Hunting Memories

Chapter 12

Robert

Robert Brighton cared nothing for titles or power-or even for family. His grandfather had been a soldier, his father had been a soldier, and he never considered any other life than following the same path.

He didn't mind the simple designation "man-at-arms," and he was loyal to the lord he served.

In the year 1514, his lord, Thomas Howard, was named Earl of Surrey. And Robert, at the age of twenty-three, had already been in his service for five years. He rejoiced in his lord's success.

By this point he had followed Thomas Howard into wars with Spain and Scotland, and he liked traveling from one battle to the next.

The course of his life simply followed that of his lord's, and this was comfortable, with a natural kind of flow that Robert desired. His left arm was broken once and his nose twice, but he always healed enough to fight again. He did not think into the future. He preferred living day to day, and the earl made certain the needs of his closest men were always met. Robert had little to consider besides loyalty, courage, and following orders-and he excelled at all three.

The earl's first wife died of consumption, but Robert had barely been aware of her existence. He was almost equally unaware when his lord had remarried in 1513 to Elizabeth Stafford, daughter to the third Duke of Buckingham.

A man-at-arms like Robert would hardly be included in the wedding party, and he and his lord were rarely at home. He'd seen Elizabeth a few times, but she was barely sixteen at the time of the marriage. Later, he wished he had taken more note of the event, as it came to shatter the course of his life.

After the Battle of Flodden Field in Scotland, to Robert's disappointment, his lord began growing interested in the political arena, and they spent more and more time at court in Eltham or Lambeth Palace-wherever the king was residing. Robert hated inactivity, and there was little for him to do. But he enjoyed those weeks when the court made preparations to "move," and then the hordes of Henry VIII's household took to the roads for a short journey.

Always acting as guard to his own lord, Robert liked the traveling and the break in monotony.

There were brief stints when the earl took time to rejoin his new wife, either at court or their seat at Arundel Castle in Sussex or their family home at Kenninghall, Norfolk. As a result they had a son named Henry and a daughter named Mary, but again, Robert barely noticed these domestic happenings.

Then, in 1520, his lord was given the thankless task of "putting Ireland in order," and Robert rejoiced once more. The following year they fought in France. They were merciless, burning all of Morlaix. After this, Robert hoped the earl would not be recalled home, and he got his wish. They were sent back to Scotland, killing men and ravaging lands, and Robert felt nothing but respect for his lord.

Then… in 1524, Thomas Howard's father died, and so he became the third Duke of Norfolk. As a reward, he was allowed to go and live in his own house in Kenninghall. At first, Robert thought little of this. By this point, he was thirty-three years old and quite resigned to going wherever his lord went.

Upon arriving at Kenninghall, Robert found out that he was to live inside the manor, as head of the household guard. This appointment honored him. He was placed in charge of the watch, arranging schedules and making certain his instructions were maintained.

He sometimes worried about missing the traveling and the fighting, but perhaps it would not be so bad to oversee the Kenninghall watch. His lord had a young son who would soon need training, and there seemed to be plenty to keep a man like Robert occupied.

There was only one problem.

His lord and lady hated each other.

Whereas Robert had barely noticed his lady before, he was now faced with her on a daily basis. Nearing her late twenties, Elizabeth was tall, slender to the point of being spindly, with dark hair and a widow's peak. She dressed carefully, paying attention to each detail down to her earrings matching her gown, but Lord Thomas somehow always managed to find fault, criticizing her in front of the servants, humiliating her whenever he could.

Robert found his lord's actions base… Worse, he found them common.

Thomas was fifty-one, with a narrow face and a nose so long it seemed to stretch from above his eyes to the top lip of his mouth. His brown hair was thinning, but he, too, dressed carefully, often wearing his robes of state at home.

He had never spent much time around his wife, Elizabeth, and now one of his main pleasures seemed to be verbally torturing her.

One night, she walked into the dining hall wearing a forest green gown with a matching headpiece, Spanish in design, as was the current fashion. They had six guests for dinner that evening.

"Good God," Thomas said. "You look like a brown scarecrow. If you're going to wear that color, the least you could do is cover your face in powder."

Elizabeth froze in her tracks. Several guests tittered. Several glanced away in embarrassment.

Robert tried not to wince as he stood near the door. He was ashamed of his lord. A man of honor did not humiliate his wife.

Yet as uncomfortable as he found the situation, Robert never imagined it could get worse.

He was wrong.

Although Thomas Howard did not particularly like women, he found many of them enticing, and as far as he was concerned, the lower class the better for his appetites. In addition, he was hardly discreet, and Robert began growing more unsettled by his lord's behavior.

One of the household women was of particular concern. Her name was Bess Holland, and she was Lady Elizabeth's washing woman. She was small and buxom with a mass of reddish curls and green eyes. She had a way of walking, while carrying a basket on her hip, that could cause an uproar among Robert's own men, and she was well aware of it. Had he been the steward in charge of the household servants, he would have dismissed her.

Unfortunately, he was not the steward.

Soon, it was clear that his lord was sporting with Bess behind closed doors as often as possible. They didn't even try to be quiet.

Again, Robert winced, but he said nothing. It was not his concern.

On the battlefield, his lord was magnificent. As a husband and father, he was lacking.

Robert chastised himself for such thoughts and vowed to remain loyal.

But when an old friend who served Thomas Boleyn stopped by on an errand one day, Robert almost asked him about possible openings among their house guard.

This got him thinking on travel and battles again, wondering if he should offer his services elsewhere. He was beginning to despise his lord and pity his lady.

The problem with Elizabeth was that she allowed Thomas to hurt her. Robert could see this in her eyes. If only she had ignored his barbs, let them vanish in the air, and pretended he had never spoken, he might have eventually relented. But she kept on trying to improve herself to keep him quiet. She flinched visibly at his cutting words, and yet she kept on trying to please him. That was her mistake. She had no other way to fight back, as he held all the power. Robert longed to tell her that the secret to fighting him was through complete and absolute disregard.

