by Lucy Blue
“What do you mean?” Isabel asked, genuinely confused.
“Sir Simon kissed you,” she answered. “I saw it through the window of the solar, and so did Brautus and Tom.” Her grin widened. “I told you he wanted you.”
“Good night, Susannah.” She hurried for the stairs, her face burning scarlet, though she supposed she ought not to have been surprised. The steps leading up to the castle were hardly the most private spot for a tryst.
She made it to her room and slammed the door, heart pounding, and a voice spoke from behind her. “So that’s the end of it.”
“Brautus!” She whirled around to find him in a chair by the window, propped up on the pillows from her bed. “Are you in pain?” she said more calmly. “Shouldn’t you be lying down?”
“I don’t need a nursemaid.”
“Neither do I.” She went to the desk and sat down as if that had been her purpose all along. “Susannah said you saw me kissing Simon.”
“Nay, lass, I saw him kissing you.” He turned toward her with obvious effort, his face pale and shiny with sweat. “You were just letting him do it.”
“I’m sure I’ll do better next time.” She pulled the bundle of scrolls she’d brought up from her father’s study toward her and untied the ribbon. “You needn’t worry, Brautus. He made me promise to stay away from him from now on so I don’t distract him from his quest.”
“Sure he did,” the ancient knight said with a scowl. “What is it about a pretty face that turns a sensible woman into a fool?”
“I’m certain I don’t know.” She fingered the corner of the top scroll, touching the encoded notes her father had scribbled there. If he were here to see her, would he be scolding her as well?
“Isabel, what are you thinking?” he demanded. “Have you no thought for your father’s castle, for his people—”
“When have I ever thought of anything else?” The sheer injustice of the charge was enough to drive her mad. “Who was it who secured my father’s castle tonight? Who rode out to collect his people to make certain they were safe? Simon—”
“So you were just showing your gratitude?”
“What is it to you?” He blanched as if she had struck him, and hot shame bloomed in her cheeks. Brautus had risked his life time and again to protect her and her virtue; she should have died before she questioned his concern. But he didn’t understand; she didn’t even understand herself. “Susannah is right,” she said, looking away. “You’d put me in a convent if you could.”
“I would not!” he protested.
“Then why shouldn’t I—”
“Because I do not trust this man. And neither should you. If he were a proper nobleman of name, if anyone had ever heard tell of him, if he courted you openly as a man who deserves you, I would never say him nay.”
“He isn’t courting me at all,” she insisted. “The kiss you saw… it just happened. And it won’t happen again.”
“These things do not just happen, sweeting,” he retorted. “And they always happen again.”
“Brautus, what would you have me do?” she demanded. “We need him.”
“We do not—”
“We do.” She knelt on the floor at his feet and took one scarred and aged hand between her own. “I wanted to tell you before, but there was no time.” She told him all that she had seen at the Chapel of Saint Joseph and all that had been said, both there and between her and Simon. “He doesn’t believe Michel is coming,” she finished. “But he promised to defend Charmot if he does.”
“And you believe him.” He touched her cheek with sadness in his eyes.
“I do.” She wished she could make him understand the kinship she felt with Simon, stranger that he was, a connection deeper than the blood they shared. But she knew he would still think she was a fool, that this feeling was no more than another symptom of her foolishness. “And even if I didn’t, what better choice do I have? You spoke of my father’s castle and his people. How else can I protect them?” She clasped his hand more tightly. “I would do anything to save Charmot. Surely you must know that.”
He smiled just as sadly. “Aye, poppet, I do.” He caressed her hair with his free hand, then moved as if to stand.
“Here, let me help you.” She got up to support him.
He swore a terrible oath that should have made her blush, but she said nothing. He wasn’t really swearing at the pain. He leaned on her shoulder, her arm around his waist, and she saw tears in his eyes. “Your father left you in my care, whether he meant to or not.”
“I know,” she said, fighting back tears of her own. “He left me Charmot the same way.” Bracing herself on the chair, she leaned up and kissed his cheek. “And now we will both be safe.”
