagined the fleeting glance that he had given
me, if I was being paranoid.
I realized that something horrible had happened in that womb. Had my twin
been transformed because he had allowed the tainted to intermingle with
the good? Was it like dropping a spoonful of ink into a glass of clear
water, where all the liquid went dark? If that was the case, then I was
responsible for breaking two of the Covenants myself.
You
may not feed from or transform any human under the age of twelve.
You may not enter wombs occupied by unborns destined to live.
No-one
would know but I, I reasoned. I could live with that for I was without
conscience as we all were. I would not be the first hypocrite to rule
a population. But I knew that I was deceiving myself, for those who made
me what I am, and the Being who offered opportunity for ultimate salvation,
would know.
I could not undo what was done, ergo, I resolved to try to atone for my
transgressions by keeping Daniel’s heart as pure as possible, given
the circumstances. I would spend this lifetime trying to mold him into
the only blood drinker on the planet with good morals and a strong conscience.
I did not possess those qualities but I knew some did. I could study them
and pass what I learned onto him. These attributes would not come naturally
to him, but if I trained him well and kept him away from other blood drinkers,
he would act them out regardless, since I was his Governor and he was
supposed to obey my orders.
Yes, that was what I would do, I told myself, and that pacified me somewhat.
My solicitous disposition was inspired by genuine self-interest, in that
violating the Covenants would result in my own demise. Those who made
me would be waiting for me to pass into their world, ready to pounce.
Or get me in this one. I shuddered at the thought, for being sent down
into the Under-world for eternity was the only thing that I could honestly
say terrified me.
Whilst I was reasoning with myself a young woman breezed into the nursery
on a cloud of her own bliss. She was a very small woman with a wide smile
and tiny dimples below the corners of her mouth. I had no idea who she
was, but the sweet scents of rose petals and lilacs floated into the room
with her. She attached a small decorative sac of potpourri to the end
of our cradle whilst humming a tune.
She swooped me up and held me to her breast, dancing me in a slow circle
around the room. Losing focus on my thoughts, I saw only the blur of indigo
and white and violet floating by. Finally she stopped dancing and gazed
into my eyes. “Do not tell anyone but you are my favorite. It is
not how you look, do you know. You are identical to each other. It is
the agedness in your beautiful golden eyes.” She giggled and kissed
my nose.
She was sixteen, a pampered French beauty. I ignored my aversion to touching,
for I anticipated an incarnation in which I would have access to slaves,
servants, and any damn thing I desired if I played my cards right with
her.
I did not hear the sound of a man’s footfalls but I knew one was
surely there when he snatched me out of her arms. I glared up at him,
my senses reeling from the abrupt transfer. When I was able to refocus
my vision, I saw a bush of wild copper hair, a scruffy auburn beard and
a large bulbous nose whose tip shone pink. He reeked of old sweat and
his breath stank of fermented wine. I wondered what long-forgotten dungeon
this creature had crawled out of.
Shuddering, I twisted my head as much as I could to keep the young woman
within sight, whilst she picked up my twin and cooed at him. I reached
out toward her and voiced my objections in the only way that my useless
infant’s body could—I howled until she took me back and transferred
my brother into his arms.
The young woman said, “Antoine, I believe I will name this one after
my brother, Valantinus.”
“The cosseted monk? It would be more appropriate to name him after
my father. You said he was the first born.”
She lied. “You have got them mixed up, Antoine. We will name the
one in your arms after your father and you, which is appropriate. He will
be Daniel Antoine. We will name this one after my brother and St. Michel.
He will be Valantinus Michel.”
“How can you tell them apart? How will we tell them apart? It is
imperative that we get this straight for the first-born will become my
heir.”
“A mother simply knows. I will buy each of them a golden medallion
to wear about the throat—one of St. Christophe and one of the Archangel,
Michel. Daniel will wear St. Christophe.”
“So be it then. The one you hold will be Valantinus and this one,
Daniel.”
I could not have cared less what name they attached to me. I had carried
forty-five names in my many lives so what was one more? Besides, I was
Maya when I was first born as a human in Egypt and I would always be Maya.
Neither did I care that Daniel would inherit the Viscount’s title.
I had my own burdens aplenty in my seemingly eternal role as Governor,
and in this regard I also knew that Marie had purposely positioned Daniel
in line for the inheritance because she favored me, and did not want me
to have to tolerate all of the insanities that came as part of that package.
Enough
of the preamble. Let me go forward to the year 1434, Orléans, France,
my twelfth year in this body.
The maiden Jeanne d’Arc had led the French Army to victory over
the English more than five years prior, and they reclaimed Orléans.
