The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  He kissed her mouth, all the while his voice echoing inside her head, speaking in hideous whispers that evoked childhood terrors painted in blood. Captain! Captain! she thought again and again, silently mouthing the word to keep from falling under the tempter’s spell.

  “You may have your Captain,” he promised. “Your king is our king. Your captain our own—though, he doesn’t yet realise it. Our very imprint grows within him, waiting to arise. Do you think it an accident that you fell in love with him?”

  You lie! she screamed inside her mind, for her entire body had gone rigid, and her lips would not move. Charles fights against you, Grigor! He serves God not the Devil!

  “Untrue,” he lied. “We control him—have always done. Always will. Your Captain is our creation.”

  He is God’s creation! she shouted inwardly. Lord Almighty, help me, please! Free from this torment! Help me! Help me to speak—to open my mouth, please! “Lord Jesus, help me!” she cried out at last, the words springing from her unfrozen lips.

  Instantly, the lying creature retreated, as if pulled backwards by a force greater than any earthly mechanism might muster. The chamber brightened with flashes of lightning, and a wail pierced the air, echoing off every one of the thirteen mirrors.

  “Begone!” she heard a thunderous voice shout. The room grew quiet, and then a soft hand touched her face.

  Elizabeth felt herself falling into nothingness.

  And then all went dark.

  Charles and the others found Elizabeth sitting beneath a large, indoor fig tree, Prince Anatole fanning her face.

  “She’s fainted,” he told them, his voice filled with deep concern.

  “Where did you find her?” Sinclair asked, taking her from the prince’s arms.

  “In an upper level chamber. She is unharmed.”

  “She’s so pale. What did he do to her?” Aubrey asked, kneeling beside the bench.

  “He frightened her; that is all, but leave Grigor to me,” the Russian said, standing. “Take her home, Lord Haimsbury. There is a side exit not far from here. Follow me. I shall take you.”

  Charles lifted her into his arms, and the movement caused her coronet to fall, but the prince caught it before it struck the tiles, and handed it to James. “She is more regal than any queen, Duke. Take care of her, and please let me know if you require anything—anything at all.”

  Though no one in the family fully trusted the Russian, it was clear that Anatole cared deeply for the duchess. “Just ahead, we turn to the left, and this hallway leads to a side entrance. If you will walk in that direction, I shall alert my driver to meet you there.”

  James shook the Russian’s hand. “Thank you, Your Highness. You’ve been a great help. I’ll go with them. I think my sister took a different turn from us. She may be with her friend, Maisie Churchill. Would you be good enough to find her and then send her in a separate carriage?”

  “Of course,” Anatole replied, bowing. “I regret the way this evening ended, Duke. I’d hoped to bring you a night of relaxation and enjoyment, but it has ended the opposite. Forgive me.”

  Sinclair felt confused, and he suspected Romanov could provide further answers—though not tonight. He mustered up a polite smile. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  Paul Stuart helped his cousin place Elizabeth into the carriage, relieved to see her eyes beginning to open. “Princess, are you all right?”

  She gripped his hand. “The redhead,” she muttered, nearly asleep. “Don’t trust her...”

  Sinclair and the duke entered the carriage, but the earl remained. “Take her home, Charles. There are other guests here tonight that deserve my attention—if not my wroth. I shall meet you at Haimsbury House later and explain.”

  The earl shut the carriage door, and the horses led them away from the magnificent palace towards Queen Anne House. Charles had promised he would not sleep there this night, but even though France had arrived to keep watch over the premises, the marquess made up his mind to disobey Victoria, if the earl were delayed.

  “Beth?” he whispered as he held her close. She opened her eyes, and they appeared glassy, the pupils large. “James, I fear she may have suffered more than a faint. Perhaps, I should send for Emerson.”

  “Something is not right,” Drummond said. “How does a footman see one prince, when another is involved?”

  “The two are similar. One might easily mistake them.”

  “No, I think this more than similarity. It reminds me of tales my father once told the circle of spirits who could appear in any guise. We must investigate this Romanian.”

  “Beth says he’s Rasha Grigor’s uncle. Are they both spirits then?”

