As soon as he had had his fill, he changed back to his human form and he sat on the bed by Margaret’s cadaver. Once again, he was filled with a terrible self-loathing and sorrow. He had loved her once, and now he had murdered her.
“Oh, God, no! Not again! Oh, what have I become?” he cried, placing his face in his hands.
He stood up and paced around the room. What was he going to do with the bodies? Someone was sure to come check on them sooner or later. He thought of different ways: taking each one to the river, which was very close by. But then he had a new idea; he would simply leave them together on the bed. He lifted Lord Pussett and placed him atop Lady Margaret, giving the impression that they had been copulating. He thought he would make it look as though they had killed each other in bed. That there was little blood in evidence did not occur to him.
Next, from Pussett’s belt, he unsheathed a dagger and placed it in the deceased man’s hand. He looked through Margaret’s jewellery box and found the pearl necklace he had once given her, and the pendant that held a miniature of himself. Perhaps one day he would find someone who really deserved such a gift. He stuffed the necklace into his inside pocket. He made for the window and was ready to exit when he heard the barking of several little dogs.
Charles!
Henry’s eyes alighted upon the door. He rushed over and gently turned the knob to open it. He saw his brother, dressed in mourning clothes, surrounded by a few of his beloved spaniels, walking towards the fops next door. A drunken John Wilmot, the bawdy poet, and Charles Sedley — another profligate man, followed his brother. His brother looked very tired and great dark circles were under his black eyes. Henry wanted so much to run out into the hall and say, “I have returned, brother!” but he knew that he was not what he once was. He turned to the two corpses now upon the bed.
Nay, he thought, I cannot. He had been unable to control the beast within him and suddenly it dawned on him that he could possibly attack and kill his own brother. This he simply wouldn’t allow.
Until he learned how to dominate the evil form, he swore he would stay away from his family. Heaven only knew how long that would be.
Chapter 8:
Sanguinem Castle
Dejected by the understanding that he had become so altered a man, Henry felt alone and friendless. Faced with no other choice, he returned to Griselda’s terraced house by St. James’s Park. His cheeks were now rosy, and she was pleased with this. It meant that Henry had fed once more and she no longer had to be concerned that he would fade into the ghost world. Henry had come to the realisation that, although he abhorred taking the life of a human, abstinence from daily killing only led to mass atrocities such as the eating-house disaster. In order to control his frenzied appetite for blood, he had to satiate it nightly.
And so, with a heavy heart, he fed upon the wretches Griselda had imprisoned in the cellar, and he seemingly resigned himself to his new and horrible life. He, in fact, had not given in wholeheartedly to the Darkness, but waited patiently for an opportunity to escape from Griselda once he was able to control the beast within. He hoped, and he acknowledged this was an irrational hope, that he might yet be able to live some kind of normal life. He played his part well, and she was very pleased with the sudden change in his behaviour. Every night, after they had dined together, she would attempt to seduce him. He allowed her to kiss him, but nothing more than that. Anything more would feel like a betrayal of the man he once was. He hoped and prayed that he could one day be free of the loathsome Renaissance vampiress.
Together, dressed in elegant attire and both wearing vizards — black masks helpful for maintaining anonymity in public places — they would often attend the playhouses. Henry found that he loved the theatre, and he received much pleasure in the comedies and the tragedies. It was at the plays that he could forget the monster that he was, and pretend he was still a man. And yet, it was often when he was ready to suspend his disbelief and succumb to the fantasy on the stage, that his brother, King Charles the Second, would appear in one of the boxes in the audience. This invariably made Henry remember the horrors of his new life. In one respect, however, being able to see his brother thus brought some joy into his world; for he could see that Charles was well and enjoying his life.
One fine evening in December, three months following his Begetting, he learned that his elder sister, Mary, Princess Royal and Princess of Orange, had died from smallpox. She had been happier than she had ever been since returning back to her dear England after years of misery in the Dutch Republic. She had sickened quickly, and died, aged only twenty-nine. His thoughts flew to her son, William Henry, now a ten year-old orphan, his father having died shortly before his birth. It often seemed as though his family was cursed, for none of them had been free from troubles.
How he envied Mary her death! How he wished that he, too, could have died from that common disease!
***
One early evening in March of 1661, Travers entered Griselda’s gilded bedchamber and placed some letters upon the small table by her bedside. When she awoke from her deep slumber, her eyes alighted upon these. She arose from her silken nest and quickly sifted through them one by one. She gasped when she saw familiar handwriting upon one letter in particular. She trembled as she broke the blood red wax seal and unfolded the paper.
The contents unsettled her deeply. Griselda paced around her bedchamber as she pondered over what to do. How did they find out? She had told no one and yet they summoned her. They summoned them both. She could not take Henry to them, for he was not succumbing to her wiles as she thought he would. They would learn the truth, and she would be punished. She knew they would punish her regardless now.
She entered the drawing room, where she found Henry sitting by the crackling fire as he read a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. She hid her still-trembling hands from him as he looked up at her. Despite her best efforts, he knew something was amiss. But before he could ask her what was wrong, she said with an imperious tone, “Gather what you will from your room for we shall journey north tomorrow night.”
