Grave Burden

by P. Anastasia

  “Father named him Copenhagen, but I have fondly called him Brandy, for his rich bay coat.”

  “Brandy is fitting,” I replied, lifting the horse’s leg to examine the hoof for debris or injury. I did not see anything caught in the shoe, or any broken or missing nails. A notably-sized crack did catch my eye.

  “It is quite magnificent in the spring, when the sun glints off his back as he is grazing.” The tone of the captain’s voice had softened to one of concern and kindness. By the sound of it, he cared greatly about this horse.

  Which was unfortunate, as the fate of this creature was dubious.

  I grasped onto the bridle and pulled the horse forward gently. “Walk up, Brandy.” I clicked my tongue.

  But he would not obey. Instead, he seized, and his legs went completely straight and stiff. I had felt swelling in the joints and muscle tissue, but hoped that I was mistaken.

  “What is it?” the captain asked, glancing over my shoulder. “Has he thrown a shoe?”

  “I am afraid not,” I replied, standing straight and turning to face him. “I am sorry to say that it appears your dear Brandy has foundered.”

  The captain’s eyes widened. “Foundered!? What does that mean?”

  “It is a condition sometimes caused by over-consumption of sweet grass in the spring, but,” I shrugged, “seeing that it is now winter, it is likely from…” I tried to say the word without sounding accusatory, “overfeeding.” I pointed to Brandy’s front legs. “It causes swelling and inflammation in the feet, which make the legs stiff and likely painful to move. There’s also a prominent crack in his left front hoof.”

  The captain stared at me with astonishment. “You can tell all that by looking at him?”

  “And feeling the swelling in his legs, yes.” I nodded. “I was raised on a plantation, where I trained some horses. I saw many an equine illness during my time there.”

  The captain raised a gloved hand toward his face and cupped his mouth to hide an anxious trembling lip. “What should I do with him?” he asked, gazing at me with worried eyes. “I can get him the best care possible. Money is no concern.”

  “I am afraid this may not be a financial dilemma,” I said solemnly. My lips pressed thin as I ran a few possible scenarios through my mind. Some offered hope for the creature, while most ended in death. Founder, medically known as “laminitis,” is not always fatal, but the horse can suffer complications for a lifetime, complications often ‘treated’ with euthanasia, at the time.

  “Some will recommend he be put down,” I started. The captain’s brow rose with disbelief and his jaw dropped. The sorrow in his eyes made me reconsider my diagnosis. “But,” I continued, scratching Brandy behind his ears, “I believe that should be reserved only for when Brandy, too, has lost hope. He has a soldier’s heart, no doubt. He may be able to live a quiet, peaceful life with the proper care, though his days of service to the king are over.”

  I took a step back.

  “Oh, Brandy,” the captain whispered, pressing his forehead to Brandy’s muzzle. The horse pushed back gently and affectionately. “Father will not take you away, my friend,” the captain said, his voice breaking. He heaved a breath.

  I was certain I was not supposed to have heard his comment, but my sensitive ears did, and it led me to wonder who the man’s father was.

  “You appear too young to be so knowledgeable,” he said, “but I thank you for your educated evaluation; I will have him seen again in the morning and will do whatever I can for him. What does my family owe you for your time?”

  I raised a flattened hand and shook my head. “You owe me nothing.”

  Skepticism wrinkled his brow. “I have not met a man who would do work for no pay.”

  “I work because it is a welcome respite from boredom,” I replied, truthfully.

  “Are you a nobleman, then?”

  “No.”

  “Then, why?”

  I glanced down the street toward the corner from whence I’d come. “I should be going, Sir. Pardon me, but I cannot leave the shop unattended.” I bowed my head and turned to leave.

  “Sir Stewart, wait!” He pulled Brandy’s reins, but the horse stalled, his front legs locking up again. Then he looped them over the saddle and walked briskly after me. “Please, wait.”

  I paused and turned toward him.

  “I apologize if I appeared to be prying. I was only curious about you since you seem so worldly and… I have so very much to learn. My father has sent me all over the country and the world, but none of those ventures granted me any respite from my own boredom. You, though… you have the aura of a well-traveled soul. What is it that keeps you moving forward?”

  “It is true that I have traveled much and lived in many places. It is also true that I have never found a place I consider to be my home.”

  “Is that so?” He narrowed his eyes. “Well, if you tire of your position here, would you have any interest in becoming a caretaker for my horse?”

  Leave my position at the antiquity shop and risk losing track of Kathryn’s painting?

  “I can give you time to think about it,” the captain continued, after my moment of hesitation.

  It wasn’t time I needed, just then. I preferred to keep my head down and stay amongst the common folk. But I saw something in his troubled eyes that reminded me of myself, and it made me reconsider his request.

  I also knew that if anyone else were to take hold of his gelding, they’d put him down in an instant, regardless of the captain’s sentiments. Founder was typically an acute illness that would flare up if not treated stringently and proactively. His horse could suffer bouts of stiffness and pain—days when he would be unwilling to be ridden at all.

  “How much do you want to keep that horse?” I asked, glancing at the poor creature standing listlessly in the distance.

