Nothing could have prepared Henry for the darkness that was soon to come. A disease far deadlier, far more accursed than common smallpox, would soon poison his blood, turning him from a human prince and into a creature of the night. Death would have been preferable to the eternal night that would soon befall him. His brothers, the King and the Duke of York sat by his side; they had gone through so much together, and now they waited for him — the youngest of the three boys — to pull through the disease, as they had done. Their mother, Queen Dowager Henrietta Maria — a Catholic — refused to visit her ailing youngest son. Since their argument, they had not reconciled. She could never forgive him for maintaining his Protestantism, and when she was told that he had contracted smallpox, maternal concern barely registered on her face. She believed that he was already damned. She couldn’t bear to see a son who would soon be in the torments of Hell, and so, in her mind, Henry was already dead.
The King and the Duke of York, after hours of sitting beside their brother, became exhausted, and bid him goodnight before retiring to their own beds.
Charles then spoke with one of the attending physicians, but spoke so quietly Henry could not hear a word he said. The doctor had no such concerns, and spoke audibly; “His Grace has every chance of pulling through, in fact, I believe he has passed the worst of it. If he makes it through tonight, he will be well.” He had good cause for such optimism, for Henry was strong, fit, and healthy. He had always been active, possessed a hearty appetite, and was rarely ill.
Henry knitted his brows at this, for a creeping sense of terror had come upon him. He reached out to James, who was sitting on the bed now beside him. Pulling him by his white shirtsleeves, he cried, “Brother! Tell Mother I am sorry for how things ended between us.” He wept, his clear salt tears trickling down his ravaged face, for he now thought that their estrangement over their differing opinions on religion now seemed absurd and trivial.
James’s steely blue-grey eyes sought his brother’s dark brown.
“Shhh… she knows, Harry,” he said, soothingly.
The middle son remembered their mother’s little face and her tiny frame. She was unquestionably a potent fragrance inside a tiny bottle, a plucky, dictatorial, but strangely lovable creature. He himself had increasing reservations about the Anglican faith, which he was supposed to espouse, being a prince, but in his heart, he was as much a Catholic as their mother was.
Charles returned to his brothers and patted Henry on the leg. “The learned doctor has told us we must leave you in peace to rest. I’ll have you back on that tennis court by next month, I will!” he smiled.
Henry, with great foreboding called out, “Brothers, pray do not go! I fear I shall die this night.”
Charles and James exchanged concerned looks with each other.
“Henry, calm thyself, this goodly physician here will stay by your side and attend to you. You must fight this, as we have fought it before.”
“You must not leave me!” Henry pleaded. “Please, I beg of you!”
“Oh, come now, man, have no fear. You have this esteemed gentleman here to look after you and dozens of servants right outside that door. You needn’t concern yourself about anything other than getting better. Goodnight, brother.”
With that, the King left. James stayed a minute or two longer, before the physician repeated the need for the Duke to get some rest. James reached for his brother’s hand.
“Now you must rest well, and we’ll see thee in the morning. Goodnight, Harry.”
His brother left quietly, but he could hear his footsteps echo down the old corridor. “Please don’t leave me,” he whispered to himself now in vain. The hours went by slowly, and Henry drew in and out of delirium; and the draught of wind whistled through the tiny gaps in the casement window opposite the foot of his bed. The orange fire in the hearth by the left side of his bed crackled as the wood was consumed, and the pungent scent of the herbs the physician had used was almost overpowering.
The strange feeling of doom rose in his chest again and Henry could hear his heart beating loudly within his chest, as his body tried to fight off the disease. Turning his pustule-riddled face to his right, he saw the drooped figure of his physician in a chair, fast asleep, and breathing heavily. His eye momentarily wandered to the side table, upon which lay a jar of leeches and one beeswax candle flickering wildly.