She helped him to his room and into bed, neither of them saying more. What else was left to say? The candles had burned down to almost nothing when she came back to her room, but Susannah or Hannah had come in and put the pillows back and turned down the bed. No doubt they had been listening in the hallway all along.
“Your castle has ears, Papa,” she said, going back to the scrolls on the desk. “Ears and eyes and a heart.” She looked down at the code again, this mystery that he had always thought would taint her woman’s eyes. “And now, I hope, a sword.” The letters of the code had always seemed like gibberish to her, a nonsense mixture of symbols, but suddenly she noticed something. On some of the corners, the characters were written upside down.
She shuffled through the pages, turning them as she went. All of the main text was written the same way, but the text in the corners was different. Some notes were written straight up, some upside down, some sideways left or right. But always the note made a perfect triangle, each exactly the same size as the others, thirteen corners in all. She sat down to be closer to the dying light. Even with them all turned straight, the code made no sense, no words she could recognize. But one set of symbols was repeated again and again, at least once on every page. “What is this, Papa?” she whispered. “Did you mean for this to be forgotten?”
She thought of the night Simon had come and the visions he had described of her father. He said there was wisdom here, Simon had told her. Wisdom that could lead the cursed knight back to the light.
“Is this the wisdom, Papa?” she said, speaking to the empty air. “Is this what you sent him to find?” But her father did not speak to her from heaven; he did not come to her in dreams. He had loved her, but she was a woman. She could never understand.
“I will ask Simon,” she said, letting his papers fall. “Perhaps I will give them to him.”
Simon headed for the stables as soon as the sun had set the following night, determined to see for himself what lay buried at the Chapel of Saint Joseph. Malachi had indulged him the night before; he hoped he would again. “Fair evening, friend,” he murmured, ignoring the indignant snorts and whinnies of the other beasts at his approach. “Care to stretch your legs?” Malachi bobbed his head as he reached him, pushing his nose over the railings to be scratched. “There’s a lad,” he said with a grin as he obliged.
The door slammed behind him, and he was surprised to see Orlando stomping toward him as fast as his small legs would carry him. “I thought you were hungry,” the vampire said, turning back to his horse.
“You kissed her?” The little wizard was so furious, the tip of his nose looked blue-white against the flush of his cheeks. “That idiot girl inside said you kissed Lady Isabel. Is that true?”
Simon frowned over his shoulder. “What is it to you if I did?” He went to get the horse’s saddle with the dwarf all but scurrying behind him.
“What is it to me? Have you gone mad?” Simon ducked into the horse’s stall, where Orlando didn’t dare follow. “You must have.” Simon shot him a sour look as he saddled the horse but said nothing. “Do you mean to murder our hostess, the innocent creature whose kindness may mean your salvation?” He fastened the bridle, scratching the horse’s chin. “Or have you forgotten you are a vampi
re?”
“Care to shout a little louder, wizard?” Simon said. “They may not have heard you inside.”
“I am in earnest, Simon—”
“So am I.” He led the horse from its stall, whispering a word of encouragement as he went. “I haven’t forgotten anything,” he said, petting Malachi’s glossy black neck. “And I do not mean to murder anyone.”
“Perhaps you should,” Orlando retorted. “Your mind is failing from starvation, methinks.”
“Too bad you’re no more than a mouthful,” the vampire shot back. The wizard took a shocked step backward, and he smiled. “Why don’t you open that door?”
“What of your quest?” Orlando persisted, following him. “You have a duty—”
“I said I had not forgotten.” He swung into the saddle, the feeling of being on horseback soothing him again, making him feel less like a monster, whatever Orlando might say. “I’ll be back long before dawn.”
“Simon…” The dwarf hurried to open the stable doors as the horse broke into a trot.
Isabel had seen Simon crossing the courtyard and had run to her room to fetch her father’s scrolls. “Simon!” she called after him as the drawbridge was lowered, running to catch up. But he did not hear.
