VROLOK

by Nolene-Patricia Dougan

  “This is none of your affair,” the other attacker said blindly into the darkness.

  “I am a good citizen. That makes it my affair,” Isabella said contemptuously. “I am wondering why you are beating up a defenceless boy.”

  “I am not a defenceless boy,” the young man shouted, spitting blood over his would-be murderers. “Excuse me sirs, I am sorry if my blood has marred your clothing.” The young man started to laugh as he mockingly tried to wipe away the blood that was now all over his attacker’s clothes. He is drunk again, Isabella thought. “As I was saying, I am not a defenceless boy.”

  One of the attackers shoved him back down to the ground. The battered young man wiped more blood out of his own eyes and continued speaking. “I realise all evidence points to the contrary.” He was still trying to struggle up on to his feet and when he finally regained his footing he wiped a spot of blood off one of his attacker’s cheeks. “Now let us resume sirs, as you may have guessed I have been holding back.” In response to this, he was again kicked back on to the ground. This young man would not be satisfied until these two men had killed him.

  “I think you should stop,” Isabella stated.

  “I think they should stop, too, before I really lose my temper,” the young man stated, half laughing, half drunk.

  “I think you should be silent,” Isabella warned. He was only angering these two men and his beating was getting more and more severe.

  “What has it got to do with you?” one attacker asked.

  “Absolutely nothing. I am just making a request. What could he have possibly done to deserve this?” Isabella asked.

  “He is an Atheist,” a different attacker responded.

  “And who are you to punish him, if he is an Atheist? God will punish him.” Isabella lifted her hand to recoil the fog and made herself visible to the assemblage.

  The attacker continued, “What is a woman like you doing wandering the streets, alone at this time of night?”

  “Would you like to find out?” Isabella learned forward and grabbed the man closest to her by the hair, pulling his neck to her mouth. She slowly drained the man’s life’s blood. He writhed around trying to pry himself free, but Isabella’s grip was too strong. Isabella made sure this deathly sight was obscured from the other two men. She summoned up a shroud of fog to engulf her.

  “What is happening?” the remaining attacker yelled out. Isabella now moved beside him so swiftly that all he could feel was a rush of air whispering through his hair.

  “Let him go,” Isabella whispered in his ear. The man was terrified. This ungodly creature was now so close to him.

  “Who are you?”

  “An angel of death, and I have come for you,” Isabella said, and she grabbed his neck and drank the life from him.

  The young man who was so badly beaten was somewhat disoriented and totally oblivious to the events going on around him, until Isabella helped him up.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “You fought them off,” Isabella answered.

  “I knew I would, when I found my stride,” the young man quipped. Isabella could not help herself. She smiled even though her smile was accompanied by a sigh of exasperation.

  “Come on,” she said. “Since you have found your stride, surely you are able to walk.”

  The man struggled to his feet again. “Alas, I think my stride has left me again, but with your help I could try to walk home.” He couldn’t even manage a step before he swiftly passed out. Isabella caught him before he fell and dragged him to the nearest inn. She again procured a room for him. He woke up the next morning and Isabella was still sitting opposite him.

  “This is beginning to become a habit,” Isabella began.

  The young man smiled and replied, “It is becoming a habit, a good habit I would like to continue.”

  “I’m sure. How do you get yourself into such messes? They could have killed you last night,” Isabella lectured.

  “Ah, but they didn’t, and that is what really matters,” the young man replied.

  “Why did you deserve such enmity?” Isabella inquired.

  He adamantly replied, “Because I refused to take holy orders. They think I am guilty of treason against the Queen.”

  “And why did you refuse to take holy orders?” The young man became uncharacteristically serious for a moment and said.

  “I can’t swear allegiance to something that I do not believe in.”

  “And why do you not believe?” asked Isabella.

  The young man matter-of-factly replied, “Show me evidence of God’s existence and I will believe in him,”

  “Show me evidence to the contrary…?” Isabella quipped. “Why is it so important for you to take holy orders anyway?”

  “They won’t grant me my degree otherwise,”

  “If your degree is that important to you, why don’t you just take the holy orders?” she continued.

  “It’s the principle,” he firmly stated.

  “Obstinate principles get men killed. You are being foolish. I think I was right in my original assessment of your character; you are just a spoiled child,” Isabella said as she stood to leave.

  “Don’t leave without promising me that I will see you again.”

  “You might,” Isabella said.

  “Sweet Helen…” The young man called out, trying to stop Isabella from leaving.

  “No, just Helen,” interrupted Isabella, turning back to look at him.

  “My name is Kit,” he volunteered.

  Isabella answered “I don’t believe I asked you for your name.”

  “You are quite right, you didn’t, but I knew you wanted to know what it was,” Isabella sighed and said, “Kit, you have to grow up some day go and do something to make yourself into a man. Your flippant attitude to life will get you nowhere, or worse, it will get you killed.”

  Isabella left. She liked this man. He was charming, but not unique enough to keep her interest for long. The following evening she overheard a conversation discussing the young man in a nearby alehouse.

