Thanks to Cousin Jules for beta reading and inspiration.
Spoiler: 'Francesca'
Disclaimer: The characters of Forever Knight were created by
Parriott, et al., and are owned by Sony/TriStar.
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An Uncommon Soul (01/01)
Copyright 1997
By Bonnie Rutledge
ca. Late 770s, Court of Charlemagne, Aix-la-Chapelle
She read over the sounds of enthusiastic chewing as the hall's
diners attacked the roast course. A short-necked, long-nosed man at
the head table devoured his meat with the greatest relish of all
assembled, yet he steadfastly listened to the clear and confident
phrases she delivered despite the gastronomical pull on his attention.
Lacroix was intrigued, had been so for several nights. The first
lure had been her beauty. Her skin was as pale and unblemished as
that belonging to any creature of the night. It shone as though formed
from moonlight, captured and stretched over her frame as the sheerest
canvas. It was skin made for the contrast of red, whether the foil was
the fire-blessed hue of her hair or a garnet sheen of blood pulsing
from her throat. He was attracted to this woman, but he decided to
wait, letting his anticipation fester before taking his pleasure.
When he had heard Charles call her to attention, "Stay the
musicians! Francesca! I would have you read ~De Civitate Dei~ instead!"
Lacroix had almost been astonished.
Not an atom of surprise reached his features, however. He had seen
too much for that, yet a woman who could read Latin was still a rarity.
A literate female unconsencrated to the church was even rarer, and one
who was treated with friendship and familiarity by the King of the
Franks was...worth knowing intimately.
Francesca read the Augustine text until Charles rose from the
table. The moment he stood her words paused, and she looked up from
the volume.
Straight at Lacroix.
Lacroix thought, Francesca's lips spread into a smile of welcome, and he
was decided.
Lacroix would go to her tonight and quench his thirsty desires.
He returned her smile, witnessing Francesca's mouth part slightly in
returned hunger before her fascination was eclipsed by the call of
Charles' mother. Francesca followed Berthrada out of his sight, but
the prospect of feasting off the woman's enticing charms lingered.
Smile unwavering, Lacroix left the hall as well, sinking himself
into the blackness of the night, just as he imagined he would soon
delve into Francesca's moonlit flesh.
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It was nearing dawn, and she was not in her chamber. Lacroix's
impatience and hunger were drawing to a fine point as he stood in the
darkness, waiting. He was preparing to seek out a rushed feeding
outside the palace walls when the sound of light footsteps approached
the door, and it quietly opened and closed.
With a predator's eyes he could see the swirl of her linen shift
brushing against the floor, as did the hem of her green silk robe,
trimmed in gold stitching. Francesca was slightly flushed, and her
heart pulsed with an exaggerated spirit, rushed from activity or
stealth, he knew not which.
Suddenly, the urgency of her rapid movements stilled, and she
rotated as though from instinct toward the corner where he stood.
"I wondered if you would come," she said softly, knowingly.
Francesca turned her back to him, collecting an object from a
table near her bed, then moved toward the door again. There was a
scraping sound, then a burst of sparks, and a torch berthed next to
the stone wall sprang to life, bathing her in a golden glow. "Your
name is Lacroix," Francesca stated as she returned the flint to its
tabletop storage. "I asked."
The vampire approached his prey, breathing in the smoky, exotic
scent of her, a product of her natural essence. "I am honored at your
curiosity." Lacroix reached out with his ringed hand and gracefully
lifted her fingers to his mouth for a caress. "Inquiries were not
necessary on my part to learn you were Francesca du Montagne. You
have a generous share of admirers, all willing to sing your praises
without question."
Her auburn brows rose as her eyes flashed with pride. "So they
should," Francesca announced.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, slipping an index finger
beneath the collar of her robe on either side. She neither encouraged
Lacroix, nor protested, so he leisurely pushed the silk down her warm,
smooth arms, carefully judging her response. She simply stared at him
with an aloof expression until the emerald material pooled at her feet,
then Francesca leaned forward, gracing his chin with a soft kiss.
Lacroix tilted his head down, and she caught his mouth instead.
Her breath quivered for an instant, then she idly brushed her lips
from left to right, rubbing his own with a light, teasing pressure
before seeking deeper contact. Moments passed, then Francesca calmly
drew away from him, just a few inches, and her features rapidly resumed
their earlier candid detachment.
Unconcerned, Lacroix continued to deliver beguiling touches
elsewhere, trailing a path along the fine skin of her cheek, then
dusting his lips over her earlobe. "I noticed that you carried no
light to guide your return despite the perils of the dark passageways."