But of course he said nothing.

Then, one night, he was making his house rounds, and he heard screaming upstairs. He flew forward, drawing his sword, taking the steps two at a time. He ran for the nursery.

His lady was still screaming, but he checked himself in the doorway upon hearing his lord's voice inside.

"Stop squalling, you hag!" Thomas shouted.

"A house?" Elizabeth screamed at him. "You bought her a house, for everyone to see?"

In horror, Robert realized his lord and lady were having a loud argument that many of the servants could probably hear. He stepped up closer to peer inside, and he saw little Henry and Mary up against the wall with their nurse, staring wide-eyed at their parents. Robert felt sick. He wanted to get them out of there.

"At least she does not lie beneath me like a motionless bag of sticks!" Thomas roared back.

"She is a churl's daughter who was nothing but my washer-woman!"

Robert started slightly as the truth sank in. Lord Thomas had purchased Bess Holland a house of her own and had set her up as a mistress-and he had done so publicly.

"How could you? How could you stain our family name like this?" Elizabeth was sobbing now. "You will give her up. I demand you to give her up!"

"You demand-?"

His sentence was cut off by loud crashing sound, and Robert stepped up to the door, not caring if he was seen. Lady Elizabeth was on the floor with her mouth bleeding. Thomas reached down, jerked her back up to her feet, and struck her again. She fell back against a small table, and he kicked her.

The nurse pulled both of the children closer and covered their eyes.

Thomas hit his wife over and over again until she was unconscious and lying in a bleeding heap on the floor.

Robert just stood there in the doorway. He could not interfere. But something inside of him snapped, and he knew he could not stay in this house.

Though Thomas was panting, his rage finally seemed spent. He glanced at the nurse and his children and then strode out the door, stopping in brief surprise at the sight of Robert just outside in the hallway.

"I heard shouting, my lord," Robert said instantly. "I feared for your safety."

Thomas said nothing. He didn't even order Robert to fetch help for Lady Elizabeth. He just brushed past and headed for the stairs.

Robert ran into the room, kneeling by Elizabeth and calling to the nurse. "Go get help! Run and find young Francis on watch out front. Tell him to break off one of the house doors and bring it up. Then send for a physician." He paused. "And get the children out of here!"

Relieved at the sight of him taking charge, she shooed the children out, and he knelt there, alone, with Lady Elizabeth. She was still breathing, but she looked so broken that he feared even touching her without some assistance, and he did not want to try carrying her in his arms. After battles, he'd seen wounded men hurt worse if their backs or necks were already injured when someone tried to pick them up.

A commotion sounded downstairs as people burst into action, and all he could do was wait for his guardsman, Francis, to hurry upstairs with the doctor.

Lady Elizabeth recovered slowly, but word of Lord Thomas' brutal actions-and the reason for the dispute-spread quickly. Striking one's wife, even beating her, was not uncommon for men of his station. But beating her with his fists and feet into an unconscious state was… unseemly at best.

The third Duke of Norfolk decided to go back to court and continue his fight in the political arena. Robert requested to stay behind-and his request was granted. Thomas could barely look at him after the scene in the nursery.

Robert was determined to change his service and yet the prospect filled him with sorrow. He had served this house since he was eighteen. He was trusted here. The thought of starting over with a new lord seemed overwhelming. And as of yet, he could not leave Lady Elizabeth in her current state.

So he stayed.

With the duke gone and Bess Holland gone, the mood of the household improved somewhat. But as Elizabeth recovered physically, she appeared to deteriorate mentally, and she was sometimes seen whispering to herself.

Robert saw this himself one day, when she was out in the gardens with her mouth moving rapidly, but no one stood nearby. Her ribs had healed and she no longer bent over when she walked, but he believed she would keep the small scar on her upper lip.

Against all his training and belief in propriety, he walked up to her. "Are you well, my lady?"

She jumped at his voice and squinted as if not recognizing him for a moment. "Oh, Robert… yes, I am well. Even better soon. All will be well soon."

She walked down the path, her lips quiet and still now.

Better soon? What had she meant?

The trio arrived several nights later-hours after darkness had fallen and long past when respectable guests might come calling.

Robert was in the kitchen, drinking a mug of ale before starting his final rounds, when young Francis stuck his head in the door.

"Sir?" he said.

"What is it?" Robert stood up.

"You'd better come."

Robert followed to the great dining hall, where he found three figures illuminated by a burning candle: two men and a woman. The men were dressed like ruffians in baggy trousers and loose soiled shirts, their hair lank and greasy. They wore cutlass-styled blades on their belts. But he glanced at the men only briefly before his gaze fell upon the woman… perhaps only a girl? And he stopped walking.

The moment he entered, she turned and stared at him with large black eyes-true black like her wild hair. She looked maybe nineteen years old, with the pale, glowing skin of someone who seldom went outdoors. Her nose was small, and her mouth was heart-shaped. She wore a burgundy skirt and white blouse with a thin vestment over the top, laced up tightly. She was slender and her hips were narrow, yet the tops of her breasts swelled above the laced vest. Gold rings dangled from her ears, and bracelets clinked on her wrists.

Robert had seen gypsies before, but not one like her. When she turned to look at him, the top of her blouse slipped slightly, exposing her fine-boned shoulder, and he was hit by a rush of physical desire stronger than anything he'd ever felt before. His mind filled with images of her lying beneath him, clawing at his back.

He drew in a breath, cursing himself, and straightened, pushing the images away.

"What are you doing in here?" he demanded.

"We have business with your lady," the young woman answered.

"I don't think so," he answered.

Such rabble had no business with Lady Elizabeth. How had they gotten this far into the house? He'd have Francis on night watch for a month.

"Are they here?" a breathy voice called from the entryway outside, near the bottom of the stairs.

To his surprise, Lady Elizabeth nearly ran into the dining hall. She wore no headpiece, and strands of her hair fell about her face, sticking to her chin. She was holding her skirt off the floor. Robert had never seen her in such an undignified state.