  “But we cannot award him a degree. He refuses to take holy orders.”

  “But he is genuinely gifted. He will be famous some day and we will be the ones that will be criticised for not giving him his degree.”

  “I think, personally, I will be famous on my own merit.”

  The other man laughed at this man’s absurdity.

  “No sir. If we are famous, it will only be because of our association with him,” said another.

  “We’ll see.” The man who spoke these words got up and left.

  Isabella decided to follow him. She stirred up the wind and fog so that the street this man was walking down was filled with it. The fog was making it difficult for the man to see and the rustling wind was making it hard for the man to hear. He became frightened and began to run. He sensed he was in danger. Isabella tripped him. He fell, trying desperately to see who had caused him to fall, but he could see nothing. He had begun to think he was about meet his maker, and then Isabella started to speak to him.

  “Let the boy have his degree.”

  “What?” the man whispered, looking frantically around him to see where the voice was coming from.

  She repeated herself, “I said let the boy have his degree.”

  “Who are you?” the man asked.

  “That’s not important—you must let the boy have his degree,” Isabella repeated more slowly.

  “Who are you?”

  Isabella was losing patience with him. She stepped on the man’s leg and pushed on it to the point of breaking.

  “Let the boy have his degree!” Isabella said through clenched teeth. “I will not say it again,”

  “I will…I will!” The man eventually complied.

  “Good,” she said.

  “But please tell me who you are,” he pleaded.

  “I am…” Isabella thought for a moment, “Sweet Helen,” she replied.

  The next
day the man visited Kit.

  “We have decided to award you your degree, whether you take orders or not.”

  “That is very kind of you,” Kit said ironically. “What made you change your mind?” he enquired.

  “It was always our intention to grant you your degree.”

  Kit knew this to be a lie.

  The man got up to leave and just before he walked out the door he turned back to Kit and asked, “Do you know of anyone who calls herself sweet Helen?”

  Kit looked at the man and smiled, but made no reply.

  Three years passed and Vlad and Isabella were still in England. In fact Vlad hinted about permanently moving there. Isabella hated the idea but she went along with it for the moment. She had never seen Vlad so content. She enjoyed seeing him this way. They were fairly happy together, although Isabella was obviously bored with England. She hated being stuck in one place for so long.

  They still occupied the same house near London and Isabella would amuse herself by going into London often. The two had even managed to be accepted into Elizabeth’s court at Richmond Palace. They would often go there to see the plays that were performed for the Queen. On a day in June, Isabella and Vlad were at the Palace. Isabella was unexcited by the play that was being performed; she crept out to look around the impressive building she was in.

  When Elizabeth took over the reign from her sister, she had put it upon herself to add to the depleted treasury, and restore England to its former greatness. This was evident in every palace she occupied. Palaces by their very nature were opulent, but Richmond far surpassed any that Isabella had ever seen.

  It could only be approached by boat on the river Thames. Anyone entering would cross the threshold into the grand hall, which was spectacular. The ceiling of this room was as high as the roof of most people’s homes. A majestic fireplace was the centre point of the hall and it stood well above Isabella’s head. There were great works of art on every wall. Everything from Hilliard’s miniatures to Holbein’s portraits of Henry VIII. Golden candelabras stood on every mantelpiece and every table. The ladies-in-waiting that glided through the hall wore dresses that were made with only the finest of silks and satins, and the diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds woven into the cloth sparkled from their bodices. Everyone looked so exquisite. Isabella had given into temptation and stolen a few for herself. She told herself she had done this only to ensure that she fitted into this society.

  On the next floor, in the bedroom chambers that used to contain hard wooden beds in the days of Mary, the Queen’s sister, there were now beds covered with mattresses filled with feathers. The world was changing, becoming more and more luxuriant, and even Isabella had to admit that England was the place where these changes were most evident. After all, Elizabeth had enabled this time to be thought of as the golden age.

  Isabella’s exploration of the palace was interrupted by someone whispering in her ear.

  “Ah, Sweet Helen.” Isabella was struck by a familiar voice. She turned around to see Kit. She could not help but notice his clothes; he made her Juliet gown look dull and unremarkable. His tunic was a midnight blue with gold threads intertwined all the way through it. It glistened even in the dim lighting of the room. His silken ivory chemise was visible at the collar, and lace ran all around the outer edge. He looked terribly extravagant; she almost laughed at the sight of him.

  “Kit,” Isabella said, “have you grown up yet? By your dress I am not sure you have.”

  “Why should only the women have the elegant attire?” Kit answered.

  “Yes, you are definitely still a child,” Isabella replied.

  “Why are you always so critical of me?” Kit asked.

  “I suppose you are right; I don’t have the right to criticise anyone. So why are you here? I didn’t think a conspirator like you would be allowed in the Queen’s palace.”

  “I have acquired friends in high places.”

  “You have”

  “I have. You told me to grow up, didn’t you, and I have become a spy.”

  Isabella roared with laughter. “A spy! Who would make you a spy? You are hardly discreet.”

  “That does seem to be a problem.”