“Why, may one ask?” he enquired, placing the book upon the table.
“You do what I say, and do not ask me questions!” she snapped. The next day she barely slept. She simply tossed and turned in the darkness of her thick curtained bed like some common human woman fretting with worry. How did they find out? Had Travers betrayed her? Perhaps the followers of the Other had been spying on her and sent word to the Council? She asked herself these questions over and over again. But no matter how much she thought on the matter, she knew she must go.
***
They travelled north from London, up the bumpy ancient Roman road up to where Bedfordshire, Northamptonshire, and Buckinghamshire meet, and there, in the midst of a great wood, there stood an imposing Gothic castle, in a state of great dilapidation. It towered above them like a small greenish-grey mountain, with crumbling walls clad in heavy growth of ivy. The ancient moat, which surrounded the great building, was large and full of foul, stagnant water and contained the bodies of many a fallen knight. Great sieges had taken place in the castle’s history, and much blood had been shed.
“Sanguinem Castle,” Griselda said, proudly, lifting her nose in the air.
“Castle of Blood,” Henry translated, with a shiver.
She looked up at her tall progeny. “This is my gift to you, my own, and the deeds are in your name. I had Travers take care of it all. Are you not pleased?”
“You are most generous,” he said with a little bow. “Although, I fear it could do with some work.” In truth, it needed a substantial amount of restoration.
“Why, yes,” she agreed, “but we have the rest of time to bring it back to its former glory.”
“And you, where shall you live?” asked Henry, half-knowing what her answer would be.
“Here, with you, of course.”
He cringed at the thought of living forevermore with the monster-woman, but he nevertheless feigned content
ment.
“I will, however, have to leave shortly.” Istanbul was a long journey away. They wanted her to bring Henry, but he still refused to bed her. Without him accepting her as his mate, she knew what they would say about that.
Henry stifled a sigh of relief as he realised his prayers had been answered. Griselda di Cuorenero would soon be gone.
“May I ask for what purpose?” he asked. This could be his chance to break free from her.
She beamed. “You will miss me! I am glad of it. I have merely been instructed to meet with others of our kind, and tell them that I have begat a new vampire. If that goes well, I shall then ask for us to be permitted to unite.” She did not explain why she had to ask for permission, but it stemmed from her time with Adolphe all those years before. She had committed a crime against her own kind, and her judgement would forever now be in question.
“Unite?” he asked with a shudder. He had wanted to ask about the others, how many of them there were, but Griselda’s plans made him forget all about that.
“Aye, for you are to be my husband.”
“You must be joking! Have I no say in this?” This was turning into some nightmarish farce. He could not stomach the pretence any longer.
“And what possible reason could you have to refuse me?” she was irritated, and placed one elegant hand on the crest of her hipbone. Her yellow-green eyes glowed brighter in her anger.
“I do not love you,” he replied honestly. Love her? I do not even like her.
She moved her head to a sharp angle. “You need time to reflect upon your new situation. I will soon give you ample time to think on our impending union. You will be faithful to me whilst I am away. But should you decide not to wed me upon my return, mark my words, I will have vengeance; for no one crosses Griselda di Cuorenero and gets away with it.”
He nodded at this highly probable statement, for he had seen how easily angered she was apt to be. Griselda seemed to be ignorant of the fact that her hostile manner of seduction would never work with a man like Henry.
They then explored the crumbling castle together, Henry believing he could perhaps hide away in this decaying building forever.
Built upon the original motte-and-bailey structure, the imposing fortress had been redeveloped over hundreds of years. It boasted an imposing façade, full of gargoyles and carved stone depictions of both saints and scenes of battle. It reminded him greatly of both Westminster Abbey and the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris. Henry was struck with the feeling that this was odd because this was a castle, not a place of worship, though there was bound to be a chapel on the grounds.
From above, it would have looked like the number eight, with six large turrets dotted around its circumference. Around the whole of the great building there were cross-shaped slits for the castle’s defending archers. These openings were now heavily obfuscated by centuries of cobwebs.
The interior ward of this structure was enormous, with one large fountain, which was now clogged and overrun by weeds. Where once there was a large area set aside for stables, now was a pile of rotting timber beams. The bowels of the castle contained ancient dungeons, and in these, lay the bones of several unfortunates. There were oxidised chains, and old Mediaeval torture devices, including a rotting rack and a Judas Chair.
It was in a dilapidated state, the smell of decrepitude and damp permeated its three hundred rooms. There was, however, evidence of its former splendour; for by some miracle, there were costly mediaeval tapestries hanging upon the stone walls, a throne room upon which stood a throne used by the lord of the castle long ago. Henry could imagine how it might have been: torches surrounding the great chamber and down the halls, and the ladies and knights in attendance to their lord. But they were all of them now dead, perhaps their ghosts haunted these very rooms. Pigeon coos echoed down the stone passageways and a constant dripping sound from the many leaks could also be heard.