"Oh…" she breathed at the sight of the strangers. Motioning toward a back room where the duke sometimes held intimate conferences with other lords, she said, "Quickly, in there."

"My lady?" Robert asked in confusion. Had Elizabeth indeed called for these… people?

She ignored him and hurried past, moving toward the strangers.

The girl was still staring at Robert, almost as if she knew him. Though shaken by his own reaction to her, he had no intention of allowing Elizabeth to take these three into a back room alone. The men looked like thieves or lowborn assassins-or both.

He walked after his lady, gripping the hilt of sword.

She held up one hand. "Wait out here," she ordered.

He couldn't believe what was happening. Elizabeth had never deigned to look at such people, much less speak to them.

"My lady?" he repeated, uncertain what to do.

But she ushered all three strangers into the back room, and he was powerless do anything but obey her orders. The gypsy girl continued to stare at him until the door was closed.

He walked over in near panic and stood directly outside, ready to break through the moment he was called. Then he noticed Francis was still standing across the hall in the archway, equally disturbed.

"You're dismissed," Robert said. "I'll speak with you later."

Francis went pale, turned, and left.

Robert didn't want anyone else here. His fears did not surround only his lady's safety. What was she doing? His mind raced for any reason she would call upon armed vagabonds in the middle of the night, and the only possible answer left him cold.

She was arranging to have someone murdered.

Only two choices were possible: either the duke or Bess Holland.

He paced before the door, searching for some way out of this. Though troubled by her actions, he could not blame Elizabeth. How might anyone react to the treatment she'd received? But he had to stop this. If the target was Bess, his lady would only bring further shame and scandal upon the house. And if it was his lord…

He listened to the low voices beyond the door, hearing mainly Elizabeth's and the smooth tones of the young woman. Elizabeth's voice rose several times, and at one point, he thought she sounded horrified, but he couldn't make out the words.

Thinking more clearly, he rationalized that his lady would never arrange to have her husband murdered. Even if she managed to keep her life afterward, she had too much to lose by way of title and wealth and position were she to be found out-and he did not believe she would risk the future of her children. No, she was going to punish Bess.

Beyond the door, Elizabeth's voice rose again, and the door was jerked open. She stood on the other side, looking out at him. Her features was drawn tightly, her eyes full of pain. But she appeared more composed now.

She stepped out of the room. "Robert, please have them escorted out." Her voice was ragged. As the strangers seemed to slide into the dining hall, he noticed the young woman carried a velvet pouch. Elizabeth had paid them already? What was going on?

"Francis!" he barked, hoping the guardsman was within earshot.

"Sir?" Francis appeared the archway.

"See these people all the way out of the gates."

Robert wasn't leaving the hall-not yet. The gypsy was staring at him again. He tried not to look at her as Francis led the strangers out. They went quietly. As of yet, he hadn't heard either of the men even speak.

Then he was alone with Lady Elizabeth.

"Robert," she whispered. "I almost made a mistake tonight. But I changed my mind. I could not… could not…"

The relief flooding him was so intense his legs felt weak. She had changed her mind.

"You paid them?" he asked.

"For their time. For their trouble. For their silence."

In the moment, it did not shock him that she was speaking to him of such things, as if he were her brother or cousin or her equal.

"What will you do now?" he asked.

She lifted her head to look at him. "Think of my children. I must work for their futures. I have no way to fight my lord."

"Then don't," he said coldly.

Her brow wrinkled.

He hesitated only a few seconds before the words came pouring out. "Do you not see why he chose Bess Holland? Your washing woman? Who would cut you more? Ignore the fact that Bess exists. She is not worth your notice. When the duke speaks to you cruelly in front of others, regard him with disdain or pretend he has not spoken. Show him that he is not worth your notice."

Her eyes shifted back and forth as she listened, absorbing Robert's counsel, appearing as if such a tactic had never occurred to her.

"Yes," she whispered.

Then she looked him in the face again, and they suddenly both realized the inappropriate nature of this discussion considering their ranks. And they were both acutely aware of everything that had taken place in the last hour.

Robert stepped away. "I should make my rounds outside," he said.

She did not bother responding to him but walked to the other end of the hall, out the arch, and toward the stairs.

He sucked in a deep breath and steadied himself on the edge of the table for a moment, and then he, too, fled the hall, going outside into the cool night air as fast as he could.

He did not want to be in the house.

The thread that had held him here protecting Lady Elizabeth was broken. This had become a madhouse of dark secrets and hatred, and he wanted no part of it.

He kept walking, not even checking in with the guards outside, just walking, until he reached the outside of the stables. He could hear the horses moving about inside, and the sound was slightly calming-or at least grounding.

"Do you like being out at night?" a smooth voice asked from his left.

He whirled and felt his heart stop briefly as the gypsy stepped from behind a tree. The sight of her made him tense up again. His experiences with women were limited to the occasional girl along the road, and only in his much younger life.

"I had you escorted out," he said.

"You did," she answered lightly. "I came back."

He moved closer, intending to grab her arm. "I won't have assassins near this house."

"I'm not an assassin," she said. "My companions are, but I met them only a few nights ago, and I bet them five sovereigns your lady would change her mind once she heard the details."

He stopped. "What?"

She shrugged. "I saw her face when we first made arrangements, at a tavern in the village. To dream of murdering a rival is one thing; to hear the effects of poisons or drowning or strangulation is another. I knew she would change her mind."

"A tavern?"

Then he remembered that Elizabeth had gone into the village for a while a few evenings ago. He'd stayed behind and sent a small contingent along as escort.

The gypsy girl was so close that even in the darkness he could see every detail of the lashes around her black eyes. Her close proximity made his chest ache, and he fought to keep his hands at his sides. Did she not fear being alone with him in the night?

"Why did you come back?" he whispered.

"For you."

He didn't move, and the sound-or perhaps the quality-of her voice changed.

