Original fic, The Hand of God, chapter 3

[janetlin]

Title: The Hand of God
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Dark fantasy
Summary: Isabeau d'Auvergne is a noblewoman in medieval France, whose life takes a darker turn when four men visit in the night to bestow a "gift" upon her father. Rating is for general darkness and the sensuality inherent in vampirism.

~*~

 

            D’Auvergne’s men found themselves fighting against high odds. The men who opposed them wore no markings or heraldry to identify them, but their equipment was of a consistently higher quality than would be expected among brigands. The men of Auvergne fought bravely, but many of them fell. DuGhent and deBarberac stayed just outside the reach of the flames, fighting only those who came past them. D’Auvergne, seeing this, angrily approached the two men who were supposed to be helping him.

            “Fight, damn you!” he yelled. “Join us!”

            DuGhent shook his head. “My lord, nothing would give us more pleasure than to join in your fight, but you know what we are. Fire is more deadly to us than even to you. It would cause us to go mad and we would kill anyone near us. You cannot afford to lose men to us, my lord.”

            D’Auvergne nodded and wheeled his horse around to ride back into the fray. As he rode away from them, an arrow pierced his mail from behind and he fell to the ground. Time seemed to slow around duGhent and deBarberac. The gray-haired man looked up into the nearest tree, and saw the branches rearranging around the hidden bowman. DeBarberac kicked his horse into motion toward the fallen lord as duGhent dismounted and ran to the tree, half jumping and half climbing to where the assassin was concealed. The man was dispatched in a moment, with hardly even a scream, and duGhent was back on the ground as deBarberac came back bearing d’Auvergne.

            “He lives,” the younger man said, “but not for long.”

            “My daughter…” the dying lord whispered.

            “Take him back to the house. Let him see her again.” In a blur of motion, duGhent had mounted his horse, but deBarberac shook his head.

            “We cannot move him far, Augúst.” The arrow went all the way through d’Auvergne, its bloody tip protruding an inch from his chest. He continued to whisper for his daughter, but blood bubbled on his lips.

            “Very well. At least let us find somewhere private.” The two men rode just beyond the reach of the firelight, to a small cluster of trees, where they dismounted and eased d’Auvergne to the ground. DuGhent knelt over him and broke off the end of the arrow.

            “My lord, we can save your life. If you accept our offer of immortality now, we can make you one of us and you will survive this night. Out of respect for you we will not do this unless you ask us.”

            It took every bit of strength d’Auvergne had to answer them. Even at that, his voice was weak and half-whispered. “If…truly respect me, this…you would give me…give…to my daughter. She is…my legacy.” He laid back and relaxed into Death’s embrace. His last breath escaped bearing a faint, “Isabeau,” and he was gone. The men bowed their heads and said silent prayers for the soul of this noble man.

            “We cannot bury him, and they will find him soon,” deBarberac said softly, leaving unspoken the atrocities that might be performed upon the fallen lord’s corpse. DuGhent nodded and gently removed d’Auvergne’s gloves and cast them aside. The third finger of his right hand bore his signet ring, which duGhent removed and slipped into his pouch.

            “This is all we can take back to her. Let us make haste.” The men remounted and rode back toward the great house. Even before they reached it, they realized there was trouble. Fire lightened the horizon in the direction they were riding, and the closer they came, they heard the sounds of a siege. They slowed their horses to a walk and remained hidden by the trees. Thirty men were in front of the house, all carrying torches except those using a battering ram against the front doors.

            “How shall we get back in?” DeBarberac asked.

            “They cannot watch everywhere,” duGhent replied with a slight grin, “not against us.” Creeping around the side of the house proved him to be right. The trees grew close to the house along one wall with only a few stained glass windows high up. “We will go in there,” duGhent said, pointing to the windows.

