A Prince of the Blood
a love story
part two
copyright 2005
by Anne Fraser

______________



I did not attend the wedding of Genevieve Lambert toGaspard St Morien. It
was held in daylight, and everyone knew that I suffered an illness that
made the sun a deadly enemy. Since many people suffered mysterious
illnesses at the time, this was not considered at all strange. I sent the
couple a handsome wedding gift, and did go to the feast afterwards.

It seemed a good match. Gaspard worked hard in his father's business and
Genevieve ran the household, settling in as a young wife and, in due time,
as a mother to first a boy, Andre, and then two years later a girl,
Madeleine. She and Gaspard both adored and doted on the children, and they
appeared to have an equitable marriage. He never raised a hand or even his
voice to her that I knew of.

I think I might have killed him if he had.

Blaise, when he came to talk to me now, was happier. Genevieve was married
and a mother and happy; it was all any father could ask for.

"But you are still unmarried, I see, Claude," Blaise commented.

I was amused, and let it show.. "I am too old now, Blaise, set in my ways.
You never remarried, either, even after Genevieve was wed to Gaspard."

Blaise laughed. "No, like you, I am too set in my ways."

We shared some more wine the output of Chateau de Monet was always
excellent, if I may say so and sat watching the Loire River sparkle under
the moonlight.

"It is growing very late," Blaise said at last. "I had best get home. An
old man needs his sleep, Claude."

"Get along, then, you dotard. Hai! Elrich! Send for M. Lambert's carriage
and driver."

My servants are... not ordinary. They are not vampires, but ghouls. I
seldom permitted Blaise to get more than a glimpse of them. Elrich sloped
off to obey my orders before Blaise could notice anything odd about him. I
walked him to his carriage when it was ready..

"Goodnight, old friend," I said as he shut the carriage door once Blaise
was inside. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Claude."

The carriage clattered out of the yard, Blaise's hand raised a hand in
farewell in answer to my own wave..


I was to never see Blaise Lambert again.


________________

That fall, just before the seventh anniversary of the wedding of young
Genevieve to young Gaspard, the plague came to France.

People were dying. I and my most trusted lieutenant, a member of the
handpicked Societe des Gardiens who helped me in my Princing work, walked
through the deserted streets of the villages along the Loire River.

Plague had decimated the villages; starting in the huts of the poor but
spreading quickly even to chateaus. Blaise Lambert had died of it before I
even received the news that my old friend had been stricken. The house with
its lovely gardens had been shut up; marked with the sign of the
plague.

I missed him.

Another, even deadlier menace stalked these villages and chateaus. It was
this menace that had made the Gardiens and their Prince take to the streets
and laneways. As vampires, we were immune to the plague, though not immune
to its effects. Benoit, my faithful shadow, stood aside as a cart
filled with limp, dead bodies was trundled past us.

"Get out of the road, fools," snarled the man pushing the cart. "Don't you
know there's plague?"

"Oh, yes," I said, turning my head so I would not have to look at the
pathetic bare feet and hands dangling from the cart.

There was nothing I could do to help these people. Well, one thing, but I
could not turn the entire population of France into vampires.

"Plague indeed," said Benoit, looking at me. "How can we examine the bodies
to ensure they all died of plague?"

I shook my head, staring at the doors marked with splashes of red. "We
cannot," he said. "That is how Corbeau escapes us, mon ami."

Corbeau. A vampire. A plague.

Rumours of a rogue vampire haunting France had reached my ears. It was my
responsibility to follow up on the rumours, to hunt down the monster that
was taking advantage of the chaos caused by the epidemic. It was almost
impossible to tell, in the current conditions, which deaths had been caused
by the Black Death, and which by vampire predation.

My master, Armand, the former Prince, had died hunting this rogue.

I never knew whether Corbeau had done the deed himself or if it had been
one of the hangers on. Corbeau had apparently been around for quite some
time; he had murdered several powerful vampires over the years. Armand was
just another victim.

Upon coming to my title at Armand's death, I had assembled le Societe des
Gardiens. They were nearly all vampires, though not all of my turning, and
nearly all male. I had recruited the disaffected, the homeless, the waifs
and strays of a nation and turned them into a fighting police force.
Benoit, whom I had turned, was the eldest and most reliable of them all. A
street fighter, Benoit was tough and seasoned, and would do whatever his
Prince commanded without question.