The future of Normandy however, was a bit tentative, the French armies
still trying to recover their right to occupy that land on their own terms.
Although Viscount Antoine’s castle was on the outskirts of Rheims,
he threw himself into this battle with the tenacity of a Bull Mastiff,
for his brothers were the rightful rulers of Normandy, and not the English.
Their ancestors had been the lords of Normandy long before the Hundred
Years War had begun, and the brothers wanted to have it back—all
of it.
In the interim, Marie and Daniel and I were still in Orléans, in
the magnificent château that her father had given her and Antoine
as a wedding gift. As I matured I had oft’ heard that Marie’s
father was so wealthy, no man had ever been able to arrive at a final
figure of his worth. I do not know if this was true. I do know that the
money in the family was so old that when you handled it you could smell
the dust and mold dating back to the first pounded coin on your fingers
afterwards.
In order to protect his family from the wrath of the English, he had secretly
gifted the English King with an abundance of fine French wine and other
goods. This was at a time when such luxuries were difficult to obtain,
since the Triangular Trade had ended. In exchange the King did not allow
his soldiers to attack Monsieur de Coucy’s home or his family. Ergo,
when the siege had been lifted in Orléans this tremendous château
remained undamaged, still fit for the aristocrats who dwelt within.
Marie’s father had passed away when Daniel and I were six. He bequeathed
unto my twin and I, obscene amounts of money and numerous objects d’art.
However, Marie and two of her brothers inherited the lion’s share
of his fortune. Her youngest brother, Valantinus, received nothing, for
he was a monk, and her father had detested monks.
Being as women were not permitted to manage their own finances, the entirety
of that fortune went from her hands straight into Antoine’s, to
be used at his discretion. Without second thought he began pouring it
into his cause—the almighty war—as if the pot were bottomless.
Another chunk of it went to line the pockets of his cousin, King Charles,
because it seemed the right thing to do, and still another chunk he donated
to the church, which won him great favor with the Pope. Although I thought
Antoine was an idiot to hand over so much to the church, the Pope’s
memory of this hefty donation would not be forgotten, and would be to
my own benefit in years to come.
I will tell you now, about this grand home in which I lived. The four-story,
white limestone château, designed by an architect from Rome, was
unique because of its wrap-around portico on the main floor and balconies
built within recessed alcoves on the upper floors. At each end of the
building was a square tower jutting out at the front to form a courtyard,
and in the center of the courtyard was an enormous statue of the Archangel,
Michel, looming perilously with outstretched wings.
The statue and pool around it had been added as an afterthought. Marie
had imported it from Rome two months after my birth. She had stood at
the window in the grand room with me in her arms whilst the workers had
been digging earth to form a pool around the pedestal upon which the statue
would stand. She had whispered to me that I wore a medallion created in
his honor, and that the statue was her forever gift to me. “But
do not tell anyone.”
The château was a mix of Florentine and French Fortress architecture
that should not have meshed, but it somehow did. Each bedroom suite had
its own balcony, over whose ledges tumbled clusters of leaves and tiny
red roses in the summertime. The scent of those flowers carried all across
the valley on the breezes that blew in off the Loire River. In the fall
when those same breezes escalated to cold winds and the shivering petals
relinquished their hold on the buds, they fluttered to the ground and
gathered on the lawn. Marie used to say it looked like soft red snow.
I always thought it resembled a great big puddle of congealing blood,
but I suppose we all have our own terms of reference.
Marie’s servants used to gather them and create little pockets of
potpourri that I would find in all of the drawers in my armoire. Then,
as fall surrendered to another cold, brutal winter these small bundles
would remind Marie of the summer just past...and hold the promise of another
warm season yet to come.
After the French won back the city of Rheims and we relocated to the Ragnvaldsson
Castle, Marie converted the château into an inn and assigned a vassal
to oversee operations. In the ensuing centuries it slowly deteriorated
into a glorified whorehouse whose rooms were rented out by the hour. Even
today as I drive by the château the gradual wreckage of such a magnificent
structure causes resentment to rise in my throat and burn like acid, for
so many of my memories were born there. Some died there. New ones were
made on the night that evil and holy got tangled into each other’s
web.
It was in this home that Marie had decided to celebrate our twelfth birthdays
in grand fashion, and Antoine arranged to be there for this event. He
sank into a chair in the far corner of the room betwixt the wall and a
life-size statue of the Madonna. Leaning his shoulder against her thigh,
he blended into her protective shadow and watched the evening unfold.
Unbeknownst to him or any other human, the Angel of Death stood on the
other side of the Madonna, also leaning casually against her.