When Henry opened his eyes again, he was certain that he was seeing things, for there suddenly appeared a very pale face outside the window. It was the face of a very beautiful woman, like the Madonna from a Botticelli painting, with golden blonde hair that seemed to float about her exquisite visage.
Henry thought he was probably going mad, that the smallpox was warping his brain, for there were no steps out there on the exterior of Somerset House – nothing for her to stand upon. He blinked several times, but she was still there, hovering outside his window. Was she an angel come down to take him to Heaven? Is this what he had been dreading would come? But her eyes made him tremble with fear, not love.
That creature was still outside his window — her eyes flashing a shade of green that Henry had never seen before — almost as striking as a firefly in the depth of night. The eyes seemed to get closer, and closer…
Chapter 2:
The Renaissance Vampiress
…the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.
-1 Peter 5:8
Griselda Francesca, Contessa di Cuorenero, was born in 1403 to one of the most illustrious houses in the Veneto. Her fourteen-year-old mother, Caterina, had lost her life bringing her daughter into the world; and her widower father, Leonato di Cuorenero, had indulged the child beyond redemption. It seemed a miracle that in a time of pestilence and high infant mortality, Griselda had flourished. She even seemed to have been kissed in her cradle by Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty herself, for she was more lovely, more enchanting than any other.
By the time Griselda was thirteen, she was capable of entrancing men from any station; from the most common beggar to the greatest of princes, none were immune from her charms. She relished this power she held over men. She was proficient in the arts of seduction and knew that with only one carefully placed look, she could make any man fall to her feet in love, or at least lust. No woman, with perhaps the exception of Helen of Troy could have done so well as she.
A celebrated beauty in her time, with hair as golden as the sun, a figure tall and slim, with skin that was the most perfectly smooth and white. Her hands, which had never known a day’s work, were soft; her fingers long and elegant, and fingernails buffed into smoothness. Her face was slender and oval-shaped, with a fashionably high forehead. Her golden eyebrows were thin and softly rounded, and set off her large blue eyes — the colour of which many described as being like the stone lapis lazuli. Her mouth was small and delicate, her lips curved and the colour of ripe lingonberries. She always carried a little posy of rosemary, and this scent always enveloped her wherever she went.
Griselda often wore high-waisted, dark blue-coloured houppelande dresses, with their long, fur-trimmed sleeves. She always chose a dark shade of either green or blue to complement her sparkling eyes. She abhorred wimples, and preferred a shocking style of her own. Her golden hair, parted in the middle was covered only by the thinnest of veils, held in place by a golden circlet. She was thought by other noblewomen to be reckless and disgraceful, showing an immodesty that was thought unbecoming in a countess. She ignored the criticisms and walked as proudly and gracefully as the muses of old might have; and she had elegant mannerisms. In other words, she was the perfect Renaissance beauty.
Masters such as Donatello, Masaccio, and others found in her a worthy muse, and her likeness was carved into stone and painted upon canvases which then adorned the wealthiest of homes. And whilst her mother’s dying wish had been to name her daughter after a noble character in Giovanni Boccaccio’s Decameron, in which Griselda was patient, and virtuous, and obedient, their Grise
lda was none of those things, and never would be.
It was a dark time, for plague and disease had decimated the populations throughout the known world. Dozens of suitors sought her hand in matrimony — men of station and wealth travelled from near and far to behold the stunning Contessa di Cuorenero. Some of these suitors even came to blows over who could pass Griselda her favourite dish of figs stuffed with honeyed pine nuts, or pour more wine into her jewel-encrusted gold goblet.
She refused all of her many suitors, for none of them were handsome enough, wealthy enough, or exciting enough to tempt her. By sheer fluke of birth and nature, she wielded power. As with so many spoiled persons, Griselda was constantly bored. The sumptuous, golden banquets, the dances, the music, the adoring suitors all became tedious. And so when she was seventeen, she maliciously led on one of these suitors for sport. She quickly tired of him, of course, and broke her affair with the young man, who, broken-hearted, promptly hanged himself. Did this tragedy affect the vain Countess? Not a whit.