  “Both are evil, that much we know!” the duke exclaimed angrily.

  “It’s all my fault,” Charles moaned. “I should never have left her. In fact, coming at all was a mistake. I wish we’d just run away and gotten married in Scotland.”

  Stuart’s face softened. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, son. You begged me to let you wed before coming back, and I insisted on a show. I pray my foolishness hasn’t caused her harm.”

  She opened her eyes again, her lips parting slightly. “Snow,” she said suddenly. “Red snow. And fire. Cold. So cold,” she whispered, shivering.

  “James, would you hand me that blanket?” Charles draped the thick wool across her shoulders and pulled it down to cover her small feet. “Is that better?”

  Elizabeth nodded, but she still shivered. “The monster. In the glass. Red snow.”

  The duke and Charles exchanged worried glances. “What monster, darling?”

  “Snow and fire,” she repeated.

  “What can she mean by snow and fire?” Drummond asked.

  Charles kissed her head. “She’s asked me about snow before, but when I pursue the thread, it’s as if the reason behind her question vanishes. As though her memory were tampered with, if you get my meaning. What if someone intentionally removes them—or rather obscures them?”

  “Who?” his uncle asked as the coach turned down Queen Anne Walk.

  “When I first met Elizabeth, she had no recollection of the tragedy that brought her to Commercial Street. No memory of her own name.”

  “Yes, but that was caused by the blow to her head,” Drummond argued.

  “Was it? We all assumed it was, but what if one of these spirits interferes with her natural ability to recall? What puzzles me most is why they continually assault her mind.” Stroking her hair, he continued. “I should have listened. She told both Paul and me of a nightmare that took place in a ballroom, and we dismissed it. Why didn’t I listen?”

  The coach stopped near the entrance to the mansion, and the duke placed a comforting hand on his nephew’s arm. “Come, now, no more self-doubt, son. That’s what the enemy wants. Hand her to me. I’ll carry her in. It’ll be my last time to do so before she becomes yours alone.”

  The duke cradled Elizabeth in his strong arms and kissed her face as he carried her into the house. Miles met the trio at the door, opening it wide to allow them ingress.

  “Is my lady unwell, sir?” he asked, his face filled with concern.

  “Just weary,” Drummond answered. The duke settled Elizabeth upon a long sofa inside the front drawing room and kissed her face. “Sleep, Princess. Your Captain is here with you.”

  Charles saw the duke’s tears, and he clutched at the older man’s shoulder. “Sir, I am so very proud to call you uncle.”

  Drummond laughed it off, in typical fashion. “A blood nephew, yes, Charles, but you’re more like a son,” he whispered.

  Just then, the men overheard Miles speaking with another—the voice deep and delightfully familiar. In seconds, the massive presence of Cornelius Baxter strode into the drawing room, worry creasing his brow, and those magnificent brows pinching together as if shaking hands.


  “Good heavens! Is the little duchess ill, sirs?” he asked, bending to feel her forehead.

  Drummond began to laugh. “She’ll be right as rain now, Mr. Baxter. Now that you’re here. Does my sister have you down as guests, or are you to serve? It had best be the former, for our duchess will much complain if she discovers you’re expected to work whilst here.”

  “Mrs. Alcorn and I are honoured to be included as guests, sir,” the gentle giant explained. “Mr. Miles has been kind enough to show us to our guest quarters. I’ve quite missed this old house, but Branham will always be my home, Your Grace.”

  Charles shook the large man’s hand warmly. “Baxter, my dear friend, I’m so pleased to see you! Tory didn’t mention anything about sending you an invitation, and I’m ashamed to say I didn’t think of it, but I’m sure it was Beth. She loves you like a second father.”

  Baxter’s animated brows rose to new heights. “That is well said, sir, and I am most grateful. I’ve brought further information regarding that, uh, skirmish at the hall,” he whispered. “Shall I wait until the duchess is out of earshot, sir?”

  “Yes, I think it’s best,” the marquess replied, grinning. “Let me see Beth to bed, and then I shall return to talk for an hour before I leave. Now that I know she is safely in your hands, old friend, I must spend my final night as a bachelor elsewhere. Aunt Victoria says it must be so.”