"I have no trouble finding my way in the dark." Her answer escaped
in a slight rush, betraying her excitement, so Lacroix probed further
as he scraped his mouth, then teeth, across her brow.
"Indeed. And what would bring such familiarity with the night in
one so fair?"
"Sometimes the king needs a scribe for his correspondence when
his secretary is indisposed..." Francesca let her words fall into
a whisper, then pulled back a second time. When she spoke again,
her voice was confiding and slightly arrogant. "I tried not to linger,
but for the king, sometimes one must perform."
Lacroix smothered the flare of surprise he experienced as Francesca
continued to appear in control of her senses.
He continued to search her countenance, his stare demanding that
she submit to his will. Still unsuccessful, Lacroix spun her around in
his arms with a rankled snarl as his eyes ignited to match the torchlight.
One hand massaged along her stomach as the other cupped Francesca's chin
so that her head angled conveniently, then he nuzzled at her neck. "Why
do you hold back?" Lacroix whispered. "Do what you want to do." She
raised one arm, curling her fingers around the back of his head, lightly
pressing his lips toward their work, but made no sound. He answered the
gesture by raking his fangs along the tender skin below her ear. "Release
yourself to me, Francesca."
Lacroix waited for her heartbeat to fall into the lilting, smooth
rhythm that seduced his senses to feed. Perform? Her heart would dance
for him, pounding in an erotic spectacle, like Salome for her king.
his thoughts roared. He watched, certain the moment must come soon when she
would sink against him, her body pressing into his, and her head
thrown back in possessed desire. Captivated, her flesh exposed, she
would offer herself to him, her body, her life...
"Kill me, and my soul will haunt you."
Lacroix did not step back, though her cold words had caught him
by surprise. He did not restrain her as she spun within the circle of
his arms. Face to face, her eyes examined him unflinchingly, clear and
steadfast as she observed the effects of his vampiric transformation.
Francesca reached up with a wondering finger, running the tip down one
of Lacroix's fangs. In that instant, his desire for her grew tenfold.
He
let his fingers roam down the fine linen covering her back, tracing a
circular pattern until her mouth curled slightly, allowing just a hint
of sensuality to blur her frank expression. Lacroix smiled as the signs
of the vampire faded from his features, confident of the night's outcome.
This woman was hardly virtuous, and she could be tempted. Francesca would
prove to be an interesting, stubborn victim, but a victim, nonetheless.
"Ah, I see you doubt my promise," Francesca spoke again. She returned
his smile, relishing in her own confidence and hinting at something more,
something powerful and enchanting that teased him. For a second, Lacroix
felt the renewed urge to rip into her, to violently take, to explore what
that smile offered, but he stilled the beast. He had time, plenty of time
to lure her under his spell, so Lacroix let the moment pass.
Instead, he allowed Francesca to slip completely from his embrace,
watching her with undisguised amusement as she casually continued her
speech.
Francesca strolled across the stone floor, returning to the table,
and poured herself a generous draught of wine into a gold chalice. "It
would be a pity if you chose to not listen to my warning. You must
understand that I am an uncommon soul." She noted Lacroix's humored
expression, took a sip of wine, and continued with a delightful
insouciance, "Perhaps my declaration strikes you as impossible - so
many women of this court are docile and brainless, content only with
the concerns of their embroidery and babes. Even the king encourages
his daughters to learn little but the distaff and spindle. I am not
so shallow, fragile or meek - I want to master, *possess*, everything
that I can."
"Is that why you follow the court of Charlemagne?" Lacroix asked.
"To learn from a conqueror?"
Francesca's features suddenly became deadly serious, as did her
tone. "He is not the only conqueror that I could learn from, is he,
Lacroix?" Her expression broke into a charming landscape once more.
"No, I followed Charlemagne because it was convenient. I married one
of his favorites, you see, once he defeated the Lombards. That is
where my homelands lie - Lombardy. Marriage was the only way to keep
ties to my property after Desiderius' banishment from Italy, and so
my land became part of my dowry rather than a trophy to the papacy."
"Making you the trophy instead," Lacroix said, a slight taunt
edging his voice.
"I did not remain a wife for long," Francesca countered, then
flashed a grin that carried a faint underscore of malice. "Accidents
do happen, and a soldier's life can be so uncertain, even if that
soldier is among the nobility. I did not even have to wait for du Montagne
to fall in one of those taxing campaigns against the Saxons. Husband
conveniently dead, I chose to come here in order to protect my interests
with the king. I like to possess things - my land, my homes. I plan to
keep them for a *long* time."