"You long to leave this place," she murmured. "To run and seek adventure, to travel, to see other sights and hear other sounds."

As she spoke, the pain in his chest faded, replaced by excitement. Her words began to create pictures in his mind of the wonder of constant travel, living on the road with her, and she… she would never be at a loss for something new to explore. She was a fountain of ideas and adventure, always delighted by the joys of the journey.

She embodied everything he had ever wanted.

"Come with me," she whispered, moving close enough to speak in his ear. "Come with me now. I've waited for you for a hundred years."

A hundred years.

"Get us two horses," she whispered. "The front gates are open. Your men are asleep. No one will see us."

He didn't even stop to think.

Less than half an hour later, they were riding out the open front gates.

Deep inside the forest, he watched her building a fire, and the reality of what he'd done began to sink in.

Had she put some kind of spell on him?

He'd abandoned his lord's house with the front gates wide-open and left all his men asleep!

His hands were shaking by the time she finished the fire, and the small twigs crackled and burned.

"What did you do to me?" he demanded, wondering how fast he could get back and yet hating the thought at the same time.

"Nothing you didn't want," she answered. "My gift only works to that degree on a certain few… those who love the journey more than anything."

Her voice had changed again, falling like music on his ears, and he began to forget the open gates. He forgot his men. He forgot his lady.

"Your gift?" he asked.

"Where do you wish to go first?" she asked. "Germany? The south of France? Italy?"

"Italy," he repeated in wonder. He had always longed to see Italy. But her words offered more than travel. He could see pictures of her laughing on a foreign beach in the night air. He could see her offering idea after idea for the next place to explore, the next delight to uncover. For the first time in his life, he did not feel alone.

She held both hands out to him, and he walked over to grasp them. Her black hair smelled earthy and musty. Her face was lovely, exotic and delicate at the same time.

"I've looked for so long," she said. "You are protection itself."

He didn't know what that meant. He didn't care.

"But you have to agree," she said.

"Agree?"

"If you come with me, we'll live only by night, but we'll live forever. You have to learn the laws and obey them. You won't age and you won't die, but not everyone wants this. You have to tell me that you agree, or I cannot go further."

Live only by night? Forever?

He had no idea what she was saying, but again, he didn't care. He only knew he could not live now without the perfect vision of traveling the continent with her at his side.

"I'll agree to anything you want," he whispered.

She smiled, exposing white even teeth. "I knew you would. I knew I had finally found you."

She kissed him.

He grabbed the back of her head and pressed his tongue into her mouth. She drew him to the ground by the fire, and he ran his hand down to her waist, pinning her with the weight of his chest.

"No, roll over," she murmured.

He obeyed her, and then she was sitting on top of him. She was so light he could barely feel her weight.

"My name is Jessenia," she said, "and you are my other half."

She leaned down, and he expected her to kiss him again. But she moved her mouth to his neck, and before he realized what was happening, she drove her teeth into throat. The pain was blinding, and he bucked hard to throw her off. But she held on, gripping him and draining his blood.

His mind went blank.

Then he was lost again in the glorious images of rocky beaches with saltwater spray, new cities to explore, ancient churches, lush forests, mountains… and Jessenia always beside him, always smiling and laughing or lost in wonder or offering ideas for the next place to go. The pain in his throat vanished. The beating of his heart slowed and slowed. So lost in the lovely visions, he was only dimly aware of his heart. He saw himself sitting with Jessenia at a fine inn, and she offered him a goblet of red wine. He drank deeply. It was delicious.

Then he opened his eyes and found himself lying on his back with her on top, leaning over him… and her torn wrist was in his mouth. He was drinking her blood. He was gulping in mouthfuls.

Shock hit him like cold water.

"Don't stop," she whispered. "Not yet."

And he couldn't stop. She caressed his face and murmured in his ear. A few moments later, everything went black.

When he next woke, he could hear all the insects of the forest.

He turned his head and saw Jessenia sitting near him. She crawled closer and smiled.

"You're awake. I did not know how long you would sleep."

He felt different. The fire was long out, but he was not cold. Memories came rushing back, and he knew he should be horrified, enraged. He should want to kill her.

But he didn't.

With her face leaning close to his, he only wanted her to wash those perfect images of their journeys through his mind again.

"Can you walk?" she asked. "We should go and stay at an inn until you've completely finished the change and you're ready to feed. But you cannot feed without me along at first, not until you've learned how."

"Feed?"

"Just come."

She drew him up to his feet, and they untied their horses, leaving the dead fire behind and the small patch of ground where Robert lost one life… and began another.

The first weeks of his undead existence passed quickly, but he never forgot them.

He was a not a fanciful man, and he took no stock in myths and superstitions.

So this new reality-clearly no myth-was something he accepted as an event he could not change.

He might have questioned more, even regretted more, had Jessenia not been at his side, helping him every step of the way, or as much as he allowed her to help. He never realized how alone he had been before her.

She was just a slip of a girl. A gypsy sprite.

Yet she bubbled over with life to a degree that left him in awe. He would have died for her.

Not long after the night by their campfire, he began growing uncomfortable, hollow and agitated.

"We need to go out," Jessenia said.

They left their inn and walked among the people of the village. He wasn't even sure which village.

"Where are we?"

"It doesn't matter yet," she answered, looking around. She spotted a smithy with a red glow coming from somewhere inside. "This way."

When they reached the front doors, she stopped him. "Just try to watch me, but don't come all the way in until I call for you."

He frowned in confusion, but the hollow feeling inside him was growing worse, and she had always known what to do before. So from the side of the doorway, he watched her go in. She approached a young man standing by brazier with a steel mallet in his hand.

The young man looked up in surprise, but Jessenia smiled.

"Sorry to bother you so late, but my horse has gone lame, just down the street. He's bad enough that I didn't want to try to make him walk. Could you come take a look? I can pay you."

The man laid down the mallet and took off his apron. His face was sweating. "I don't mind. I could use a rest from this anyway."