  “Ah, yes, that inestimable lady must be obeyed at all cost,” the Branham butler replied with a gleam in his eye. “Very good, sir. You will find me in the library. Mr. Kepelheim and I had begun a game of chess, to which I promised to return.”

  Charles lifted Elizabeth into his arms, heading towards the staircase. James kissed her once more and Charles carried Beth up the steps, realising the next time he carried her would be as her husband—after their wedding.

  Alicia Mallory, who’d fallen asleep on the parlour sofa whilst waiting, nearly leapt out of her skin when the marquess entered.

  “Oh, Lord Haimsbury! I am sorry, sir! I was told you would sleep at your own home tonight.” She shut the door that led to the bath and dressing rooms to prevent him from accidentally viewing the duchess’s gown, which hung upon a closet door. “Was the ball a success, sir?”

  “It was...interesting, you might say. Quite crowded. The duchess is worn through from dancing. Could you turn down her bed? I’ll leave her to sleep, but it would be best for her to change into something more comfortable right away. This gown looks most uncomfortable to me.”

  “It’s a good thing men don’t wear corsets,” she said with an impish grin. “Begging your pardon, sir.”

  “Oh, I agree wholeheartedly, Alicia. You are coming to live with us at Haimsbury House, I hope?”

  She began removing Elizabeth’s gloves and shoes. “Yes, sir, most of my things are already there, as are my lady’s. Mr. France arrived tonight also, my lord, and awaits downstairs. Also, Mr. Baxter and Mrs. Alcorn came just after supper. Mrs. Wilsham sent word that there are several wedding gifts at your home, sir. One is from the queen!”

  “Ah, but this dear lady is my queen, Alicia,” he said, kissing Beth’s hand.

  “Charles?” she asked, opening her eyes at his touch.

  “I’m here, little one. Alicia, do you mind giving us a moment?”

  “Not at all, sir. I’ll be next door, turning down Lord Aubrey’s bed. Goodnight, sir.”

  “Goodnight, Alicia. What is it, darling?” he asked, sitting beside the duchess.

  “What time is it?”

  “Past midnight, so I can tell you that as of today, you will be my wife. Isn’t that marvellous?”

  She nodded, and he noticed that her eyes still seemed unfocused.

  “Sleep now, little one. Rest well, for I make no guarantee regarding the sleep you’ll have tomorrow night,” he teased, hoping to make her smile.

  “Snow,” she muttered, closing her eyes once more. “Red snow...and fire.”

  Reluctantly, Charles left her and walked down the steps, thinking how this would be his final journey down the staircase as a single man. The thought pleased him very much. He was still smiling when he entered the library to find Kepelheim, France, and Baxter deep in conversation.

  “Hail to the new laird!” Baxter cried happily as he took to his feet, a raised glass in one hand and a half-filled decanter in the other. “We have taken the liberty, sir, of pouring ourselves glasses of the little duchess’s best claret. She was kind enough to write both Mrs. Alcorn and myself personal letters of invitation, in which my lady insisted we consider ourselves guests rather than servants. The duchess even added her written permission that we should raid both kitchen and wine cellar, which I have done, my lord.” The men all raised their glasses. “To you, Lord Haimsbury. To the gentleman who’s won the greatest heart in all the realm!”

  “Hear, hear!” the other men shouted in unison.

  Baxter filled another glass and handed it to Charles, who sat down after accepting it, happy to be with men he considered his closest friends. “Thank you all,” the marquess said. “Truly, I am a wealthy man. As a man who’s lived much of life alone, I’ve not formed many strong attachments, but you three are much more than friends. You are also fellow warriors, and with that in mind, I now ask our esteemed Mr. Baxter to tell us how Branham fares these days. Have there been any other incursions from the spirit realm since I left?”

  The butler refilled all their glasses and then sat into a leather upholstered wingback chair. “Branham lives on, Lord Haimsbury. And may I say before this company just how very glad it makes me that you have returned to your family? I recall your father and mother well, and, as I’ve already told you, I met you a few times when you were a boy. Your parents often visited Branham, and before Mr. Miles took over, I served them here as well. The Duchess Patricia dearly loved your mother as friend, sir.”

