The tragic tale of how my father's enemy, the cruel and demonic Lord Robert Vanike, arrived at our former home one freezing cold night in November. The men bitterly quarrelled over the ownership of land that bordered both of their estates. The quarrel turned very violent, and the evil and despised Lord Vanike, who was by this time in a blistering rage, murdered my father by stabbing him through the heart.
I cannot recall how many times I have imagined the terrible bloody scene of my father dying, or how many times I have cried at the thought of him being murdered by such a cruel and heartless man, but the feeling of loss never fades. Nor does the overwhelming feeling of love and gratitude for my beautiful Maman; because although she was alone and at the mercy of the evil lord, she found the courage to escape and lead us both to safety. Maman travelled all through the night on horseback with me, just a small babe in arms, tied to her slight frame. She rode, for many tortuous miles, non-stop until we wearily reached Dover. From Dover we boarded a waiting ship, and thus we travelled to France, and onward to Bordeaux where we took up residence in my father’s chateau.
I cannot deny that I love the Chateau Cadeau—it is the only home I have ever known. However, I sometimes wish that we could visit England, how I would love to explore our old home, but Maman says that it is unsafe for us to do so. She says that the evil Lord Vanike will capture us and hold us under guard, and so we have no choice but to remain in France. However, I cannot pretend that I do not daydream of the day I shall return to the country of my birth, or the day I shall avenge my father’s death. I, of course, must keep my dream to myself. Maman would be very angry if I even mentioned to her that I have future hopes of returning to England. And I believe that she would even resort to keeping me under lock and key if she was to discover my intentions of one day returning.
I love Maman so very much, but I cannot deny the fact that she can be very fierce, or that no one in the chateau ever disobeys her commands. I sometimes see the servants sneak past her, and then I witness them hurriedly make the sign of the cross—an action they do when they hope to protect themselves against evil. I find their fear amusing, and sometimes find that I must pinch myself in order to stop giggling. I know they fear her, and I also know that she would never harm them, but even I am not sure how she would react to knowing the fact that the servants think she is a devil—and so I ignore their fear.
I sometimes wonder if it is Maman's beauty which frightens the servants so, because she is, quite literally, the most beautiful woman I, and I am sure most of them, have ever seen. She remains so young looking, and we have on many occasions been mistaken for sisters. I am always amused when I hear people exclaim in startled surprise that they are unable to believe that she is my maman. Maman, however, does not find their startled protests amusing; in fact, it seems to irritate her greatly, so much so that sometimes I have seen her grow quite angry at the fact. Many times I have said, "Maman, please...it is a compliment, is it not?" But my cajoling doesn’t ease her anger, if anything it can make it worse, and of late, because of her obvious discomfort, I have refrained from commenting when circumstances such as these arise.
Nonetheless, growing up in the protected confines of the Chateau Cadeau was truly magical, and for me, as a small child, it resembled a majestic kingdom. I remember, so clearly, pretending to be a beautiful princess reigning over my loyal subjects. I imagined myself to be just like Queen Elizabeth, the young and beautiful queen of England, and that my people fiercely loved and protected me. Now and then I would manage to persuade Maman to join in, and she would play the role of Elizabeth's sister—the evil Bloody Mary. Maman would sometimes protest that she was bored with always playing the role of the evil sister, to which I would argue that I was fair in colouring just like Elizabeth, and she was dark like Queen Mary. And so it was more authentic if we continued to maintain our usual roles. Maman would laugh heartily at my remark, often stating that I was very cunning and that it would serve me well if the need should arise. I never really understood her remark, but I would smile and laugh just the same, for I loved to make her proud and to see her happy.
It was about this time that I started to realise that I differed greatly from Maman in looks, we shared the same eyes, but other than that we were quite different in appearance.
"Maman…" I once asked her, "Do I look like mon père?"
"Why do you say that, my love…?" she replied lightly, but I noticed how she had sat up straighter in her chair, and how her eyes became more watchful.
"Well, we don't look alike? I mean, not really..."
"Of course we do...Why, we share the same eyes, do we not?" she said, and although she smiled, the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Yes," I persisted, "But you are so dark and I so fair..."
"Oh this is nonsense!" she said sharply, and then continued in a softer tone, "Yes...Yes, sorry, my darling, of course you get your colouring from your father..."
I had wanted to pursue the conversation, but I knew to do so would make her angry, and so I dropped the subject. I did, however, notice that she studied me closely over the next few days, and it set me to wondering why my simple questions had upset her so. I suppose I was growing up and I was becoming more and more curious because our conversation that day signalled a change in me also.
I had started to notice things that I had never noticed before, things like the fact that Maman never seemed to eat. She gave the impression of eating and even placed the food in her mouth, but she then would discreetly raise her handkerchief up to her mouth and deposit the food in its folds. I was shocked by this discovery, at first believing that I was simply mistaken, but after watching her several times, I knew that I wasn't. I also noticed that although Maman didn't eat, she did drink, and that she always seemed to have a goblet of red wine in her hand. The fact that she drank so much started to really concern me, but I knew to confront her would cause yet more angry words, and so instead I chose to avert my eyes when she drank from her goblet.
