Dear Friends:
Quite some time ago (1994, to be precise), I wrote a story entitled "Flowers of
War". The title was one of many things wrong with it; it was given that
title because it had been intended as the story of how Jean de la Mare was
turned (on a battlefield, which would have at least excused the title), but
instead became the story of the turning of Genevieve de Monet and the death of
her husband Claude (neither of which occurred on a battlefield). Stories
do that.
Since 1994 a lot of things have changed, including much of my vampire universe.
My vampires can no longer turn into bats (shakes head, wondering what she was
thinking). And I have created the concept of Vampire Princes and the
Council of European Princes. If you read the original story, and others written
both at the time and later, you will see that the underlying _ideas_ were there,
I simply have given them names and a more formal structure. Yes, I know
that the idea of vampire Princes is hardly original. Yes, I know that Kim Newman
has just produced a novel entitled "Vampire Genevieve"... not MY Genevieve,
though there are resemblances of the purely coincidental type.
A lot of the changes in my universe have occured on stories written for
Ghostletters; many of them interactive with other vampire universes on that
list. Some of those stories are available on the Oakwoods fiction page http://www.oocities.org/g_redoak/fiction.htm
, others are in the process of being coded and put up (hint, hint, Majkia). I
have tried to make this rewrite of "Flowers of War" as independent as possible,
but could not prevent some reference to GL posts. I apologize for any confusion.
If you would like to read the original FoW, it is available here:
part one
part two
part three
part four
And here, as a special Christmas/Solstice/Yule/Hannukah/Kwanzaa/Pastarfarian/Eid/Ramadan/Mithrian/Saturnalia/Winter/Fill
in the Blank treat, is the completely rewritten story.
________
A Prince of the Blood
a love story
copyright 2005
by Anne Fraser
I was dying. Again.
The first time was when I became a vampire.
I am a Prince. Not born to the purple, nor with any of that business of
mixed up parentages, being smuggled out in a cart in the dead of night and
raised as a shepherd or cobbler, and there'd been no sudden presenting of a
strawberry birthmark or carefully handed down sword.
No ,I, Claude de Monet, am a vampire Prince, the vampire Prince of France.
Not as romantic as it sounds, I am afraid. I rule the night of this ancient
country; the mortal princes and enforcers of mortal laws knew nothing of
me or my court. I had been chosen bythe previous vampire Prince of France
to be the successor to the title. It was he who had caused my first death;
Armand had come to me when I had been a disillusioned young lawyer learning that
the law was only for the powerful and could be manipulated to their purposes.
He had offered me an opportunity to practice another sort of Law entirely.
Vampire law. I had been carefully trained in all aspects of that
law, including how to deal with a dangerous rogue. In vampire terms, that
meant one of the undead who did not obey the laws or fear Princes. One who slew
other vampires as well as mortals; one who did not trouble to hide what he or
she was from humans. Usually, they had to be slain. That was a
Prince's duty and responsibility.
The rogue vampire in this case, however, was the one doing the killing.
Slowly. Literally piece by piece, using a silver knife so that the wounds
did not heal nor the parts he amputated regenerate. It was
agony beyond mortal bearing, almost beyond vampire bearing, but I
clung to what life I had remaining.
I'd moved somewhere beyond the pain, although it was intense. I was amazed
there was any blood left in my veins to bleed out from my various wounds.
"Wound" was hardly a word with enough scope to cover what I was suffering.
Vampires are not immortal, not truly. We can die. We can be killed.
We can commit suicide. We can lose the will that keeps undead sinew and
flesh walking long after it should be dust, so that to dust it goes.
We can even be tortured to death. It takes a very long time and quite an
evil imagination to accomplish this, but it can be done. It was being done
now.
I would not let this monster hear me scream.
'Ah, Genevieve,'I thought, the words going no further than my own head,
for vampires can often read each other's minds. 'Cherie, I am sorry.
I love you so. Goodbye.'
_____________
It was always a double edged sword to make friends with breathing humans;
I tried, anyway. The eternal loneliness of the undead weighs heavily upon me,
and some of it can be eased by making friends with these ephemeral creatures.
After all, I had been human once.
I still worked as a lawyer, when my duties as Prince permitted.. It
passed the time and allowed me to meet people; some few of my clients I
cultivated as friends. One such was Blaise Lambert, a wealthy merchant of
high, though not noble, class.
Blaise had a daughter named Genevieve. His wife had died shortly after the
baby's birth and Blaise, fearing a new wife would either mistreat the girl or
order her sent to a convent, had never remarried. He raised his daughter
himself, with a succession of nurses and tutors, and she received a most unusual
education for a girl of that era. She learned to read and write, to do
sums and name the stars, to speak Latin and Greek, to hold a conversation about
things other than what her female contemporaries were interested in.
