by Hall, Ian
As the survivors began to lend a hand with the sick, I sent the two immune guards to carry word to Hereford, then to the monks at Malvern, then on to Windsor to tell the King. At every stop on the journey, I instructed them to ask for help, hoping for any aid against the bitter menace.
But of course none came. No one came from anywhere, and I assumed that every part of the country experienced the same tragedy as Ludlow.
But still every morning I visited the gatehouse. I mopped the brow of Prince Arthur then moved to the bedroom next door and held the hand of his wife, Princess Catherine.
To my eternal shame in order that I maintain my strength, I fed from the necks of the dying, determined that the dead did not need the blood anyway. I fed as close to the parting as I could.
In time, a host of survivors rose to the surface. Even in the weakness, they were soon put to work; just the simple task of stoking fires seemed to be a full-time job.
With a growing sense of dread, each day I attended the Prince, he seemed to have sunk a fraction of an inch into the bed. Each day I watched him wither.
So it came as no surprise when on the morning of second day of April, Prince Arthur, Prince of Wales, weakened by weeks of the disease’s unceasing ravages, gave up the fight.
I felt something wrong before I passed the threshold that morning. As I opened the door, I heard the distant sound of Phillipa’s constant wail. With tears in my eyes, I reluctantly climbed the stairs with very heavy feet.
His face looked ashen, holding less color than the stained white pillowcases. Phillipa and two other maids knelt at the side of the bed, all crying helplessly, all shaking their heads.
As I leant against the doorway, with a sinking heart I knew I had failed. Whatever it had been that sent me back to this time, it had obviously not been to deliver a new King Arthur to England and the world.
April 2nd, 1502
The Pomp and Ceremony
Prince Henry would indeed rise to become King Henry the Eighth, and would plough into the delectable Princess I had now grown to love.
That same day that Arthur died, Gruffydd arose from his bed, and to my eternal thanks, seemed to be instantly capable of most light duties.
“We guard her door,” he said, tears falling down his cheeks. “From dawn to dusk, and through the night.”
“Why?” I asked. “We don’t have the manpower for this.”
He lifted his head to me and I saw the sadness in his eyes. “The Princess of Wales has to be placed in secret for two months.”
“Why?”
“It is my duty. The King would wish it done.” I shook my head, but he seemed to know what he was doing. “It is to determine if she is with child. The realm must have a legitimate heir.” He bit his lip. “It’s the custom. It’s what we have to do.”
“Where do you learn this stuff?” I glowered at him.
“It has always been thus, and always will be.”
I walked away from the Welshman, and left him to his duties.
I counted casualties. Of the guard, we lost seventeen men.
Of the household, we’d lost twelve, and seven were still lying in sick beds.
Thankfully, the day after the Prince’s demise, the Lady Jane recovered, and soon assumed the role of the chief lady in waiting to Princess Catherine. With Isabella gone, the Princess would need all the help she could get. With Jane and Phillipa in charge, I opened the gates of the castle for the first time in a month, and wandered out into the town.
I quickly determined the extent of the slaughter to be worse than the castle had fared –around fifty percent. The so-called sweating sickness had indeed ravaged the land.
Despite the voracity of the illness, I sent messengers to London, and to Windsor, to spread the sad tidings.
The first clergy on the scene were from Ludlow itself and began blessing after blessing ceremony upon the corpse on the bed.
In comparison to a modern burial, the proceedings seemed to happen in slow motion. The Prince lay in his bed for four days before the churchmen moved him. Morticians from Ludlow worked on his corpse while his wife still suffered in the next room.
Lady Jane grabbed my sleeve as I passed the Princess’s room. “I need you.” She pulled me towards the guards at the door. “We must attend the Princess Catherine,” she said very formally, and the guard stepped to one side.
Once inside, I asked the purpose of the visit.
“You must help the Princess.”
“Of course,” I said. “Anything.”