Someone would die this night. Who? It was anyone’s guess. Antoine,
I hoped. In any event, the Grim Reaper and I crossed paths frequently
and it irked me to no end that he refused to talk to me most of the time.
I circulated the periphery of the crowd, occasionally turning my eyes
toward the Viscount. Antoine was like a big, festering sore upon my arse,
whose scab I could not resist picking. I wanted to slay the bastard but
I did not because he was married to Marie—the only human I had ever
respected up to that point. I kept waiting for his bloody war to do it
for me but it ne’er happened. I always resented his presence in
our home when he took repose from one of his many battles. I saw no purpose
for him to return at all when we were managing fine without him.
Antoine had a mistress by the name of Giselle, who had moved into our
home when Daniel and I were five. Marie despised the woman. However, it
was not only acceptable but customary for a wealthy nobleman to have mistresses
in his home.
I despised Giselle as well. Not for any particular reason. I had no use
for any humans except Marie. I would not have called it love. I did not
even know what the hell that emotion was. But to her I returned the respect
that she had given me. I had insisted that Giselle must not attend this
birthday ball; however, Antoine had permitted her to attend in spite of
my objections. I could not see her, but I knew she was lurking about somewhere
for I could smell her. And that gave me another reason to abhor this man
who called himself my father. For that reason—to feed this hatred—I
had to continually keep my eye on him.
The night of our twelfth birthday was a sweltering hot night. It was a
night so humid that it made a body want to rip off its skin. Every noble
and aristocrat in the surrounding area had been invited and most had attended
despite the suffocating heat. Unless one was near death, to decline an
invitation from the Ragnvaldssons’ or de Coucys’ would have
been a grave social disgrace.
What an obscene display of jewels, finery, food and wine. Horses better
dressed than the serfs tending them drew ostentatious carriages. There
were beautiful young women a plenty, but very few men as most of them
had perished in the war. It seemed that for all intents and purposes they
had dressed in their finest to outdo one another in this unofficial contest
to snag a mate. What precious few marriageable men there were, were honestly
burdened with choices.
After glaring at Antoine for a while, I contemplated how else I could
pass away the hours until this monotonous affair would end. Their reasons
for holding this celebratory ball was that “a boy only turns twelve
once.” We had only turned two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,
nine, ten and eleven once as well. They did this every year. Little did
they know this was my forty-sixth go around on all counts.
In each incarnation I had flown the coop as soon as I acquired my fangs
and night vision at twelve. I had my own species to govern, and after
twelve years of being ruled by an “acting Governor” while
I grew into my own again, the messes that I had to straighten out had
kept me up to my arse in alligators. This time I was grounded with a chain
tethering me to this mansion: Daniel.
My twin loved the attention as much as any other twelve year-old would.
He was a child in a child’s body. Personally, I would rather have
sucked blood from a porcupine than suffer through another one of these
pompous soirées, but I endured it because I had no choice.
Fighting back the constant urge to yawn, I wandered around the circumference
of the guests to the tune of a fiddler whose music sounded like funeral
dirges. I noticed my twin across the expanse of the crowded room. A young
woman by the name of Lisette Bourgeois, Jean Bourgeois’ niece, had
caught Daniel’s attention. I watched him flirt with her and thought
that while she was not out of his league, she was certainly beyond his
reach for she was ready to marry and he was not.
That did not deter him. He was very tall and broad shouldered for his
age, very handsome, if I do say so. That is the one thing that I can say
for my species. Even the most fetid souls among us are so beautiful that
the beauty becomes boring when you are surrounded by so much of it.
That night, Daniel’s appeal did him no good. Lise was a purse-picker,
a penniless aristocrat wench who had her mind set on reeling in a rich
old man before the night was over. She was flaxen-haired and fair-skinned,
and wore a soft blue gown that matched her eyes, the design pushing her
enormous breasts upward.
To a twelve-year old experiencing his first sexual erections, it was nearly
enough to drive Daniel mad. Try though he did, Dan could not get her to
view him as anything more than a “go-fetch.” After he made
three trips to refill her wine glass, bring her a small plate of nibbles
and deliver a message to her brother across the room, she tweaked his
nose, then turned around and flirted with the wealthy old man who stood
at her other side.