  Isabella laughed again, not believing a word Kit was telling her.

  “Why are you really here, Kit?”

  He hesitated and then renewed his smile and answered her, “I am here to see Edward Alleyn. I am going to write for his Admiral’s Men.”

  “More comedies, I suppose.”

  “Would you prefer something more tragic?”

  “I certainly would. At least it would be a change. You should write about some of these great leaders that are in these pictures; surely they have better stories to tell an audience?”

  “You may be right,” Kit answered.

  “You should know Kit, I am always right,” Isabella answered.

  “You certainly are, or at least you have been so far.” The pair heard the sound of applause coming from the other room. The play was obviously over.

  “Well, I think this brings our conversation to an end,” Isabella stated.

  “Why should it? Don’t tell me you have an old oppressive husband who would not like you talking to a younger, more handsome man.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, I have a young gloriously handsome husband who would never be jealous of anyone who had such a meagre standing as yourself.” Vlad now appeared at Isabella’s arm.

  “Helen,” Vlad interrupted, summoning Isabella to come with him.

  “I will take my leave of you,” Kit said, completely ignoring Vlad. Kit lifted up Isabella’s hand and kissed it, never taking his eyes away from Isabella’s face. This angered Vlad but as always he kept his feelings hidden, knowing that Isabella would take any visible sign of his jealousy as a compliment. But Isabella was much cleverer than that. She knew this had annoyed him, but she said nothing.

  Isabella lifted up the side of her skirt so she could turn to face Vlad and stretched out her hand for Vlad to take it. He did so and Isabella walked to the front hall and down the steps.

  “Who was that?” Vlad asked.

  “No one of any importance,” said Isabella, smiling to herself. Vlad noticed her self-indulgent smile and turned to see the man that had been so insolent, and so familiar with his Isabella. Kit was watching Isabella still. Vlad was furious. This man’s face was etched on Vlad’s memory—he would come to regret his familiarity.

  As Isabella stepped up into the carriage that was to take the pair home, she turned to see Kit, and now she too noticed that he was still smiling at her. Vlad and Isabella did not speak about these events, but Vlad knew that this sort of attention flattered Isabella and she loved to be flattered. Isabella knew that Vlad was angry so she would stay close to home for awhile to make sure that Kit was safe from harm.

  Isabella became very attentive to Vlad over the next few months and all thoughts of Kit left her mind. The pair hunted, slept and ate together. The ensuing months, were actually quite happy for the two Vampires, but like all other happy times that the pair had shared, it was fleeting. This time their happiness was to be interrupted by an invitation to a play.

  It came in the morning when both Vampires had just gone to sleep. Unfortunately for Isabella, Vlad was the first to awaken and he saw the invitation. Vlad opened it and read the contents; he then resealed it with hot wax. He placed it where it would look as if he had not seen it.

  Isabella awoke an hour later just as Vlad knew she would. She tried to conceal it from him and acted as if nothing had arrived for her. Vlad thought she was concealing it because she favoured, even loved Kit. He was right to some degree, but he was in no danger of losing Isabella to Kit. By concealing the letter she thought that she was ensuring Kit’s safety from Vlad’s jealousy.

  Isabella went into the other room to take a better look at the invitation. It said, “You are formally invited to a showing of the play, a tragedy, Tamburlaine the Great.” Isabella was quite flattered by the inv
itation and would try to get to see Kit’s play.

  Isabella attended the play and although she was unaware of it, Vlad also attended. Kit observed Isabella in the crowd and after the play was over he went to find her.

  “Did you like the play?” Kit began.

  “It was different,” Isabella answered.

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I have the feeling that is about the greatest compliment I will ever get from you.”

  “My grandfather always taught me never to praise those who praise themselves.”

  “He was very wise,” Kit remarked.

  “He was,” Isabella answered.

  “What other things did your grandfather teach you?” Kit’s tone of voice now changed; all of a sudden he was trying to be sincere. “What I mean to say is, I want to get to know you, Helen.”

  Vlad, who was standing out of sight of the pair, decided to break into their conversation.

  “Helen, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Vlad said. Obviously lying, he motioned to Kit and asked, “Helen, are you not going to introduce me to your friend?”

  Isabella was now obviously anxious but she should have known Vlad would follow her.

  “This is Edward Hawthorne, my husband—this is Kit, the writer of the play and an acquaintance of mine,” Isabella said politely.

  “An acquaintance…I am sorry, Kit was it? I always wonder where my wife finds time to make her acquaintances.”

  “Your wife is an independent woman, sir,” replied Kit. His previous sincerity had now completely dissipated and was now replaced with disdain. “I am sure you have many acquaintances that she does not know about.”

  Isabella knew that Vlad saw this as insolence and thought it would be better to take Vlad and leave. “I think on that note we will leave; it was nice to see you again Kit and I enjoyed your play very much. Let us go, Edward.”

  Vlad was staring maliciously at Kit and Isabella tugged him on his arm. He turned his head swiftly towards Isabella and threw her a venomous look. It was a look that would have scared or at least silenced most people, but not Isabella.