“I’m glad you said that,” she said, sliding the thick heavy bolt across the door. “The Princess wishes to speak to you.”
Well, the ‘Princess’ looked in a pretty bad way, her face looked flushed and swollen, and her hair looked matted to her head, but she did beckon me to the bed. “I have need of you, Master DeVere.”
“Yes, your Grace, anything,”
“Lie with me.”
I knew without the aid of a mirror, that I’d just given her my WTF expression. “I don’t understand.”
“You must lie with me. I have not yet conceived a child, and you must help me.”
I recoiled from her side. “I cannot.” But Lady Jane stood behind me, barring further escape.
“You will do the same for the Princess as you did for Eleanor.”
I spun my head round. “How do you know…?”
Her hand slipped down my cheek. “Richard, you cannot spirit girls from palaces without gossip blossoming.”
Shit, I now stood in total deep-shit. I couldn’t admit that Eleanor’s child had been the newly dead Prince’s; that would offend Catherine. And I sure couldn’t tell them that as a vampire I could not be infertile, as that would just increase speculation. I’d worked myself into a corner.
“Please, Master DeVere.” Catherine pushed the coverlet down from her body, exposing her breasts. “It is not such a bad duty, no?”
Crap.
Then Jane pushed me forward. “You have to do this, Richard,” she said. “If the Princess does not produce a child, she’ll be in extreme danger here in England.”
“How?”
“She’ll have no power, few friends, and no income for support. She’ll be at the whim and fancy of every power move in Europe, and stuck in England, not knowing.” She placed my hand on Catherine’s breast. “We’re not asking for an epic here, Richard, just do your duty.”
Lady Jane left us alone in the room.
Slowly I began to undress. Catherine took oil from a bottle at her side, and rubbed it down her body. The smell of rosemary emanated from her like spring flowers.
Naked, I took the bottle from her, rubbing it over her as I caressed her breasts, and those wonderful hard, erect nipples.
I felt her oily hand on my penis, her actions bold, as normal. Then, as I slipped my hand between her open thighs, I leant down and kissed her.
I hadn’t meant to make a big deal of the action, but her sheer presence stymied my need to be done quickly. Her lips at first were dry, but soon our ardor had our mouths slavering together like rabid dogs.
Like before, when I’d touched her on her wedding bed, her cunny proved wet and wanting; my fingers wormed their way deep inside, feeling her warm walls.
But having our passion taken us to such heights, we both needed the rutting of final coitus. When she pulled my dick near her already finger-ploughed pussy, I didn’t protest, I just enjoyed the sensation of slipping inside her, and began the business of fucking her silly.
I lay atop her, kissing the face of Catherine of Aragon, stabbing her with tongue and penis, and heard little of the grunting and gasping she mouthed into me.
When she came, she broke our kiss and screamed. I had to push my hand over her mouth as I too boiled over, sending my seed uselessly into her womb.
But as I came down from my passionate precipice, I continued stabbing into her until I’d wilted to a stage where penetration had become impossible.
Panting above her, I r
emoved my hand from her smiling face. She looked up at me fondly. “See. I tell you one day I have the man, not the boy.”
Minutes later I walked from the room, a little embarrassed, but with the smug satisfaction that I just scored a Princess.
Three days later, a carriage arrived at the gates, a large polished wooden box inside.
Gruffydd and I both carried it inside, and upstairs to Arthur’s bedroom.
To be honest, I’m not sure if I’d smelled anything more disgusting in my life. Whatever chemicals they’d used, they hadn’t used enough. Between us and the two guards, we awkwardly put Arthur in his last resting place; full dress, sash of office, brooches, hat, the lot.
Two trumpets from high on the castle battlements called out into the frosty morning as Prince Arthur’s body got taken to the local parish church in Ludlow on the first stage of his funeral procession. I walked behind the coach with Sir Gruffydd, my head low, uncaring of the hundreds of locals that lined the route, mostly in tears.