My intrigue with them vanished when I smelled Marie before I saw her,
and turned in that direction. At twenty-eight she very much resembled
a Greek Goddess in her imported white robe, which would no doubt be the
talk of the town on the morrow. She was still as petite and shapely and
lean as she had been at sixteen, with virtually no signs of wear and tear
on her visage. She wore her dark hair uncloaked. No headdress, which was
in itself a violation that nobody would dare report, for her money excused
her of all sorts of misdemeanors. It was piled high upon her head in a
seemingly unruly tumble of curls, a few of which appeared to have spilt
out of the arrangement to frame her face. Strategically so. She wore no
jewels whatsoever. Her bared arms, shoulders and chest were nearly ashen,
enhanced by sparkling particles of finely ground gold. This rich cream
was a luxury that only women of her status could afford and subtle though
it was, it screamed of abundance. I enjoyed that about her immensely,
that she could literally wrap herself in money so silently and demurely,
and still get her point across. Old money had that way about it.
In that defining moment, I decided that I would take her to bed within
the next few years if it were not that she also slept with a man that
I detested...and my blood hound's nose would smell the goat's dirty odor
upon her flesh regardless of whether or not she washed him off before
coming to me. I would love to complicate matters further by admitting
that I suffered from an Oedipus Complex but I did not, for in no way did
I think of her as my mother.
I said, “Is it going as you planned, Viscountess?”
“Yes, but I cannot believe you are already twelve. How the years
have flown since I first held you. And look at you.” She beamed
up at me, her eyes glowing with maternal pride. “My word, you are
already taller than most men in this room. One of these days you will
have to
duck your head to pass through the door.”
“I feel much older than twelve—and you would make Aphrodite
green with envy if she saw you in that robe.”
“I am so glad you approve.” She glided a fingertip along the
edge of a nearby table upon which a tray of hors d’oeuvre sat. I
knew she was trying to find the right words for some question or other.
“You do not think it is too revealing? Your father does.”
“Viscount is a warlord. He attacks a whole roasted chicken with
both dirty hands and hurls the bones o’er his shoulder. From this
cretin, you seek advice? Please.”
She laughed and said, “Why do you insist upon calling him Viscount?
He is your father.”
“The same reason that I call you Viscountess.”
“And that is?”
“I will ne’er tell.”
She laughed whilst reaching into her pocket, and handed me a sheet of
folded parchment bearing a red wax seal. “You constantly amuse me.
A messenger brought this for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you require assistance reading it?”
“I think I can manage.”
“Then I will leave you have your privacy.”
I watched her breezing merrily away to mingle with a nearby group, and
then I pried open the seal and read the message dated July 23, 1434.
Greetings, Maya.
This
is to notify you that Richard and I will be arriving in Paris within the
week. We have packaged another coffer containing the Books of Numbers
and will be transporting them to Paris, where the Ancients will file them
in the Sanctuary. We understand that your necessity to closely guard your
twin prevents you from joining us at this time, however, we will be sure
to make a detour to Orléans prior to returning to London. Regards,
Dagi.
I
strode toward the hearth, reached into the side of the grate and dropped
the message into the flames. I watched it catching fire, the black edges
curling forward until there was not a sliver left for curious eyes. As
I lifted my head I found Daniel standing in front of me, scowling. I did
not have to wonder why. Grabbing his elbow, I said, “Forget her.
Let us go for a walk.”
I led him out of the ballroom and into the study several doors down. It
was a large space, decorated with highly-wrought chaises upholstered in
floral patterns and matching rugs. Two walls were lined with books, the
third was covered in gold-framed paintings chosen not for their beauty
but their colors. A lantern had been lit and placed on one of the low
marble tables in the center of the room, casting a soft halo across the
mat. Directly across the room was another door that led out to the rear
portico. Marie had hidden her rose petal potpourri sacs in here as well,
for I could smell them.
“She thinks I am a child.” He growled, as soon as I shut the
door.
“In another five years you will be seventeen and Lisette will be
twenty. You can sweep her off her feet then.”
“I want her before that decrepit old bastard claims her.”
“He will die erelong, which will clear the road for you.”
“She will be damaged goods by then.”
“Count your blessings. Virgins are a pain in the arse with their
infernal screeching.”
“I do not like settling for another man’s left-overs.”
My eyebrows slid up. “As if you have been with a woman before.”
“I do not tell you everything, Val.”
“Heed, she has teats like a milking cow. He will probably drop dead
the moment she takes off her gown on their wedding night, or she will
smother him to death.”
“Must you be so crass? I think—ow!” He suddenly doubled
over in pain, clutching his stomach with both hands.
I knew what the issue was. I had gone through it myself that morning,
just as I had gone through it forty-five times before. Whilst my twin
fell to the floor groaning, I squatted beside him on the red and cream
mat. “You will be fine.”
“I feel as if I am dying here!” Daniel groaned, his flesh
taking on the appearance of yellow sautéed onions. “And all
you give me is a very apathetic, you will be fine?”
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