However, I was starting to get discontented with our way of life. I didn't understand why I was unable to ride without an escort, and even with them, I was only able to ride within the grounds of the chateau. I started to question the fact that we never had visitors, and that we had no friends. I had outgrown my childhood games and no longer dreamed of being a princess, but instead wanted to entertain and discover how other people lived. I was fast becoming a woman, but was still being treated like an over-protected child, and I resented the fact.
Several times I approached Maman and suggested we entertain, but always she would wave her hand in dismissal without even considering what I had to say. One evening, when she had once more waved away my words, I jumped up and flounced out of the room. I was so angry that I didn't bother to respond to her sharp reprimand and command to return to the dining table, and angrily ran up to my bedchamber and flung myself down on my bed where tears of anger and sorrow mingled into huge sobs. I must have drifted off to sleep, because when I awoke the chateau was in total silence. I was just starting to drift back to sleep when I heard a noise down in the courtyard. The chateau was built around a courtyard; this was in turn surrounded by a very wide and deep moat. I was more than a little curious to discover which one of the servants would be tinkering about in the courtyard in the middle of the night, but there was one thing for certain, whoever it was, was up to mischief.
I quickly pulled on my cloak and ran barefoot down the stairs. I was ready and waiting, lantern lit, and hand on hip, when the cloaked figure pushed open the heavy oak door that led to the courtyard. However, I was more than a little startled when I realised that the person sneaking into the chateau was not the pilfering servant I had been expecting, but instead was Maman. What was even more startling was the fact that she was smothered in dripping blood, which seemed to be everywhere, not just on her clothes, but all over her face and hands.
"Maman!" I cried, running towards her with my arms outstretched, "Oh, Maman...you are injured?"
"STOP!" she growled before I could reach her, her voice both menacing and anguished. "Do not come any closer, Rose. Go to your bedchamber and I will join you shortly." Noticing that I was hesitant to leave her, she shouted, "NOW!"
Although it was not very long before she barged into my bedchamber, to me it felt like many hours had passed.
"Maman!" I said as she entered my bedchamber, relief evident in my voice.
"Do not fret so, Rose, I am fine..." she stated, but her face was a mask, and I was able to see how nervous she was under the facade.
"But...But, what happened?" I asked, puzzled by her reaction to my concern.
"I was out hunting...and the small doe I caught bled out everywhere, including all over me. I am sorry if I scared you...but well, you should have been asleep."
"Hunting...at night, Maman?" I asked, disbelief evident in my voice. She replied, her voice sharp, "Yes, Rose, hunting...now go to sleep!"
She arose from the bed and made her way to the door. However, something stopped her from passing through it, and she stood with her back towards me, obviously contemplating a thought that was troubling her.
"Rose, I believe you are correct about the fact that we need to entertain more..." she said, as she turned back towards me. "It seems to me that I too must be restless. After all, what other explanation is there for my need to hunt at night? None, other than I am bored and that I am in need of a way to alleviate that boredom! From tomorrow we shall remedy the situation."
I was stunned by her sudden change of heart. However, she kept to her promise, and the very next day we started to plan and make preparations for a banquet for the neighbours surrounding Chateau Cadeau. Within weeks, Pierre, my tutor was appointed, and I was instructed to write in this journal. Nevertheless, no matter how excited I was by the changes in my life, I was still not convinced by Maman’s explanation of why she was dripping with blood, and that being the case—I was determined to discover the real reason.
<<<<<>>>>
You can continue reading book three, Vampire – The Quest for Truth, by clicking on the following links:
UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00MH3KDN2
US:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MH3KDN2
Or alternatively you can purchase Vampire – Gwen’s journals 1541 – 1627, which is a compilation of the first three books of the Vampire Series, by clicking on the following links:
UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00MH4IUYU
US:
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00MH4IUYU
More books by Charmain Marie Mitchell
Death Whispers
(Mary Howard Supernatural Mysteries Series)
Chapter One
Her feet tingled from the cold, in fact, every part of her ached with a damp chill. The day had started well enough with only a touch of ground frost, which normally was a good sign, and usually a cold but sunny day was bound to follow. However, today seemed to be the exception, and it had rained and rained.
Mary had set out on her two mile walk into the pretty market town of Petersfield, when the sun was shining and the air was crisp. It was therefore a little bit irritating, actually very irritating when, after buying her groceries, popping into the bank, and having a well earned latte at Costa's, she had started to make her two mile trek home, only to experience the heavens suddenly opening and soaking her to the skin.
When she finally reached her tumbledown (falling down might be more apt) cottage, which was nestled on the outskirts of a very pretty, very tiny village; which was bizarrely named Sheet, she was tired, cold, aching, and felt very, very, irritated. Peeling off her very thick, absolutely sodden, woollen cardigan, which she had worn instead of a mac; believing it would protect her from the cold, she made her way to her bedroom. Of course, the wet cardigan, wet cords, wet shoes, in fact wet everything had only served to weigh her down heavily, and she smelled like a hairy wet dog, and presumed that she looked like one too.