“What now?” I asked once the coffin had been carried inside the church.
“To Bewdley, to the parish church there.” Gruffydd looked distracted. “Then he’ll go by boat, down the Severn. He’ll be buried in Worcester Cathedral.”
“But still no visit from his father, The King?”
“He’ll be too scared to attempt it.” We walked back up the slight hill to the castle. “The sickness is still in the area. He has a country to reign.”
“And what will happen to us?”
He grimaced. “Why, right now we have a Princess to guard, and a Prince to bury. Is that not enough?”
I smiled, but the emotion never passed under the skin.
The next day I ran to Haddon House and prised two thousand guineas and change from the quivering hands of Sir Harry Vernon. As I made my way back to Ludlow, I felt I’d have good need of the money.
The next day, Sir William Uvedale and Sir Richard Croft arrived, and under a drizzled rain, the procession drove to Bewdley. This time I rode behind the carriage, just one more faceless mourner. By the time we’d gotten out of town, down the hill, and onto the east road, half the day had gone, and we were all soaking.
The knights had donned light armor, each accompanied by a walking page who carried both their helmets and heraldic sashes.
Sodden wet, I didn’t relish the thought of the water inside the armor.
Two days to get to Bewdley, the road lined most of the way by a grieving nation who either stood with bowed heads, or walked some of the way, accompanying the Prince on his last journey.
At Bewdley, he lay in the church for a day while hymns were sung, then onto a huge barge on the river.
We all rode down the bank, following the barge’s steady progress.
Once it landed in Worcester, just ten miles downstream, the bells from the cathedral, which dominated the town from the top of the hill, began to peal over the evening skies. It seemed like they’d never stop. And of course, as we got nearer, driving up that hill, the sound became almost oppressive.
Then I walked under the pointed archway, and inside, and the sound took on a whole new essence. A trumpeting to the nation, a welcoming of Prince Arthur to his final resting place, the Chantry on the east side.
At the funeral the next day, I was astonished to see no royal guests. No King, no Queen, no siblings. I didn’t want to remark to Sir Gruffydd, as he seemed to be arguing with his own demons most of the time, but eventually, my patience broke.
“Where’s the King?” I asked as a choir began a series of very long, very boring chants.
The look he shot me could have killed a man. “I have no answer.”
I kept all my other questions for much later, and let myself drift to one side. I mean, the Cathedral certainly had enough room. I don’t think fifty people attended inside the church. Outside I’d counted thousands.
Then six men lowered Arthur’s coffin into a neatly cut hole in the stone floor.
Then I watched a very strange ceremony.
As the men dropped the ropes into the grave, Sir Gruffydd Rhys walked to the graveside, took a scepter from his side, and knelt to the ground. Then, crossing himself, he snapped the golden rod over his armored knee, and dropped it loudly onto Arthur’s coffin below.
One by one, Sir William Uvedale and Sir Richard Croft did the same.
I felt I’d witnessed a changing of loyalties, but didn’t quite know the ramifications of the whole process.
Thomas Linacre, his body still racked with weakness, walked to the graveside and tossed a scroll inside. He passed by me and nodded.
I walked to the graveside of the boy I’d pledged my life to protect, and looked down at the paraphernalia below; a fortune in gold.
I crossed myself for good measure, and unbuckled my sword from my waist.
“It was always yours anyway, Your Grace,” I said, with tears streaming unchecked down my face. “You take it with you.” With care, I dropped it so it landed at the side of the coffin, clattering against the dirt, stone, and broken golden staffs.
Then I walked outside. I walked past the throng of silent people. Then, as I gained the empty streets of Worcester, I walked right into Abigail.
For a second, I didn’t recognize her, her cowl had been pulled far over her face, and she affected a crouching stance. “Follow me,” she croaked, not looking up. “But keep your distance.”
I staggered away from contact, and watched her walk away, her feet shambling like she was a hundred years old. She first walked north, but slowly headed down to the river, where she suddenly vanished around a corner of a wall.