But Jessenia did not move to leave. Instead she looked around the smithy. "Are you here all day?" she asked. "Do you ever wish to go someplace else, someplace far and strange?"

Robert heard the change in her voice, and he was beginning to recognize the difference between her voice for dreams and her voice for communicating. The blacksmith's eyes glazed over almost instantly, and he sank to his knees as Jessenia continued talking, lowering her voice to a soft pitch.

"To walk along the shores of Italy, with the blue sky and blue sea…"

Robert was hit by a stab of jealousy so strong he almost walked in and grabbed her by the throat. What was she doing? Sporting with another man right in front of him?

"You see a ledge jutting from the rocks. You walk over and lie down beneath it, breathing the warm air. You fall asleep."

The blacksmith lay down in the straw on the floor.

Jessenia looked up. "Robert," she said softly. "Come now."

Confused, he walked in, still angry at her, but uncertain what she was doing. She knelt down on the floor.

"Like this," she said, picking up the blacksmith's wrist. Carefully, she sank her teeth into his veins. Something on the edge of Robert's awareness told him he should be shocked, but he wasn't.

Jessenia pulled her teeth out. "Come and feed. I'll keep him asleep."

He walked over and knelt on the other side of the sleeping man. Then he took the blacksmith's wrist and bit down, drinking blood as he'd once swallowed ale from a wooden mug.

"Be careful," Jessenia said. "Listen for his heart. You can't take too much."

The blood tasted sweet and salty at the same time. He could feel the life and strength growing in him. Images of the man's life passed through his mind, of work and family and spending holidays in the north. The hollow ache vanished. He gulped in more mouthfuls.

"No!" Jessenia pushed him away. "You never kill to feed. You can kill to protect us. You can even kill for money, but not to feed. Else you'll endanger all of us. Do you understand?"

He did not understand.

She placed one hand on the blacksmith's head and closed her eyes. Then she opened her eyes again, took a small knife from her boot, and turned the bite marks on the man's wrist into a straighter line.

"I've altered his memory," she said. "He won't remember me at all. When he wakes, he will remember cutting himself on that sword lying halfway off the table. Then he will remember fainting."

The sense of this was beginning to dawn on Robert, but he still didn't grasp what she meant by "altered his memories." How?

"Don't worry," she said. "You'll be doing this on your own soon. We should go." She smiled. "Tonight we set out. Where shall we go first?"

Feeling strong and filled with anticipation, he followed her.

Robert decided upon France, so he and Jessenia made their way to the coast and found passage on a ship to cross the Channel.

The ship sailed about an hour before dawn.

"Tonight, we'll go up and watch the water racing past the bow," she said.

Huddled in their cramped quarters belowdecks, Robert thrilled at even the prospect of this crossing. Jessenia made every moment enticing.

The air was still dark outside, and he felt wide awake. Somehow, she'd seemed different to him tonight. She kept studying his face almost as if she was hungry.

She came to him, sitting beside him on his bunk. "I can feel your gift," she said. "It's getting stronger."

So much she said was still a mystery.

"I love your gift," she whispered. "As you love mine."

For the first time since that night by the campfire, she reached up and kissed him. He pushed her back to lie on the bunk, and he pressed his mouth down hard over hers, running his hands down her slender waist as she moved her hands up to grip the nape of his neck.

In spite of his desire, his body did not respond in its usual way, and he ran his hand over the tops of her breasts. His need for her, his urgency grew, but his body still betrayed him.

Then… he felt Jessenia inside his mind, her thoughts reaching for his, entwining with his, and her sense of adventure, her joy in journeys, was suddenly part of him, drawing upon him, and as he thought of them together in strange places, a feeling of fierce protection began to build inside him. No matter where they went, no matter what they saw or what they did, he would protect her from people, from the sun, from poverty, from everything.

Her passion for adventure began to combine with his desire to protect inside of him… inside of her until he could no longer tell the difference. The joining and meshing of half-mad drives went on and on in waves through his body until he felt it build to an almost intolerable bubble, and then it burst and his body shuddered in a shock of intense pleasure. Jessenia was still gripping the nape of his neck, and she gasped aloud-as if she still needed to breathe.

"Robert," she was saying over and over in his ear. "I knew, I knew."

He pressed his nose against hers. He was still shaking.

He had never imagined emotions like this, drives and needs like this. She had been inside of him, and he inside of her.

What had she done to him?

Her body began to relax beneath his, and she turned her head to one side.

"I knew as soon as I saw you," she said.

Years passed.

Jessenia taught Robert to develop and focus his telepathy. He learned to seduce with his gift. He learned how to hunt safely, and he learned why this was so essential: to protect the secrecy of his own kind.

He learned the laws as Jessenia taught him.

The first law was the most important. Never kill to feed. So she'd taught him this one immediately.

The second law prohibited any of their kind from making more than one other vampire in the span of one hundred years. Apparently, the physical and mental energy it required was so great that making another one before one hundred years passed could produce weak or flawed results.

The third law prohibited any of their kind from making a vampire without the express consent of the mortal. Turning a mortal against his or her will was a sin.

Fourth, the maker was required to teach the new vampire all methods of proper survival-again to protect the secrecy of the others.

"What happens if someone breaks one of the laws?" he asked one night.

She looked surprised. "None of us would break them." She paused. "The maker takes immense responsibility in turning a mortal, so we consider our choices carefully, as they will be long-term companions. I know vampires who are natural teachers who have turned mortals out of a need for a student. I have seen some who sought a mother or a father figure."

"What did you seek?"

"I sought you." She grabbed his hand. "I looked so long for you."

It troubled him at first that she would never answer certain questions. Where had she come from? Who was her maker? He did learn that she was right around one hundred years old, but where had she been for the past hundred years, and who had she been before that?

She told him not to ask.

Over the years, he did come to understand that her love of traveling was an overwhelming drive, and yet she had learned to fear doing so alone. She told him she'd been searching for a companion who was a soldier, but not a common soldier. She sought one who saw the importance of rules and laws and order and yet at the same time was capable of feeling pity, of feeling love. Most of all, one whose gift would be seduction through the promise of protection… and one would who protect her.