  “Keep him? You say that as though his grave has already been prepared.”

  “In the eyes of some, it has. I have not met many veterinarians who would suggest otherwise.”

  “Oh…” He glanced back at his horse. “Well, I will not allow him to be put down, unless there remains no other choice. He’s a fine horse and fair-mannered. Calm. Listens well.”

  “Keeping him will require careful feeding and attention,” I informed him. “He could live comfortably, perhaps, but he should be retired from this work.”

  He looked off to the side. “I understand what it means to suffer in the line of duty.”

  I hadn’t quite understood what he’d meant. Perhaps he, too, endured some chronic disease.

  He cleared his throat again and tried to smile, his thick, curled mustache masking the grin. “I will ask you again, Sir, would you accept a position with me as the caretaker of my horse? My family will pay you substantially—double. No. Triple whatever that shop owner is giving you now for the petty work he has put you to.”

  “I do not consider my work to be petty,” I retorted, put off by the suggestion, though I didn’t think he had meant it maliciously. “But, I do agree it is not a prestigious job. I must ask a question of you, however. Why would you do such a thing for me? You do not even know me. How do you know you can trust me?”

  “Your eyes tell a great deal about you,” he said firmly, staring back at me. “You say you work to escape boredom and that money is not a matter that concerns you… but I see a man who has faced many perils and one who carries many burdens. We have much in common in that regard. You have the air of a man who can be trusted.”

  I thought on it, studying him intently as I contemplated his offer. I could go back to seeking out Kathryn’s painting as soon as the captain’s horse recovered enough to be cared for by another. Or maybe the connection could assist me in my search.

  “I must keep certain hours, for personal reasons,” I said flatly.

  He tipped his head. “You may come and go as you wish.”

  I paused to assure myself that I was making the
right decision. “Then I accept your proposition.” We shared a hearty handshake.

  Without releasing his hand, I looked into his pale blue eyes and asked, “Who shall I be working for?”

  I had been employed, and befriended, by His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward of Wales, soon to be Duke of Clarence and Avondale, next in line for the British throne, after his father, Edward VII, and grandmother, Queen Victoria.

  Or as his close friends and supporters lovingly called him, Eddy.

  Eddy was a composed, sympathetic man, who tried to follow his heart and aspirations, even as the world conspired against him. His father sent him on many military tours in an effort to toughen up the future king, but all it did was make Eddy miserable, while feeding the flames of his critics. Rumors of unsavory things—such as having personal investments in an illegal brothel—spread like wildfire throughout the people. I was in no position to help him during the day, but under the cover of night, I could threaten some accusers. This allowed me to snuff out many of the lies, but never them all. Being in the public eye had many downsides for his fragile character.

  Despite my best efforts, social criticism caused him constant grief, and with complications of Brandy’s condition eventually forcing the prince to face the worst, he fell into despair.

  Though his father was not fond of me, Queen Victoria appointed me as Eddy’s official advisor. I willingly accepted the position, out of fear that denying it would plunge my friend into a darkness blacker than my own. It was her belief that my presence gave him the spark of courage he so desperately needed during his struggle with depression and the media.

  But my friendship could not protect him from it all. Each time I rescued him from the edge of despair, the undertow would drag him down again.

  On his family’s demand, he became engaged, while very much in love with another woman—one he could not have because of their religious differences. Still, their love flourished in letters and brief meetings over the years I’d accompanied him. I was an accomplice in these secret meetings and I helped hide the letters in which he poured out his heart to her.

  Perhaps I should not have done such a thing. Perhaps I should have let his family force him to marry another, or have even encouraged him to. But his angst resonated with me, because I know the pain of what it is to love someone while the universe conspires against you.

  He and I did have much in common; though our upbringings were very different, our souls carried similar grievances. This made the endeavor to help him a deeply personal one, and it eventually led to my revealing the truth of who, and what, I was…

  It was late one night. I had closed myself off in a room at the far end of Eddy’s family’s manor, as I always did when I had to indulge in blood to soothe the hunger.

  Usually, no one bothered me after dark.

  I heard heavy footsteps up the stairs, nearing my room.

  “Matthew?” Eddy called out, his speech slurred and hoarse. “Matthew, we must speak.”

  I remained silent, hoping he’d assume I was asleep.

  But he knew me better.

  He pounded on the door. The scent of alcohol wafted into my room.

  He wasn’t much of a drinker… except… on occasion.

  “Matthew!”

  A female servant came to his aid. “My Lord, you’ll wake the household. Come. Let’s take you back to your room and—”

  “I must speak to my friend!” I heard a scuffle and then the pounding continued. The clumsy, heavy footsteps rattled me and I was forced to set my bottle of blood onto the side table.

  I hurried to the door and flung it open. “Let him be,” I said, glaring at the servant. “I will see to it that he is cared for.”

  The petite old woman cowered and backed away, tipping her head while nervously replying, “Yes. Yes.”

  She’d always been intimidated by me.

  I reached out to wrap an arm around Eddy’s shoulders to support his drunken weight as I turned him toward my room.

  “Come, Eddy. Let us speak.”