I watched the child grow (so quickly!) from a golden haired tot on leading
strings to a beautiful and accomplished young woman. Her female tutors and
nurses had seen to it that she also learned all the social graces a woman of her
station in life would need, so she was quite a well grounded
young lady. She had a great deal of innate common sense, as well, which
had prevented her from being thoroughly spoiled.
I had never presented myself to Blaise or his daughter as anything but a
friend of the family, a sort of honourary uncle to Genevieve; indeed I had
fostered and encouraged a belief of Blaise's that I was uninterested in
women at all. That my closest attendants and friends were almost all
exclusively male aided this mild deception. The vampire Prince of France
had no intention of taking a mortal bride; and certainly not the child of the
man I'd befriended, a child I had watched learn to walk and later to dance,
ride a horse, and read Homer.
Ah, but she was a lovely child and growing into a beautiful woman...
But as Genevieve grew to marriageable age, Blaise worried about his daughter.
She was beautiful, there was no denying it, and the young men thronged around
her. A few older ones, too; men with land and titles and money. But
Blaise knew that land and titles and money did not guarantee
they were good men; too often the opposite was true. He wanted Genevieve
to be happy. Marrying for love was a concept nearly unheard of in the
1500s, but an arranged marriage could be a happy one if the couple were
congenial. The thought of some drunken brute beating his little girl was
unbearable. He had not had the heart to strike her since she'd been very
small, and the last time had been for walking around the rim of an old well.
(To Blaise's credit, he had spanked her quite soundly for that then had the
well filled in.)
With no close female to turn to for advice, he turned instead to me, his
old friend the lawyer, Claude de Monet. Sitting one night in my chateau,
which even then was old, drinking of the excellent wine the vineyards
below the castle produced, Blaise broached the subject.
"Claude," he said, watching me pour the wine. "I envy you."
I smiled and pushed Blaise's goblet towards him. "What do you envy me,
Blaise? This old ruin?" A lazy hand indicated the chateau, which was
hardly crumbling. "A few meagre grapevines that produce this vinegar?
Surely not."
"No, I do not envy your chateau, or your grapes, or even your wealth. I envy
your youth."
I laughed, my head going back with the force of my amusement. Ah, if he
did but know... "Blaise, my friend, you have known me for what, fifteen or
more years? I am as old as you are, if not older."
"You don't look it," said Blaise.
Indeed, I never changed, never aged. Blaise had told me once he attributed
this to my easy,
carefree life. No worries about finances, or children.
I knew what Blaise saw, when the other man regarded me so closely, although I
had not had the services of a mirror since the night Armand had turned me. He
would see a man with a strong, intelligent face; a slightly longish nose but
none the worse for that, and eyes that twinkled when he laughed and wrinkled at
the corners.
"I assure you, I feel it," I replied. Ah, yes, I felt it.
"As do I," Blaise sighed. He ran a hand through hair still as golden as his
daughter’s, though thinning. "And as I feel it, I grow increasingly uneasy
about the future."
"Your future?" I asked sharply. "Or your daughter's?"
"Ah, as usual, you cut to the heart of it, Claude. It is Genevieve who
concerns me."
"I thought so."
"She is of marriageable age, Claude. Some young women her age already \
have babies of their own. As much as I hate to admit it, she is a woman
grown, not a girl, and she needs a husband."
"Yes, she does."
"I would like to see my grandchildren before I die."
I felt my mouth twitch. "Let's get the girl married first, Blaise. It is
more respectable that way."
Blaise looked a bit uncertain, and then laughed. "Of course," he said.
"But whatever shall I do? How shall I choose? You have seen her,
Claude, even you must admit she is beautiful."
"Yes," I agreed slowly.. "She is beautiful. The young men gather
around her like moths to the candle, do they not?"
"Others not so young, as well. As yet, none has asked me for her hand, but
'tis only a matter of time. I do not want her to be unhappy, Claude.
What if I match her to some man who drinks, or who will beat her?"
"Then choose carefully, Blaise. Is there no one among the merchant
families you know, whose sons you have watched grow? Someone perhaps
slightly older than Genevieve, of good family and temperament?"
Blaise stroked his chin, where the beard was going grey. "There are a
few," he nodded. "Young Gaspard, for example..."
I nodded. I knew Gaspard St. Morien, a steady young man, a hard worker, by
all accounts an even tempered lad. There could be worse matches for
young Genevieve.
For instance, a vampire Prince...I stepped down firmly on that thought.