"Connections like ours are rare," she said. "Your gift and mine create fire when we join them."

And they joined frequently. He could never get enough of the feel of her body in his hands or of tangling his gift with hers until they both shuddered with waves of pleasure and exhaustion.

"But you have no obligation to me," she said. "After training is complete, there are no laws to tie the new ones to their makers."

He grasped the back of her hair. "Why would I ever leave you?"

She smiled.

Each night was as full and interesting as the last. He found out quickly that Jessenia enjoyed the company of most mortals, and she was often involved in intrigues similar to that of the night he'd met her. He shook his head in wonder when she told him more details of how she'd seen the two assassins in a tavern, and she'd seen Lady Elizabeth's face. Afterward, she made friends with the men easily, and then bet them five sovereigns that the lady would back down.

Jessenia was a good judge of character.

She and Robert traveled through France and Italy, meeting new people and sometimes staying in villages or towns for months at a time if the place pleased them. Once, Robert even helped a local constable solve a series of murders-involving young girls. Robert followed the smell of blood to a chapel and found the body of a girl in a secret space beneath the altar. He read the mind of the priest and found a mad predator hiding behind a serene face.

The constable paid Robert well for his help. Jessenia and Robert earned some money in these intrigues, but normally they simply took it from their feeding victims-and then would leave behind memories of a robbery.

As time passed, Robert took over this element of their existence, and he always managed to keep them adequately stocked with money.

Jessenia spoke a number of languages fluently. In the early days, Robert knew only French and a bit of Spanish, but as his telepathy increased, he learned how to draw meaning from words by reading minds. Soon he spoke fluent Italian.

He did think back now and then upon Thomas Howard and Lady Elizabeth and how he had abandoned his position-abandoned the house with the gates wide open after Jessenia had put his guards to sleep.

But that seemed a different life.

"It was different," she told him. "But you are still yourself. Your years as a soldier, of serving the duke, of pitying his wife… these made you into who you are."

"And what made you into who you are?" he asked.

She turned away from him, something she rarely did. "I invented myself."

He did not press further.

After twenty years together, she began introducing him to other vampires, and this offered him more new experiences. He found out that she set up several message posts in every country, and she would stop occasionally to pick up letters.

As with people, he enjoyed the company of some vampires more than others. His least favorite was an elderly German scholar-turned late in life-named Adalrik. Robert found Adalrik to be decent and kind, with a solid old house outside of Hamburg. But he and Jessenia spent several months at the house one summer, and Robert had almost nothing to do for the entire visit. Jessenia could read and write several languages, including Latin, and she tended to get lost for hours in Adalrik's library. Robert could barely read English and had no interest in learning anything else. But her concern for Robert's pleasure always took precedent, and she soon assured him they would move on.

In Italy, however, over the years they stayed numerous times at a villa near Florence with a lovely woman named Cristina and her maker, Demetrio, and Robert did not grow so restless there. Demetrio was an artist from the Renaissance. He was full of good conversation, yet he always treated Robert like a social equal. Cristina was a kind hostess, and they were both clearly fond of Jessenia.

Unfortunately, after being turned, Demetrio had developed a discomfort with unfamiliar places, and he rarely left the villa except to hunt.

"It happens sometimes," Jessenia told Robert quietly. "Demetrio's maker was gentle, but he had a difficult time adjusting to the change. I've heard if the experience is traumatic, and the new vampire recovers for months in one familiar place, he or she may come to fear open spaces or places unknown."

Robert felt pity for Demetrio.

Still, the four of them drank red wine on the terrace and played at dice games and told stories to each other. Their times together were always pleasant.

But Robert's favorite visits always took place in a manor outside of Harfleur in France that belonged to a near-ancient crusader, Angelo Travare. He and Robert had a good deal in common and enjoyed each other's company. Although he, too, could be prone toward scholarly nonsense, his penchants tended to change upon whom he was with, and he played the old soldier in Robert's presence. Once Angelo decided to travel with them, and the three of them spent the better part of a year touring Spain. But Angelo was sometimes given to deep melancholy, and Robert often sensed the man was lonely-very lonely. Traveling with Robert and Jessenia did not alleviate this but rather made it worse.

"You two are good to me," he said one night. "But you only see each other. You only need each other."

Robert could not deny this, and the next night, Angelo left them to head back for France.

Three hundred years slipped by, and Robert found some pleasure, some wonder, in every single night. He and Jessenia traveled through Portugal and then Greece. They spent years in Austria and then Poland, and later found delight in Prague. They explored forests and beaches and mountains. Sometimes they found inns-or even rented rooms-for a longer stay. Sometimes they slept in abandoned hovels. Sometimes Robert camouflaged a black canvas tent in the forest, and he made them their own shelter for the day. Jessenia never questioned his decisions or his abilities, and he never once failed her.

The best thing about traveling in this slow, exploratory fashion was that after a hundred years, they simply went back to England and started all over again… and everything was different.

At the turn of the nineteenth century, they heard that Angelo had finally created a surrogate son for himself, a Scot named John McCrugger. Robert was glad to hear the news. Now Angelo would not be so lonely.

But he did not think long on this, as he was too lost in the bliss of his own constant companion, his lively sprite, Jessenia.

He believed their love and their journeys would go on forever.

Then, in 1820, everything began to change.

They had just crossed the border from Switzerland into northern Italy, and Jessenia stopped at one of her message outposts to see if she had any letters waiting. She did.

"Oh, look," Jessenia said with a smile. "It's from Demetrio. Let's find an inn, and I'll read you the news."

A half hour later, they were sitting at a table, making plans whether to take rooms or travel on the next night, when Jessenia opened the letter, and her expression changed. Her smile faded and her mouth began to tremble.

"What is it?" Robert asked in alarm. He had never seen her like this.