  “The Prime Minister will not sanction it,” he said, hanging over the arm of the chair. “And my love’s father will not allow her to convert. The dear Queen has done all she can to help, but the damned law simply will not allow a Roman Catholic into the royal family. Even as my heart burns only for Hélène, the law will not grant me such a love marriage.” Eddy’s reddening eyes glistened with the threat of tears. “I do not wish to be king. I tried to denounce the throne, but—”

  “You did what?”

  “I told Father I would relinquish my title and leave the throne to my brother, but it was not enough. Even the Pope conspires against us, stealing away from me the only joy I have ever found.” He fell back in the chair and dropped his face into his hands. “Why? Why am I here? I wish to be dead and done with it all.”

  Impeded by a long list of ridiculous formalities and political and religious differences, his dream of marrying the French princess of Orléans would never come to fruition.

  I knew exactly what it was to be ensnared by forbidden love.

  “I am sorry those around you do not see your pain or heed your desires. The world is not always fair and—”

  “Is that wine?” Eddy lunged from the chair toward the bottle of blood on the table across from him. “Let me have it.” He flailed an arm and wrapped his fingers around the neck. “Damn it, Matthew. I… am… the son of…”

  “No!” I growled, wrestling it from his hands.

  “Your eyes!?” He stared at me, his mouth agape. “What is wrong with your eyes?” Eddy stiffened in the chair. “I cannot possibly be that drunk that I would hallucinate.”

  I grasped the bottle firmly and brought it close to my chest, realizing now that my eyes must have flickered with light.

  I was both hungry and worried about him accidentally consuming the blood.

  But most of all, I was tired of keeping the secret from a friend.

  “Matthew?” Eddy tipped his head to the side. He seemed sober now, somehow, though he surely wasn’t. “What is it? You can trust me, you know.”

  “You cannot have this,” I said gruffly, holding the bottle up and out of his reach.

  “What is it?”

  I poured a small amount into my palm and revealed it to him. His eyes widened, but he did not recoil.

  “Blood?” His gaze went from my palm to my eyes. “Are you an alchemist? What do you use it for?”

  I tipped my head back and took a long swig from the bottle, feeling relief flow through my body as the blood washed down my throat.

  Our eyes met again and I gestured toward Kathryn’s painting, which now sat prominently above the fireplace of my room. Eddy’s connections had helped me locate and procure it, further solidifying my desire to help him and remain his companion.

  “There are things I must tell you, my friend,” I began. “That girl in the painting…”

  He glanced up at it and wiped tears from his cheeks.

  “She was not one of my distant relatives. She was the woman I loved but could not have.”

  He gasped. “She was your Hélène?” he uttered in disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “But… how? That painting is nearly three hundred years old.” He stared inquisitively at the bottle. “Does that prolong your life?”

  “In a way.” I took another drink. “But not without an unfortunate cost.” The light in my eyes flared again and I bared my teeth enough for him to easily see the fangs which were usually subtly hidden. Any other human may have run screaming into the night after I revealed the supernatural glimmer in my eyes, but not Eddy.

  He slid off his chair and approached me, reaching out to place a hand on my shoulder. “Matthew…”

  “Matthaya,” I corrected him.

  “Matthaya?” He repeated my name softly, with admiration. “There is surely greatness in that name. I had a feeling there was more to you.�
� He smiled thoughtfully at me. “Matthaya,” he said, pressing his fingers against my shoulder. “I will not question your motives or your past, as you have never questioned mine. You have stood beside me through all the accusations and hardships I have faced these past few years and I am honored for your trust in me. You are but one thing to me: a true friend.”

  His words surprised me; they left me speechless. I had never known another man to hold such understanding and love in his heart—especially toward a creature like myself. But Eddy was good-hearted, despite the ill-intentions of so many around him. He never let it corrupt him.

  “We are brothers in our losses, then,” he continued, patting me on the shoulder. “And no other man will know my pain better than you, Matthaya.”

  The way my name slid off his tongue with respect and appreciation made my burdens seem lighter. It had been years since someone had called me by my real name, for I had been afraid to reveal it after everything that had happened in my past. But he accepted me for who I was.

  For what I was.

  Without question.

  It was the dawn of the year 1892, and on his 28th birthday, Eddy (now the Duke of Clarence and Avondale) urgently requested my presence in his drawing room.

  “Come see what the Queen has gifted me.” He sat near the fireplace with a heavy wool blanket draped over his legs. In his lap lay an intricately carved wooden box inlaid with ivory and lapis. He twisted slowly in his chair to look back at me. “Turn the light on, will you?” he asked, and gestured for me to come closer.

  I turned the knob on the wall and the electric lights buzzed to life, flooding the room with a bright, sunny glow that trumped the soft amber of the crackling fire. It also illuminated his face, forcing me to look upon the pallid, sunken skin barely clinging to the bones of his once round cheeks.

  “I cannot tell you how much that sound pleases me,” he said in a weak but enthusiastic tone, gazing with tired eyes at the nearby lamp on the wall beside him. “I am blessed to live in an era of change and wonder.”

  “As am I,” I replied, approaching the side of his chair and looking over his shoulder at the box.