Silly boy.

I stood, still as stone, in the middle of a street. "Dieu," I whispered,
and crossed myself.. It caused me no difficulty to do so; I was a man of
faith. I also just happened to be a vampire. "No. Please, no."

"Mon Prince?" Benoit asked, wondering why I was staring so fixedly at one
house. One house amongst so many marked with the plague sign.

"Benoit, I would like some privacy."

"As you command," Benoit bowed, and moved back into the shadows, out of
hearing range.

I moved to the door marked with the dreadful sign. "Please, God, no," I
whispered again, and knocked. It could not be; she could not be... no.

"Who knocks on this door?" a voice demanded within. "This is a house of
death. Can you not see the sign? Go away and let us all die."

"I am Claude de Monet, a friend of the family. I wish to know who is dead
here."

"We are all dead, monsieur. Say prayers for us. Go away."

"Let me in." Command rang in my voice, and not merely mortal command. I am
a vampire, a Prince and master, and mere humans cannot disobey that tone.

The door opened and a fearful servant peered at me. "You have condemned
yourself to death, monsieur; once you enter, you cannot leave."

"We shall have to see, now bid me enter."

"On your own head be it. Enter, then, and die with us."

I stepped across the threshold, the invisible barrier gone. The invitation
hadn't been gracious, but that wasn't necessary.

It was a neat cottage, with indications that in happier circumstances it
would have been clean and bright, possibly full of flowers picked by its
mistress. I remembered Blaise's house as always being full of flowers. Now
there was only darkness and grief;I could almost taste it. Ah, Dieu, do not
let her be...

"Has someone knocked?" asked a female voice.

Had my heart still beat to a mortal tune, it would have lurched at the
sound of that voice. She was not dead!

Genevieve, still beautiful, came forward into the light offered by the rush
torches at the door. "Claude?" she asked, voice breaking upon seeing her
father's old friend. There were tear stains on her face, but marriage,
motherhood and grief combined made her only more beautiful, not less. She
could not yet be even five-and-twenty, after all, even in the times still
relatively young. And
she still moved with grace, even with death all around her.

For the first time, I realized that I loved her. It came as a shock, like a
spray of cold water on a hot day. Ah, Dieu, to treat me so, to make me fall
in love now, with her. I stood, unable to think of what to say to her.

"Claude," she repeated. "Oh, how foolish of you, to enter here."

"Genevieve," I said. Her name was like a prayer. "I... I saw the mark on
the door. I had to know. I feared you were dead."

She looked down, drained of all emotion, a walking statue. "I will be next.
I do not know why I am not dead now. The servant who let you in has the
swellings under his arms. He will be dead soon."

"Who is dead, Genevieve?" I asked gently. "Who has died?"

"Mes enfants. My babies. God has taken all my loves from me. Papa. Mes
enfants. Gaspard..."

"Gaspard is dead?" Ah, traitor heart, to leap with hope rather than
sorrow...

"Dying." She was crying, silently, silver tears following the marks of
previous ones. "But mes enfants... Andre, Madeleine... just babies, Claude,
just babies, and they are gone."

"I grieve with you, Genevieve, I cannot tell you how much I do." The loss
of children was a terrible one; I was not lying about that grief.


She sobbed then, and nearly fell on me, so that I had to put my arms around
her to support and comfort her; both of uf losing ourselves in the moment.
I closed my eyes and let myself hold her; feeling her heartbeat against my
chest, her heavy breathing on my shoulder. I could tell, from the blood
that sang clean and strong through her veins, that she was untouched by the
plague. How much longer that would last in this house of illness and death,
I could not say. It was a miracle she had not yet succumbed.

She was still another man's wife.

And she did not know about the other danger that pressed upon every
survivor of the plague; the monster that would take her healthy blood and
leave her as dead as her dear children.

"I need to speak to you, Genevieve," I said, pulling away from her. Not
without some regret. "Somewhere private, and away from all this death and
sickness."

"It is forbidden to leave a plague house, Claude," Genevieve replied.
"Although it is also forbidden to enter one; and you have done so."

"Ordinary laws do not apply to me, cherie," the endearment slipping out
without my intending it.

She did not seem to notice it, but she was overwrought and overemotional,
grieving for her children and her father, and tending a dying husband and
dying servants. Once again, I marvelled that she herself was untouched by
the plague. Still, there were those who did not seem to fall sick. I knew
why I did not.