Her hand was shaking as she held on to the letter.

"Jessenia! What's wrong?"

"Angelo…" She was trying to speak and kept failing. Robert could not read Italian, so he waited.

"Angelo has broken the laws… several of them," she managed to say. "He made a second son, a Welsh noble, two years ago, and then a third one, French, only a year after. Demetrio says the Welsh one has no telepathic ability at all, and the French one is feral and cannot be trained."

Robert fell back in his chair. "That cannot be right. Is this something Demetrio heard or saw? I cannot think… Angelo would never…"

Three new vampires in the span of eighteen years?

"We have to go to Harfleur," Jessenia said. "We should leave tonight."

This was a journey without joy. Robert kept turning the possibilities over and over in his mind, but he could not think of how these last two vampires could feed without killing. Why would Angelo, the oldest among them, break laws set up for the protection of them all?

No, it had to be a mistake. Something had been mistranslated.

They arrived in Harfleur.

It was no mistake, and the scene Robert found was worse than he imagined.

He walked inside the stone manor and saw something moving stealthily up ahead. A figure emerged into the entryway, and Robert actually took a step back, holding his arm out to guard Jessenia.

The creature moving toward him barely seemed human. It was a man with long red-brown hair who might have once been handsome but who now wore the expression of a mindless animal. His feet were bare and he wore no shirt, with blood smeared across his face and chest. He snarled savagely.

"Philip! Get back!"

Angelo strode quickly up behind this creature and took his arm. The creature calmed somewhat, but Angelo did not look happy at the sight of guests.

"Robert, I was not expecting you."

Robert just stood there with no idea what to say. He couldn't believe the sight before them, and he continued holding Jessenia back.

"Forgive me," Angelo said. "This is Philip Brantй. Excuse his state of undress. He just came in and I must have his shirt laundered."

Judging by the blood smeared all over the creature's face, Robert could only imagine what his shirt must look like. And this pretense at a polite introduction was insulting.

"Send him away," Robert choked. "We would speak to you alone."

Angelo looked at him through cold eyes for a long moment and then turned to the creature. "Philip, my boy, you stay here. I need to speak with our guests."

The creature snarled again but moved to the side, half turning to expose what looked like a mass of round white burn scars across his shoulders. Robert cautiously drew Jessenia past him. They followed Angelo to the library, where Robert slammed the door.

"How could you?" Jessenia whispered. "Angelo, how could you? Demetrio says there is another one… who has no telepathic ability at all."

Angelo sat in a large wooden chair by a table. An open book lay upon the table near a bottle of ink and a wet quill.

"Yes," he said, "that is Julian, but I am working to help him develop his abilities. I believe it is only a matter of time. Philip improves each week. At first he could not even speak, and he now understands language quite well."

"Why?" Robert exploded, sick of this calm response from Angelo. "Why would you do this?" He paced along the length of the study. "They have to be destroyed. Both of them!"

"I will decide what is best," Angelo said slowly. "And I will take responsibility for my own actions."

Jessenia was watching him with sad eyes, and her countenance seemed to affect him much more than Robert's anger. Tonight, she wore a rich green skirt with a white blouse and silver hoops in her ears. Her beautiful face was a picture of sorrow. Robert felt sick.

Angelo walked over to her. "I wanted the company of men, as in days long past. One was not enough. I wanted sons again."

"It doesn't work that way," she whispered. "You know it doesn't. Why couldn't you have been happy with your young Scot?"

"I am happy with him. But he wasn't enough." He paused, touching her face with his slender fingers. "I will no longer follow laws I don't believe in, and I swear I will make this right. I just need time."

"How are they feeding?" Robert demanded.

Angelo did not answer.

"What are their names again?" Robert asked, "Julian and Philip? Have either of them shown any tendencies for mental power?"

"Not Julian. Not yet, but in all other respects, he is whole, and his gift is strong. I believe Philip's telepathy will surface quickly once I begin his training. But he has no memories of his previous life, and it is too soon to press him."

"Then keep him on a leash!"

"He is my son!" Angelo roared back.

"Angelo," Jessenia said, looking more composed. "If you won't train Philip now, right now, then he must be destroyed, and so must Julian if he does not develop telepathy. You know this."

"Leave me," Angelo answered. "Go back to your travels. I will deal with my own family."

There was nothing they could do. Vampires did not fight among each other.

Jessenia started for the door. "I cannot believe that you, you of all among us, chose to break the law. You endanger us all."

With nothing left to say, Robert followed her out.

Although deeply shaken, they could only hope that Angelo would adhere to his word. It was Angelo's place to destroy his sons if need be-which was already the case in Robert's opinion-so they had to believe he would do the right thing.

Needing some sort of comfort, some sense of familiarity, they decided to go back to England for a few years, and they crossed the Channel again, later taking rooms in London. Jessenia wrote to let Cristina and Adalrik know where they were staying, and yet she remained sad, a shadow of herself, for several months. Robert worried about her.

But London proved a lively place in 1821, with many sights and distractions, and soon she joined with him again in their bed, running her hands up his chest, filling his mind with the promise of tomorrow.

They heard nothing worrisome from their friends. Perhaps Angelo had lived up to his word?

Then, in 1824, Jessenia received a letter from Adalrik with news he'd only recently learned. Apparently as far back as 1816, Angelo's first son, John McCrugger, had turned his own serving man, Edward Claymore, into a vampire, and later, Philip, the feral one, had turned his mortal lover, Margaritte Latour, as well… long before the hundred-year mark. Law upon law was being broken due to Angelo's breach.

Robert was uncertain what to do, and Jessenia was frightened.

About a year after this, strange psychic onslaughts began to hit them without warning. Most were weak, as if coming from a great distance, but some were strong and painful. In the same moment, they would both see images and memories of other vampires, sometimes hundreds of years played out in moments. Neither of them knew what this meant.

In 1826, the last letter arrived… and it was from Cristina. Jessenia read it aloud, almost as if she were sleepwalking.