Throughout the castle, there grew vines of ivy and trailing roses of a crimson colour, the scent from which ameliorated the aforementioned odour already present. Some rooms were particularly damaged, as the roof had collapsed in certain places, exposing the contents to the elements. This, in turn, caused there to be a terrible draught, which howled like souls in torment.
A once-great library also lay in ruins, and the many calf-skinned-covered books had pages, which were warped and puckered with damp, and infested with mould. Henry gave an involuntary sigh at this, for he had always been an avid reader and the condition of so many books in this deplorable state made him unhappy.
In one of the rooms that lacked a roof, Henry flew up and landed softly upon one of the turreted battlements and surveyed the surrounding area. There was a dense forest surrounding the whole of the castle, perhaps some three to four miles thick.
Griselda landed softly by his side and looked out across the valley before them. The crescent moon above was vibrantly lit, and to their vampire eyes, the moonlight was as powerful as sunlight was for humans, and they could see everything clearly, even at a long distance. It was a beautiful prospect, and the gentle Spring breeze caressed them as they stood beholding it all.
“What is that place over yonder?” he asked her, pointing to the small scattering of houses at the other side of the forest. There was a prominent bell tower, which dominated the other buildings.
“That is the closest village to us — an unremarkable place full of simple-minded puritans, suitably named Coffin’s Bishop.”
“Suitably named?” he replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, I believe some rather inventive person once buried the local bishop alive in a coffin,” she chuckled.
“What a dreadful thing!” replied Henry, appalled at her flippancy.
She shrugged. “If he was as boring as most bishops, he probably deserved it. But never you mind, they’re simply a cluster of inbred country bumpkins. The advantage of this remote place is that there are easy pickings to be had. That village is an abomination, and no one will care if none of its inhabitants remain.”
Griselda stayed one week longer, but then, with a good deal of dramatic gestures and an almost comical attempt at seducing him one final time before leaving, she stepped into the hired black coach they had used to travel up from London.
Henry stood under the raised portcullis and watched with mounting joy as the carriage — and Griselda — continued down the dirt road south. He did not know how long she would be gone, it could be weeks, months, or years, but he was glad to be alone. He hoped, however improbably, that he had seen the last of the mad countess.
***
The next night, he decided to wander the surrounding forest in search of food. He sniffed the air, and instantly sensed a nearby human. Alone. He could not stop himself from changing into the beast again; and soon enough, he was rushing through the densely packed moonlit wood and found a man asleep beside a dying fire. By the impoverished state of his apparel, he could tell that the man was probably a vagrant. He clamped his dreadful teeth into his unsuspecting victim’s neck and sucked and drank until he had taken his fill. The heady scent of the iron-rich substance was intoxicatingly good and the remnants of its exquisite taste lingered powerfully upon his palate.
After this came another wave of self-hatred and regret. Henry briefly thought he could feed only upon animals, but he soon realised that their blood was useless to him, for it was most inadequate for the needs of his body. No matter how much he detested the idea, his body required human blood. Henry had an unshakeable aversion to feeding upon healthy humans, no matter how delectable their blood was. And so he decided to choose to feed off only those who were already suffering terribly from disease or injured. In other words, he thought he would be an angel of mercy and not of death.
His new home being at the crossroads of three large counties meant that he had greater access to more people. It wasn’t as good as a large town, or a city like London, in which serial killers, such as he was, could go on forever without suspicion. In the coun
tryside, however, he had to be careful, and so he would sometimes travel a long way before hunting for prey. There were many people who were suffering, for there was no end to the amount of diseases that were spreading about. People suffered from intestinal worms, gout, sexually transmitted ailments like syphilis, which eventually rendered them mad, and others. He found that the places where vice was most prevalent were the places in which he could feed with less remorse.
His brother’s favourite getaway, Newmarket, had brothels and horse-racing and attracted many unsavoury types, and he went thither to feed upon those degenerates. Whilst the guilt of taking a human life consumed him daily, he felt a little better knowing that most of his victims were criminals. And so he dined with murderous abandon.
Chapter 9:
Coffin’s Bishop
Coffin’s Bishop was the small village that Henry had observed from atop Sanguinem Castle, but it was not so non-descript as Griselda had implied. There was an evil that resided in that village, but it was not of the supernatural variety. It lay in the midst of nowhere, one might say. Lying in the Sanguinem Valley, Coffin’s Bishop had three-quarters of its village surrounded by Sanguinem Wood, and the remainder by arable land. The closest town was Northampton, and that took a good four hours to reach by horse, if the roads were good.
It had a population of some thirty, most of which were farmers, a clergyman, a magistrate, and the rest were women since their husbands, fathers, and sons had died in the Civil War. The town was in a state of dilapidation almost as bad as Sanguinem Castle, but in one respect, it was even worse. Unlike the abandoned castle, the village had people who could repair the leaking roofs, mend the fences, and pave the roads. Yet none of them could be bothered to do so. The interior of most homes suffered from rising damp and the pervasive stench of mould was ever present, clinging to the villagers’ clothing and furniture like a curse.
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