“I fear he has stolen your horse,” a voice spoke beside her—Orlando, coming out of the stable. “But I dare say he will be back.”
“I certainly hope so,” she said with a smile. “I’m quite attached to that horse.”
“I don’t wonder,” he answered, not smiling back. “It’s a fine animal.” He was watching her with an expression that was not entirely friendly, she realized. “Besides, he promised to defend your castle.”
“Simon? Yes, he did.” She started back toward the hall, and he followed. “He told you, of course.”
“And you promised to leave him alone.” She stopped in the archway and turned to him, surprised. “And yet here you are.”
He was smiling now, but this was still no offhand remark. “I wanted to show him—to tell him something,” she said. Just how much had Simon told his strange little servant about the night before? “I think I can help him.”
“You can’t,” he answered in a tone as cold as stone, all pretense of pleasantry fading.
“How can you be so certain?” she retorted. Her own servants did not speak to her this way; why should she bear it from him, wizard or not? “And what business is it of yours?”
“You cannot help Simon, my lady, only hurt him.” People in the hall were giving them curious looks, and she let him lead her into the solar more to avoid questions than because she cared to hear what he would say. “He is not the man you think he is, Lady Isabel, as much as he would like to be.” She saw him fumble in his pocket as if to touch something inside. “His quest is more important than you could ever guess, his vows more deadly to break.”
“Orlando, what is this curse?” she demanded. “What is this great sin he has committed?”
The corner of his mouth curled up in a wry, bitter grin. “Would that I could tell you, my lady,” he answered. “Would that I could make you understand.”
“When have I shown you anything but kindness, Orlando?” she asked. “Why should you dislike me so?”
“Dislike you? Nay, lady, I swear it is not so,” he protested. “In truth, I like you very much, more than I care to admit. It is for your protection as much as for my master’s that I would warn you.” He took her hand between his own in a warm but powerful grip. “He cares for you, I know, and I fear it. He could destroy you, my lady, destroy you body and soul.” She opened her mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stopped the words before they were spoken. “And that would destroy him.”
“Orlando, I don’t understand.” She tightened her hand around his, holding on when he would let go.
“Stay away from my master, my lady,” he answered. “I can tell you no more plainly. If you want to help him, stay away.”
Simon found the gates of the churchyard closed and barred for the night. Leaning down from Malachi’s saddle, he rang the iron bell. With any luck, the priest would not know him at all. He could entrance him again, open the grave he had made behind the chapel, and make certain Michel was where he belonged, make certain Orlando was right. And if he was not…
“Begone!” The priest had thrown open the door in the gate and was coming out holding a cross-shaped staff before him, a pottery vessel in his other hand. “Fiend from hell, begone from here, I say!”
Malachi reared up and screamed as if the cross repelled him as much as it did the vampire. “Easy,” Simon ordered, fighting to control the horse as he turned his face away, his eyes burning from the sight. “Father, please—I mean you no harm—”
“I said begone!” The old man flung the vessel with surprising strength, dousing the vampire in holy water. This time, Simon was the one who screamed, his face melting as if in flame. Malachi turned of his own accord, recoiling as the reins went slack, and through his own cries of pain, Simon heard the door slam shut again and the bolt smash home.
“Well done, Father Colin,” he muttered when he could speak. His flesh was already beginning to heal, but he still would not have dared to look into a mirror for fear of what he would see for at least a little longer. Malachi pranced and snorted, pawing the road as if angry on his rider’s behalf. “No, he did right, friend,” Simon said as he took up the reins, giving the horse a pat. “He did right.” There would be no visit to the churchyard, at least not tonight. And with the priest so vigilant, it was hard to imagine another vampire coming and going under his very nose. Perhaps Orlando was right after all.
He heard a rustle behind him and another sound that might have been a laugh, and he turned the horse in a tight circle, his right hand on his borrowed sword. “Who is there?” Malachi nickered low in his throat in alarm, a shiver running through him. “What is it?”