Jessenia dropped the letter onto the floor.

"We're leaving here tonight," Robert said. "We'll hide up north."

"No," she whispered. "I want to wait for her next letter."

The letter never came.

A few nights later, they were hit with waves of memories from Demetrio first… followed shortly after by Cristina's.

Once she had recovered from the onslaught, Jessenia began to pack her few things. "We're going to Italy, to the villa, to make sure they are safe."

"Italy?" Robert repeated. "No."

"You are a soldier!" she shouted. "Demetrio is an artist! Would you not protect them?"

He grasped her hand. "I would protect you first."

"Please," she whispered. "Please, Robert. None of us will survive by hiding. We have to fight. This Julian is still a newborn. His luck will not hold."

They began the long journey back to Italy, to the villa, where they found two piles of dust, just inside the terrace.

Jessenia fell to her knees. "It is them," she said. "My maker told me that we turn to dust. They are gone."

This was the first time Jessenia had ever mentioned her maker.

"We have to go," Robert said. "We need to leave this place now." An unfamiliar and unpleasant feeling had begun crawling around inside him. He couldn't quite place it, but he believed it was fear. "Jessenia, come. There is nothing you can do."

She let him lead her through the front doors, into the dense gardens. Cristina had always liked thick, wild gardens. Jessenia stumbled out ahead of him, and he longed to comfort her, but what could he say?

His mind was churning with decisions over the best possible place to take her and hide, when she walked past a mulberry tree, and the darkness beside her seemed to move on its own. A glint arced through the air, and her head flew off her body before his eyes could absorb what was happening. Her body fell forward with a slight thud.

Before he could even scream her name, a wave of memories hit him.

It was nothing like what he had experienced back in England. He was only a few feet away from her, and he buckled from the impact, rolling on the ground. And what he saw… He saw her dressed as an English lady in the fifteenth century in a velvet gown and headpiece with her hair pinned beneath. He saw a vampire with a wizened face lecturing over a small pile of books, hitting her hand with a wooden pointer, and going on with the lecture. But her name was not Jessenia back then. It was Jane.

The memories went on as if Jessenia was speaking to him.

The wizened vampire had wanted a daughter with imagination, and he'd chosen her. He seduced her agreement through promises of travel and learning. But he was coldhearted and cared nothing for her well-being.

Yet only when he allowed her to begin meeting other vampires, such as Cristina and Demetrio, did she understand the loneliness of her existence. She wanted a different life.

She ran away.

She was alone and lost and frightened-even of some mortals, once she learned her gift did not work well on those with little imagination.

While traveling with a group of gypsies, she changed her way of dress, her hair, her name. She learned the power of her gift. She began looking for a companion, and she could see him in her mind. She would never break the laws or make someone too soon, but still… she searched.

And then she found Robert.

He saw image after image of himself, the way she saw him. She thought him handsome, with his lean face and broken nose. She loved the way his presence changed the way brutal mortals treated her. Harsh men would only need glance at Robert and then look away. None of them came near her. Robert was the real thing. A hardened soldier. He protected her, saw to her needs, loved her, and he asked almost nothing in return. All he wanted was for her to plan their next journey, their next delight, their next exploration, and to share in her enjoyment. He washed away the pain of the past and took everything upon himself. Every night, she looked at him and wondered if he was real…

Robert was choking from unbearable physical and emotional pain when his vision cleared enough to see the blade arcing down at him, and on instinct he rolled to one side.

The sword sliced through the front half of his throat, sending a spray of black blood into the air. He finished his roll, bleeding onto the ground, and looked up to see a dark-haired man standing over him, raising the sword again.

Julian.

It had to be.

Robert flashed out telepathically, rage and hatred giving him strength. The sword stopped in midair as Robert held him there. He wanted this creature to suffer for hours! But the blood kept flowing into the dirt beneath him, and he was growing weaker by the second. The world grew hazy before his eyes. He couldn't get up. He couldn't fight. Soon, he was going to lose the mental connection.

Then he would die.

Had he allowed himself to think, he would have chosen death, but the survivor embedded so deeply inside him took over, and he used a simple telepathic glamour, the same kind he might use on a feeding victim, to alter what Julian saw.

Still standing above him, Julian stepped back, looking down.

Robert managed to stay inside his mind, and Julian saw a headless body on the ground, slowly turning to dust. He looked around, seeing Jessenia's body turning to dust as well.

His work was complete.

After a few moments, he turned and walked away.

Robert lay there, bleeding into the dirt, unable to move, realizing that when the sun rose, he would burn anyway.

He didn't care.

Jessenia was dead.

Her memories tortured him. Why had she never told him of her past? He would have comforted her. He writhed in pain just thinking about the way she saw him. She saw herself as the taker and him as the giver, when he saw it the other way around. Why had they never spoken of such things?

He wanted the sun to rise.

Just before dawn, a gardener came up the path and gasped loudly, running to Robert's side.

"Oh," he cried, kneeling down and leaning over. "Can you move?"

Robert couldn't get up, but he could move his arms. Again, the survivor, the soldier of Norfolk, took over, pushing everything else away. Robert grabbed the gardener and jerked him down, driving his teeth into the man's throat and draining him. He drank until the man's heart stopped.

It was the only time he ever killed to feed.

The wound in his throat closed slightly, and he dragged himself into the house.

In the early years after Jessenia's death, Robert sometimes burned with enough hatred to attempt tracking Julian, to take revenge.

But that fire faded after a while. He was sometimes hit by the distant, much weaker onslaught of the memories of dying vampires-he now knew what they were-and in the dullness of his nightly existence, he lost interest in revenge.

It wouldn't change anything.

It wouldn't bring Jessenia back.

As a mortal, he had often been told that time heals all wounds, but this proved untrue. Each night, he woke up reaching for Jessenia, and each night, the absence of her body, her laugh, the way she always turned to lie facing him in the bed, came crashing down as he saw the empty space and felt the same agony.

It never went away…