One thing, however, escaped her notice — time eventually began to ravage her beauty. She who had blossomed early began to feel the progress of age. At twenty-eight, she began to see her bloom fade, and could not understand it. Her sneers of disdain deepened into frown lines and she became distressed upon seeing these in the reflection of her looking-glass. Her skin had started to sag, as did her breasts, and her cheeks lost their formerly rosy flush. Her vanity knew no bounds, for beauty, in her eyes, was the most important thing a woman could possess; and without it, what kind of power could she hold? How could she be loved? She had never cultivated any skills nor had any interest in doing so.
Griselda’s increasing desperation to hold onto her youth and beauty became well known throughout the Kingdoms. She tried a multitude of potions, bathed in milk, and inspected her face almost religiously several times a day.
Her beauty had become her God.
She used her family’s wealth and power to summon old crones from the enchanted wood to come and advise her; wise men from across the Adriatic Sea consulted her, and cast spells upon her. She continued her milk baths, rubbed honey into her skin, and refused to go into the sunlight. She even tried the ancient cream of Galen, which made her skin softer but did not smooth away the wrinkles or strengthen her drooping flesh. Try as she might, nothing seemed to work; nothing could halt the progress of time, of decay.
When her father was drowned as his merchant ship capsized in the Adriatic Sea in 1441, it became all the more important that Griselda marry. But the now thirty-three-year-old had become so consumed with her vanity that she shed not a single tear for her deceased father. She never wept for others, for everyone else, including her father, were insignificant in comparison to her. Leonato’s funeral was brief, the mourners few, and Griselda soon forgot him. She was truly alone in the world then, the rest of her family having long since died from the bubonic plague, which continued to wreak havoc. Now Countess di Cuorenero, Griselda held dominion over the palazzo and lands with crushing power, and no one could thwart her desires now.
***
One night, as a grey-blue fog encompassed the surrounding land of the ostentatious palazzo in which she lived, wolves howled in the distance, and the moon shone brightly above, she sat bathing. A thick white linen fabric, which hung from a circular canopy suspended from the ceiling, kept out the draught as it encircled the round, wooden bath. This bath stood upon a raised platform, with a fireplace behind on one side and a set of windows before it, which were now closed with shutters. The circular stone room, which also housed her magnificent bedchamber, was located in the highest tower of the palace, and dozens of candles provided light whilst she made her ablutions.
Griselda sat upright in her blood bath — her latest tactic against the battle with age — and she rubbed her creamy white skin in the thick crimson fluid. At first she had been mildly disgusted by the idea and so she added water to this mixture. Her mind, however, warped and twisted with the desire to find a way to sustain her beauty, believed she had found a way to preserve it all. She let herself believe that it improved the quality and texture of her skin. She then lay back, resting her spine against the soft cloth padding which rimmed her bath. Her glorious golden hair was bound up in a turban and she closed her eyes in relaxation. She heard the waves crashing against the rocky foundations of her palace and the soft chanting of monks from the nearby monastery of San Giorgio.
Suddenly, the shutters began rattling, and then burst open, sending in a strong gust of wind that blew out all of the candles. Moonlight now shone into the circular room. Griselda shuddered, feeling another presence in her private bathing room. The downy hairs upon her arms prickled up from her skin with fear — it was a disconcerting feeling — one that she rarely, if ever, had encountered before.
The howling wind sent the wall hangings and curtains floating about like ghostly wraiths in the moonlit darkness. “Who’s there? Who dares disturb me in my privy chamber?”
“That is no ordinary bath you are having,” responded a strangely deep male voice, speaking Italian with a peculiar yet enthralling accent she had never heard before. “’Tis said, my lady, that you have found that blood makes you more lovely.”
“Aye, and animal blood is easily spilled,” she said, with her characteristic coldness. “Who are you? How did you get in here? Answer me at once or I shall be forced to scream!”