The glimmer of a pair of eyes stared out at him from the brush, and as he wrapped the reins more tightly around his fist to control his mount, he heard a low, throaty growl. “Steady,” he murmured, drawing his sword as the shape of the creature drew closer, black as the shadows, too black to see clearly, even with vampire eyes. Malachi snorted, more angry than fearful, and Simon smiled. “Yes, we shall have him. Whatever he is.”
Suddenly the animal sprang toward them, clearing the destrier’s shoulder in a single leap and the vampire’s head in another, its claws slashing deep into Simon’s chest and Malachi’s flank as it went. The horse whirled around with a cry of pure fury almost before the vampire tugged at the reins, plunging into the forest in pursuit.
The chase went on for miles through trees and brush so thick Simon could barely glimpse his quarry. But he could smell him, sense his malice, and apparently so could Malachi—the horse never faltered or slowed, even without a trail. Suddenly the woods opened up into a clearing—the same circle of trees where Simon had brought down the stag, he realized, slowing the horse to a walk. And standing at its center was the wolf.
Malachi reared once and stopped, facing the beast unafraid, but Simon wouldn’t risk losing the only horse in Christendom who could bear his presence. He climbed down slowly, gripping his sword, and the wolf’s yellow eyes never wavered, watching his every move. Simon had never seen himself in wolvish form, but he imagined this beast could have been his twin. Its coat was black as pitch, and its shoulders, hackles raised in warning, were as broad as Simon’s own. It bared its fangs in a snarl as the vampire drew closer, and Simon had the strange and rather horrifying thought that this was how he must appear to his prey, ravenous and cruel.
He raised the sword in his right hand and drew his dagger with his left, he and the wolf circling one another, drawing nearer with every step. For a moment, Simon wondered if this creature might be Michel, a vampire in a different predator’s shape, but he quickly dismissed the thought. A vampire would have wanted his hands as well as his teeth for a battle, would have wanted to fight as a man. His eyes locked to
the wolf’s in challenge, his lips drawing back over fangs of his own. The creature froze, and he saw a moment’s flash of fear inside his golden eyes. Then in an instant, he attacked.
He felt the animal’s full weight coming down on him as he fell backward, but he knew the wolf could not do him serious harm—even if it ripped out his throat, his vampire flesh would heal. Fangs tore at his shoulder as he raised the sword, slashing the throat of the wolf as his dagger plunged into its belly. Hot blood poured over his face, irresistible, and he drank as a man in a desert, drank until he was drunk on it, cruel life flowing into his heart.
An hour after Orlando had left her, Isabel was still in the solar, studying her mother’s half-made tapestry for the first time since she was a child. In the background was a castle that could have been Charmot, its towers rising above the fanciful wood, and the maiden looked like Isabel herself, her crimson hair falling to her knees. Crouching before her was a wolf, its head laid in her lap. Yellow eyes gazed up at her in love as she stared off into space, seemingly oblivious. But one white hand was laid upon the deadly monster’s throat.
“My lady!” Hannah was calling, running through the door. “Lady Isabel, come quickly! Sir Simon has slaughtered the wolf!”
She followed Hannah and the other women out into the courtyard where the men were already gathered, their voices raised in merry celebration. A great black shape lay on the ground before Simon—the carcass of the wolf.
“Killed him on his own, he did, in pitch-black darkness, yet!” Kevin was laughing as she drew closer.
“Is he all right?” Simon was just standing there, neither smiling nor speaking, Malachi still waiting at his back. “Simon, are you hurt?” His tunic was torn at the shoulder and chest, and he seemed to be covered in blood.
Simon looked at her, this innocent he could not have. The wolf’s blood was still coursing through his veins, creating the illusion of life, of desire, of need. Turning, he pushed Raymond and his cousin out of the way, stripping out of the ruined tunic as he went. He plunged his head into the rain barrel, washing away the blood, filling his mouth with water and spitting it out on the ground.