Lacroix did not contradict her final statement, though it really
held little counsel with him. He did consider her earlier words
thoughtfully, however.
He looked at her with new fascination, the reflection of one killer
mirrored in the eyes of another. "You have been fortunate to retain
control of your husband's power even after death," he said. "Few widows
have such success."
Francesca set her wine aside, announcing with pride, "Few widows
can read and write. I can do both, and Charlemagne admires and rewards
both skills immensely. More than anything, he wants to draft his own
records and letters. His hands have failed to acquire the talent, but
it is still to my advantage to offer him lessons now and then." She
gave a puzzled shrug, saying, "I am fascinated how a man so competent
in the physical feats of battle and the like, so accomplished in speech
and reading, can fumble with forming his letters when given ample
opportunity to study. I would adore being so plentiful in my chances
to fail accomplishing something new."
"But you certainly cannot accuse Charlemagne of a miserly approach
to his favorite subjects. Charles is open in his conversations with his
court. I've seen your company as I've spoken with him of astronomy, and
you, yourself, were commissioned to recite rhetoric to all his guests
this evening during their meal," Lacroix reasoned, brushing aside her
feelings of envy. "What opportunities do you really lack?"
"How you belittle my frustration, Lacroix," she replied. "Somehow
I know you can be more generous," she added, letting her voice acquire
a husky note. "I may surpass the accomplishments and capability of all
the individuals in this household, but I am still a woman, so I am
treated differently."
Lacroix nodded in acknowledgment. "Women are not the same, nor
should they be. The duality of the sexes is so much more imaginative."
Francesca smiled broadly at him at that remark. She laughed in
delight as she occupied herself at the table once more, picking up a
long-bladed knife. There was a bowl of fruit as well from which Francesca
tossed an apple jauntily in the air, catching it before speaking in
energetic tones. "You admire imagination, don't you? I brim with it -
I crave it." Her words crackled with an intense hiss as she carved a
chip from the fruit and brought it to her mouth.
Lacroix watched the fluid movements of her hands and lips closely.
It was so hypnotic, the divergence between her luminous skin and scarlet
slash of the apple peel as it disappeared into her mouth, that he almost
felt bewildered, but almost does not equal actuality. "I have found that
cravings can be stifled and toyed with, but in the end they must be
satisfied. Often the best recourse is to lose oneself to the hunger."
Francesca deliberately took another bite of the apple, chewing it
lingeringly, before swallowing and setting the fruit aside. She held on
to the knife, tapping the fine tip against a finger as she advanced
toward Lacroix. "I hunger for life. I yearn to capture that moment when
imagination creates something novel - when the mind plunders upon
something fresh and new. What would it be like to imprison the sensation
of discovery for more than an instant, to carry it and savor it inside
you for longer than a passing thought? That is what I hunger for."
Her form finally pressed against Lacroix's side, and she gazed up
at him in rapt vision as she began to trace the dirk in a sinuous maze
across his chest. "I burn for poetry, music, discourse about the forces
that weave the elements and humors into the forms they do, and I want
more than simply the words, the art and the philosophy. What are the
actual notes of a pipe or strings in comparison to the emotion behind
the melody? What do the sounds make you do, make you feel? That is life.
That is what I desire - no - demand to experience in every manner possible."
"What makes you think those desires make you so 'uncommon'?" Lacroix
challenged smoothly, sincerely attracted to hearing her reply. "What
power could you possibly have to haunt one such as myself?"
Francesca's lips curled in disdain around her next words. "Most
poor fools pray to merely survive from one sunrise to sunset without
being struck by famine or disease. That passive majority dreams of
nothing more than safely sleeping the night away, then escaping death
as it chases them across a battlefield or through the throes of
childbirth, only to repeat the experience over and over again. They
wouldn't dream of being murdered in their beds," she whispered hotly
into Lacroix's ear, her eyes shining with knowing promise. "They wouldn't
dream of killing for the pure thrill of the moment." She gave him a
knowing smile, then walked around his back to his other side, one hand
molding his shoulders as she moved. "No, they kill to survive. Even
Charlemagne kills only to protect his empire. So many are born,
reproduce, and die, without a thought to being more. They never consider
actually living - they are just an endless repeated pattern of generations,
beginning, laboring, and ending. I am different!" Francesca declared.
"I devour life! I listen, I look, I feel, I touch, I taste, and whether
I exist as a corporeal being or some shadowy specter, I will live forever.