The man moved and stood before the casement window, the pale moonlight silhouetting him perfectly. She could not see his face.
“One who knows of your plight; a friend, if you so choose. If you do not, screaming will not help you.”
She raised her nose up in disdain. “I do not need a friend.”
“You seek immortal beauty, do you not? Beauty that will ne’er grow old, ne’er weaken, ne’er alter.”
“Aye!” she hissed, covetously. “Why all this talk? If you have the means to make this so, give it me!”
“There is a price…”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, impatiently, “and I will see to it that my steward pays you handsomely for your help, just give it me!”
“I do not seek coin. I can give you that which you most desire. But in exchange for eternal youth and beauty, you must give me your soul. You must serve me and do my bidding now and for all time.”
Griselda laughed. “What a ridiculous notion!”
She thought she heard him snarl. “This is no laughing matter!” he barked.
Griselda grew serious. “Will you not show me your face, Sir?”
“Yes, but you find me the handsomest man you’ve ever seen, and that is why I wish for your answer now. You will not be able to refuse me anything once you have laid your eyes upon me.”
“I doubt that highly,” she retorted, unimpressed. “I have seen all of the great princes of the land, and none of them could tempt me.”
Suddenly, all of the candles ignited as if by magic, but instead of a soft yellow-orange light, they cast a red hue upon the room. Red to almost match the crimson of the bath in which she lay. Griselda’s eyes widened as she beheld the man with whom she had been conversing.
He was a veritable Adonis, with hair as golden as hers tumbling down to his shoulders, red lips, thick fair eyebrows and eyelashes over eyes of green-yellow that mesmerised her utterly. He was tall and well-built, with a muscular body, which was more likely to be found on a labourer than an aristocrat. He wore a rich black velvet doublet and red hose.
“Am I not the handsomest man you have ever seen?”
He was completely magnetic, and she had never felt so enthralled by a man as she now felt with him before her. “I would not have believed it, but yes, yes, you are!”
Shocked at her unveiled eagerness, Griselda stood up in her bath, and the blood slid down the contours of her figure. “And am I not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen?”
“Yes, your beauty is extolled throughout the world. That is why I have travelled from afar to make a pact with
you. I can give you what you want, but you must be my concubine of darkness forevermore.”
“What is your name?” asked Griselda, excited and frightened all at once.
“I have had many names given to me in my time,” he replied, skilfully avoiding the question. “I am a Prince where I come from, and therefore, you may address me in the manner that befits my station.”
This made her laugh again. At this, he jumped up onto the platform where she stood and pushed her back down into the tub with a great splash. He leant over her, anger blazing in his green-yellow eyes.
“In order for this to work, Contessa, you shall have to take this seriously and do what I say.” He turned then, and walked to the open window. “Tell your maidservant that you are not to be disturbed for eight days.”
“Why eight days?” she asked, looking up at the handsome, volatile stranger.
“It took God six days to create the world, and then came the seventh day, the day of rest, followed by the finished product. Eight days. But you must first swear fealty to me.”
Her eyes narrowed as she wondered why making her stay young had anything to do with God and all that nonsense. Beauty and immortality could possibly be within her grasp at last, she thought, and there was no way this handsome man could have her soul! A few little lies were all that was needed, so she begrudgingly said, “You have my word. I will give you my soul in exchange for eternal youth and beauty. I shall be your servant, Your Highness. I shall instruct my maidservant as you bade me do.”
He smiled at this and offered her his hand, which she accepted and he gently pulled her to her feet. She slowly stepped out of the bath, bloody water pooling onto the floor beneath her, and pulled on her robe. She stepped into her slippers, walked to her chamber door and turned the iron latch.
Her maid, who had been dozing, stood up immediately and gave a quick curtsey. Griselda gave a little cruel smile, for the young woman was obviously terrified of her.
The Stuart Vampire Page 3