I walked close, then saw the Abigail I knew, lying back on the grass, skirts high on her thighs, a wicked smile on her face. “Hello, Master Richard.”
“Abigail.” I nodded. “Why the deception?”
“Oh, just playing it safe,” She grinned like only a lusty, hungry vampire can manage. “Fancy going on a hunt with me?”
I felt weak, sad, and maybe just a little bit sorry for myself. My first impression felt ‘hell, no’, but as I looked at her eyes, I came to the realization, that a distraction might be exactly what I needed.
“What are we hunting?”
“Well, I lost Madeline, so I thought of finding something new to pass a long, cold night with.”
“As long as we wash it first.” I grinned, feeling life flow back into my veins.
“Oh, I’m sure we can do that.”
May 1st, 1502
Being a Vampire
We raced through the woods like dervishes, sending torn bracken and gorse to all sides. One by one, we looked at desirable wenches, only to shake our heads, as they were too fat, too curvy, too toothless, whatever.
Then, I think somewhere near Hereford, we found what we were looking for.
Late teenage, tall, leggy, blonde, and on the cute scale, maybe an eight. Perfect.
“Shall you take her? Or me?” Abigail asked as we approached. Our ‘target’ sat outside a small barn, her hands milking a large cow.
“Why don’t you do the honors?” I said, feeling a bit on the weak side after the funeral, the running through the countryside, the weeks of convalescing the sick at Ludlow.
But as Abigail approached the girl, and they chatted just outside my hearing, I suddenly was reminded of the last time I’d had sex.
A Princess.
Not that I should remember it as a fond ‘taking’. Initially it had seemed more a responsibility, but it certainly hadn’t exactly ended that way.
The two women stood up, and walked over to me.
“This is Cassie,” Abigail said, placing her arm round the girl’s waist. “She’d like to join us in the woods.”
“Wonderful.” I know I sounded less than enthused.
“But first, perhaps a swim?” Abigail said, “To wake ourselves up?”
“Or something warmer?” I suggested, suddenly remembering the hot springs at Malvern that I’d dipped Eleanor in. “They’re pretty clo
se.”
We put Cassie to sleep and set off. I mean, Malvern lay only about six or seven miles from here.
A quick word at the gate, the monks made themselves very scarce, and the three of us got into the hot spring and literally fucked each other silly. It seemed to be exactly what the doctor ordered. When we’d eventually finished, Cassie lay unconscious, a husk of a human, and I felt as good as I’d done in ages.
We dumped Cassie near the barn where we’d found her, and set off north. I had a Princess to protect in Ludlow, and her lady in waiting meant a great deal to me, too.
We arrived in Ludlow in the early evening, finding the town on the quiet side, not a lot of street traffic.
But as we turned the last corner, and caught sight of the gatehouse to the castle, I found out why.
A dozen horses were tethered outside, and dark uniformed soldiers stood at the doors.
King’s soldiers.
“This doesn’t look good,” I said to Abigail, pulling her by the elbow into a doorway. “Can you meet me inside the castle?”
“Where?”
“In the chapel in the inner courtyard.” I hastily made plans. “I doubt if there will be anyone up to prayer yet.”
“I’ll be there.”
I took a deep breath and set off towards the gate to the castle, determined to find out what had happened before I started a scene. Two new guards barred my way.
“What’s your business here?” one asked, his gruff London accent reverberating in the large stone archway.
“I’m tutor to her Majesty, Princess Catherine.”
He looked at me slightly suspiciously, but pulled his body out of my way.
When I walked under the arch and started across the field towards the inner castle, I looked back at the gatehouse; more dark guards, more horses. Above, on the ramparts, our own men had been replaced. I carried on to the castle, and crossed the bridge over the moat.
No guards here.
Inside, I found no one who knew anything except that the guards had arrived that morning, and simply taken over.
“On whose orders?” I asked.