I would accept nothing less. My soul is that strong, you see, and it
fights and insists on its presence. My will is that powerful, and I
will not simply be your evening meal, casually forgotten in a sea of
faceless, spiritless peasants."
Lacroix watched, enthralled at her gall, mesmerized by how she
spoke such an absolute certainty that she could accomplish eternal
life on her own. Her cradled her face in his hands, staring deeply
into her eyes one last time, feeling the familiar carnal lure of her
throat concurrent with a sliver of wary admiration. "Francesca, you
are more than I ever expected a desirable dinner companion to be.
You've surprised me. That, in a creature as old as myself, and I
am older than even *you* can imagine, Francesca, is an incredible
admission."
She shook her head minutely, barely speaking above the rise
and fall of her own breath. "But that is not enough. Kill me, and
I promise I will plague you until you cease to exist. I will make
you remember what you destroyed, carelessly crushed in a moment of
hunger for pleasure. I deserve more - you know that I do. Take me,
and make me what you are. Just picture it, Lacroix - if I transformed
but a fraction of my passion for life into loyalty to you - my Master
for eternity - how good would that make you feel?"
Lacroix found that he couldn't resist. He kissed her ferociously,
possessively, and, finally, instead of resisting, she drew him closer.
As Francesca wrapped her body around his, Lacroix listened to her heart
as it began to dance, but rather than performing for his gratification,
it seemed to spellbind him with its steady beat. His fangs sank into her
flesh, sucking in the flavor of her wildest fantasies and experiences.
Her emotions slammed into him with such intensity that it didn't matter
if he was taking too much, that she was tearing his clothes away and
piercing the skin of his shoulder with her blunt teeth, tasting his
blood in return. He absorbed how the fluid lay flat and metallic on
Francesca's tongue, and how the primal triumph of the moment to her
was overwhelming. Her heart danced on within him, sinking from scherzo
to andante.
Abruptly, the beat silenced. Her blood flow stilled, her throat
providing a few final syrupy morsels of such pure sensation that it
dazzled him. He tore his jaws away from her, aghast at the heightened
perception of her every thought that rushed through him at the last
swallow, looking down with shock and appreciation at what Francesca
had done.
As she felt herself sinking away, Francesca had hilted her knife
between her ribs, arresting her heart and concentrating his pleasure.
Lacroix had actually lost control at the thrill of it. She hung limp
and inanimate now, for all visible purposes dead, but her fire raged
inside his body, almost feeding itself in an un-extinguishable combustion
of desire.
Lacroix sank to his knees so that she reclined on the floor, then
he feathered a kiss across her cooling brow. He unsheathed the dirk
from Francesca's torso then tossed it aside, causing a clattering
sound of steel against stone. Lacroix pushed his fingers into the
wound, dousing them in her blood, and he smeared it across his lips
to taste of her once more.
It continued to carry the ecstasy, but there was something
changed, something added to the quality. He grunted in satisfaction
as he recognized his own darkness growing within her, then reddened
his mouth with yet another sample from her rendered heart. Lacroix
chuckled, then let his head fall back as he evolved into a full-blown
laugh as he waited for Francesca to awaken, hungrier for the taste of
life than ever before.
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1755, Cote du Rhone, Avingnon
Lacroix looked dispassionately at the wooden spikes of the
portcullis that staked repeatedly through Francesca's chest, then
stolidly turned his gaze on his wayward son. None of his rage, none
of his fury, none of his earnest desire to take revenge for the loss
of his vampire offspring, his *loyal and respectful* offspring,
escaped as he observed Nicholas stand warily, slightly cringing at
the thought of his sire's retribution.
Lacroix had learned, however, that sometimes the easiest path to
victory was to quietly beguile your victim, controlling your true
wants, keeping them from sight, until your prey was so enthralled,
they did not care how you struck.
he thought, continuing to send Nicholas an indifferent stare, Lacroix let his eyes fall to still
body lanced to the stone floor, her moonlit skin contrasting with the
traces of her blood around the punctures, and remembered.
Lacroix spoke calmly to his son, just a few, brief sentences
before returning to his chambers upstairs, never to speak of Francesca
again until asked.
"She will haunt you, Nicholas. Hers was an uncommon soul."
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Fin
The main historic source I used was 'Einhard: The Life of Charlemagne,'
translation by Samuel Epes Turner (Harper & Brother, 1880), along with
various little references to the Carolignians and Lombards. Everything
else was guesswork.
Send comments, questions and virtual apples to: br1035@ix.netcom.com
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geocities.com/televisioncity/5077) (
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