  “Thank you, Baxter. Perhaps, when we’ve the time, you can share tales of my parents.”

  “It would be my honour, sir. Now, as to the affairs at Branham, you may have received Mr. Marsden’s report regarding Ambrose Aurelius. Twas a curious diagnosis, or so thought Mr. Clark and our own vet Mr. Stillwell. I cannot speak to the liver damage, but the marks upon the animal’s neck were peculiar. Mr. Marsden thought them caused by a rat.”

  “And you, Baxter? And Clark? What are your conclusions?”

  Taking a deep breath, the butler’s brows spoke before his mouth. “Ghosts, sir. Or what we of the material world might call spirits. Can it be coincidence that the stallion died the very night that you were attacked? Perhaps, but a logical man would never deny a possible connexion.”

  Kepelheim nodded, his back against an embroidered cushion. “Nor would a logical man neglect the implication of cause and effect. The cause is Redwing; the effect a dead horse. But, Baxter, you must tell our marquess of the events of last night!”

  After taking a long sip of the wine, he continued, eyes wide. “Yes, last night left us in quite a state, my lord. I can tell you that. In fact, Mrs. Alcorn and I very nearly sent out regrets and remained at the hall, but as we feared it would only cause the duchess needless worry, we decided against it.”

  “Whatever happened?” Sinclair asked, sitting forward. “More ghosts?”

  “More dead sheep, which is distressing enough, but then there are the bells, sir.”

  “Bells?”

  “The abbot’s bells, my lord. Those still mounted in the steeple over the old abbey. They had not rung in over sixty years. Not once. Not until last night.”

  “What caused them to ring, sir?” asked France, his lean face open in anticipation.

  “That old abbey, Inspector France, was burnt long ago because of the devilish practises of those who lived within its walls. Claiming to be men of God, these were spawns of Satan, and before he was burnt for witchcraft, the abbot, Simeon Lemures, was parted from his ha
nds by a very sharp broadax, courtesy of King James the Sixth—as the Scots number it, of course,” he added with a glance towards Sinclair.

  “I grow more Scottish with each passing day,” the marquess said, smiling. “Go on, Baxter.”

  “Well, gentlemen, it is said that on certain nights of the year, the old abbot’s severed hands reach up, out of the aether, and pull the ropes, causing the bells to sound. A superstition, yes, but until last night, I had never heard those bells. Yet, at midnight precisely, all three clanged together, not stopping until an hour later.”

  “Did you send men to inspect the abbey?” Sinclair asked, convinced that one of Trent’s altered hybrids, rather than the disembodied hands of a long-dead abbot, lay behind it.

  “Mr. Powers, Mr. Clark, and I attended, along with half a dozen of our younger men. Despite our best efforts, my lord, no answer was forthcoming, for though the clanging continued, the bells themselves were silent.”

  The tailor waved his hands in irritation. “Wait, wait! How is this possible? Either the bells chimed, or they did not!”

  “There were no bells, Mr. Kepelheim. When Clark’s son mounted the steeple—a very dangerous feat in such weather, and at night, I might add—his lantern revealed an empty belfry. Tis a mystery, I know, but it was witnessed by many men.”

  “Might the ringing have originated elsewhere?” asked the tailor. “Hampton-on-Sea, perhaps?”

  Baxter shook his large head. “No, sir. It did not. Young Master Clark still has minor hearing loss, for having climbed that tower. He said it was as if phantom bells sounded within the belfry. A ghostly presence indeed!”

  “Is Clark’s son going to be all right?” Sinclair asked, concerned.

  “Dr. Price’s young assistant, Mr. Emory—who is quite competent, I might add—does not think the loss permanent, which is a blessing.” The butler sipped the last of his claret, gazing momentarily at the empty glass. “Ah, but the next morning, we discovered three dead ewes in one of the folds and a pony too ill to eat. Poor thing died that afternoon. I dread telling the duchess, my lord. She loves all her animals, but particularly the horses.”