I took her hand and she did not resist, worn down by all that had happened.
The servant was nowhere in sight, and darkness hid us from the rest of the
village. With the plague raging, few ventured outdoors anyway. We walked
among the corpses of rats, the putrid smell of death in
the air, until we reached the outskirts of the village.

"There is death all around you, Genevieve," I said when I was certain we
would not be overhead save perhaps by Benoit, whom I could sense hovering
in the near distance. Faithful fledgling, Benoit would not desert his
Prince.

"The Black Death," said Genevieve. "It has taken everyone I love, Claude."

"The plague is indeed something to fear," I agreed. "But it is not, in
itself, evil. It is not, as the priests tell us, a judgement from God."

"God!" she said bitterly. "God has turned His back on us all. I no longer
have any faith in God."

I caught her chin. "God watches over us, even during these times, you must
believe that. This is where faith is truly tested."

I do not know why I had never lost my faith, even after becoming a vampire.
God has plans for us all, even the undead. It was a comforting thought on
those endless lonely nights.

She started crying again, great sobbing tears of grief, so desolate and
lonely that I couldn't do anything but put my arms around her once more and
offer her solace. She put her head on my chest and wept onto it, trembling
so hard that I gently pulled her down onto the grass, still hugging her,
feeling indescribably happy despite the situation. Death was all around us.
I was dead, but I could feel a great happiness stirring in my chest. Dieu,
was this love?

"My babies," she said through her tears. "I could do nothing but watch them
die, Claude. First Madeleine. She was so tiny! Such a pretty baby, and a
sweet little child, always obedient and eager to help her maman. Gaspard
loved to carry her on his shoulder and she would laugh and squeal. But then
the black marks appeared and the fever came... and spread to her brother.
Ah, my Andre, naughty little boy, always in trouble, stealing the cream,
scaring the chickens, but he would grin and admit his mischief and so
escape punishment. He was proud to be learning his letters so that he could
grow up to be like Gaspard. But they were both taken ill, the terrible
fever, the
terrible sores on their bodies... Madeleine died in my arms, Claude."

I stroked her hair, sorrow stirring deep inside, reflected perhaps on my
face. I had seen the
children only a handful of times; they had been bright little things. "I am
so sorry," I said. "I miss your father very much."

"Cher papa, he was the first of my loves taken from me," Genevieve said,
letting the tears fall, still with her head on my chest. She was making no
effort to break the contact, I noted. Her body warmth was very soothing. I
could hear her heartbeat, sweeter music than any madrigal.

"He was a good man. He loved you a great deal. He was concerned to make you
a good marriage."

"Gaspard is a very good husband," she said, growing quieter now, unable to
sustain the hysterical grief. "Kind and gentle, very hard working; a good
father. The children adored him."

"Do you love him?" I dared to ask. Ah, foolish question, but it was said,
and I waited for her answer.

She stirred at this, and looked up at me. "He is my husband," she replied.
"It is my duty to love him. But now he is dying, and one more love will be
taken from me." She finally stopped crying."Tell me again that the plague
is not evil."

"It is not intentionally evil, no," I replied as gently as possible. "It is
an illness that takes lives, but illness is not evil by intent. There are
worse things than the Black Death loose in this world, things that are
evil."

She lay still against me. I could hear her heartbeat quicken and knew she
was confused and frightened.

"Claude," she said. "You are cold. We should not stay out here. I could not
bear it if you became ill as well."

"Ah, cherie, I am safe from illness," I replied.

She frowned. "How is it that I do not hear your heart, Claude? There is no
sound of your heart, nor of your breath. How can that be?"

"And you will not. No heartbeat, no breath. I take breaths in order to
speak, but I do not need to breathe. My heart does beat, but so slowly and
so seldom that the human ear cannot detect it."

"I do not understand," she said. "Are you not human?"

"I was once. A long time ago."

"What are you, then?"

I looked off into the night. What to tell her? She deserved the truth,
although she would undoubtedly be frightened by it. "Have you heard the
tales of revenants, Genevieve?"

She looked angry. "You brought me out of my house to tell me nursery
stories? I must get back to Gaspard..."

"They are not nursery stories. There are those who do not rest quiet in
their graves, but who walk the night, as the thirsting undead, seeking
fresh prey amongst the living."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because I'm one."