Peering into the mirror which sat on top of her dressing table, she no longer presumed, but knew, she looked like the aforementioned hairy wet dog. Scurrying out of her clothes, she quickly changed into her fluffy pj's and warm bed socks, and then proceeded to jump head first into her duvet and snuggle down into the warmth. "Ah bliss," she mumbled in quiet satisfaction, she then closed her eyes and deliberated on what she was going to do for the rest of the day.
Mary was a writer; well, she liked to think she was. Although, if her book sales were anything to go by, she wasn't really succeeding at her chosen profession. She pretended that it didn't matter to her very much, but the truth was that it did matter; very much, if she was being brutally honest.
Closing her eyes tightly she tried to visualise her grandmother. Her inspiration, the warmth in her life, and the very essence of her being, because for Mary, her grandmother was the place she called home. However, much to her irritation, she found it difficult to connect to the visualisation, and with a sigh and "blast it," hissing from her lips, Mary threw back the duvet and marched into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.
Figures...just bloody figures, she thought as she looked out of the kitchen window at the now perfect sunny January morning. Turning from the window and clenching her cold hands around her warm mug of tea, she made her way into the study.
The study was her favourite room in the cottage, it was snug and warm, or would be when the open fire started crackling in the grate. With this in mind; she took the box of matches from the mantle, struck a match, and carefully placed the small flame into the paper and kindling that she had prepared before her shopping expedition to Petersfield. She waited until the kindling was roaring and then emptied a small bucket of coal and a couple of dry logs on top of the flames. She watched for a moment, and after satisfying herself that the coal and logs would take hold, she made her way over to an old leather chair that stood in front of a huge antique walnut desk, and sunk in to its welcoming folds.
She had walked into the study with the intention of continuing where she had left off with her current story. However, she found that she was unable to open her laptop, not because it wouldn't open, but because she didn't want to. What's the bloody point, she thought, it’s no better than anything I've written in the past, it'll flop, just like they all flop.
Laying her head back against the old, tattered, but soft and familiar leather of the chair, Mary tried to figure out where she was going wrong. She knew that most people would look at her life and think she had it made, and she wasn't so stupid or selfish not to know that they were probably right.
She was twenty-two, owned her cottage outright (even if it was falling down). She also had more money in the bank then it was likely she would ever, in her lifetime, be able to spend. However, she had no one to share her wealth with. Her parents had died in a car crash when she was just two years old, and her grandmother, whom she had lived with ever since her parents died, had died just under a year previously.
It was her grandmother whom she missed the most. She found it difficult to remember her parents, but her grandmother had always been there for her. She missed her presence, her beauty and kindness, and the way they would discuss their writing; warm by the fire, with her grandmother giving, but also receiving Mary's constructive criticism. After all her grandmother was one of England's greatest authors. Victoria Howard was known throughout the world for her horrific and hugely popular, 'Nightfall Mysteries'. When the great Victoria Howard died, she bequeathed the whole of her vast fortune to her granddaughter, but with Victoria went the extent of her family - Mary was the sole remaining member, she was to all intents and purposes, alone.
Well, apart from one person, her best friend Kate, but Kate lived in London, and she mixed with the famous and wealthy jet-setting types. It was the type of life that didn't really suit Mary, who was shy and reserved, and a woman who blushed at the mere mention of a dirty joke.
They did, however, spend part of the
year together, normally when Kate felt she needed the peace and tranquility that only the leafy country lanes of Hampshire could offer her. She would arrive like a whirlwind, taking over Mary's life, and just as suddenly vanish back to her world of glitz and glamour. Thus leaving Mary to feel even lonelier then she had before Kate had arrived. Mary didn't really mind. It had been the same when they were children, so why should it be any different now?
Kate was the daughter of the late, but very well remembered, Edward Windell, Victoria Howard's long time agent and lover. Edwards’s wife had died giving birth to Kate, and so it was that Mary's grandmother eventually become his lover. It seemed the whole world knew of the affair, but no one talked of it. Least of all the two children that happily played together in their own little world, whilst their guardians discussed business, and, as both the children later realised, partook of pleasure.
Nowadays Kate would laugh about the relationship, often saying that she wished Victoria and Edward had married, that way she and Mary would have indeed been sisters. Mary would retort that she felt like they were sisters anyway so it didn't really make any difference.
However, she had never understood their relationship. She had tried; but to her, love was about flowers, hearts, and kisses. Not about a quick bunk up in the back toilet (she had actually walked in on the lovers in the said toilet one day). She believed in love, and that was why she chose to write about love. However, as Kate had so often pointed out to her, "To be able to write about a subject, Mary, you need to understand it." She knew this and if anyone had asked, she would have been ashamed to admit that she was twenty-two years old and had never been kissed; actually she had never even come close to being kissed. She knew that was why readers of her books had criticised the love scenes, and why some had stated that her books reminded them of fairy tales. She needed to understand all of the emotions she wrote about, and not guess at them. But how was she able to do that, when to even smile at someone of the opposite sex resulted in a bright red blush brightly colouring her skin?
Vampire - Child of Destiny (Vampire Series Book 2) Page 9