            “As you say, old man,” deBarberac replied with his own grin. 

~~~

            As the siege continued outside, Michel and Andrés frantically searched for Isabeau. No one in the house had seen her leave, but she hadn’t been seen since the men had ridden off to the orchard. They grabbed the steward as he ran across the great hall and asked him if he knew where she was.

            “I have not seen her, messieurs,” Louis said in a shaky voice.

            “Where could she be?” Andrés tried not to sound as if he were yelling, even over the noise.

            “In her father’s study, or the chapel perhaps.”

            “Take us to the chapel.” Louis nodded and led the men from the hall and down the side hallway. They could just see the heavy doors to the chapel when they heard the sound of shattering glass and a woman’s scream. The two soldiers threw themselves against the door, which swung in easily. Isabeau was crouched on the steps before the altar, clutching rosary beads to her chest, and shards of stained glass covered the pews beneath one of the high windows. A grappling hook could be seen inside the opening. Andrés pulled out his axe and went to stand near Isabeau as Michel loaded his crossbow and took aim at the shattered window. A few moments passed in tense silence until a gray-haired head appeared in the opening.

            “I had hoped to find you without too much difficulty,” duGhent said as he affixed a second hook to the window and climbed down its rope on the inside. “I had not thought is would go this well.” Andrés lowered his axe and Michel carefully removed the bolt from his crossbow as their leader lowered himself to the floor of the chapel. A few moments later, deBarberac’s face appeared in the window. He climbed down with little difficulty, leaving the ropes and hooks hanging from the window.

            “Ah, all assembled, I see,” he said once he too stood on the floor. He noticed the eager glances up to the window, Isabeau’s eyes pleading for her father to appear there any moment. He silently looked over at duGhent, and saw that he had also noticed the focus of Isabeau’s attention.

            “My lady,” the old man began softly as he approached her, but was unable to continue once her eyes like liquid obsidian met with his. She already knew. The hope that had been there just moments before as she looked at the window had been erased by just the sound of his voice. He reached into his pouch and pulled out d’Auvergne’s signet ring and silently handed it to her. She took it without a word and held it in the palm of her hand.

            “How?” She managed to whisper, never taking her eyes off the small circle of gold.

            “An arrow in the back, my lady,” he murmured. “His last breath carried your name.” Louis made a whimpering sound from where he stood just inside the door, but said nothing.

            She allowed herself a small sigh and slipped the ring onto her thumb. She swallowed several times and when she finally looked up her expression was unreadable as carved ivory. But her eyes betrayed her. They were bright with the tears she would not let fall. She spoke slowly and deliberately, denying her voice the opportunity to crack or falter. “I am the lady of Auvergne,” she slowly looked at each man with her in the chapel, “my people are being killed and I am powerless to defend them, and this house will be burned to the ground before the night is done.”

            “We cannot save your people or your land, my lady, but we can save you,” the eagle-eyed man named Nicolas said as he drew closer.

            “My lady, your father asked us to give you something before he died,” duGhent knelt before her.

            “You have given me his ring, and for that I thank you, messieurs.”

            “No, we came here tonight to bestow a gift upon your father. We were unable to give it to him before he died, and his last wish was that we would give it to you as his successor.” Michel and Andrés tried to stifle gasped protests and duGhent glared at them.

            “What manner of gift, monsieur?” Isabeau asked innocently.

            Nicolas took a deep breath, then dropped to his knees in front of her. He kept his voice low, and Louis slowly drew closer to enable him to hear. “We would have given him immortality and superhuman power to be the guardian of his people. It was his wish that we now give this to you. Will you honor your father and accept our offer?” He looked deep into her eyes and she unabashedly returned his gaze, the dark fire in her eyes meeting the light gold of his. They sat like that for a few moments, seeming to look into each other’s souls, and finally she spoke, breaking their contact with visible effort.

            “In memory of my father, I will not decline this offer, messieurs. However, I would know the consequences of accepting.”

            “We will tell you no lies, my lady,” duGhent spoke not unkindly, “your life ever after will be an unnatural one. You will be caused to take a blood tithe from those people you would protect. You will never again see the light of day, but will live as a creature of the night. What we are offering you is eternity as a vampire.” The sudden silence in the room was broken only by Louis’ stifled cry as he crossed himself and began to pray. The men seemed to have forgotten about him or not noticed his presence before, but now they turned around and watched him as his lips moved in silent but fervent prayer.

            “What shall be done with him?” Nicolas asked.

            “We will take him with us. It will be good for her to have someone she remembers and trusts. Also, keeping a mortal around could prove most useful.” DuGhent replied. Louis apparently heard this, as he whimpered and began moving his lips faster. Andrés walked over to him and clamped a large hand on his shoulder. Isabeau thought Louis was going to faint.

            “Peace, man, we will not harm you.” He put a hand against Louis’ back and walked him to where the rest of the men surrounded Isabeau, still sitting on the steps before the altar. “You will continue to serve Isabeau as you served her father, and you will never reveal to anyone what you have heard tonight or what you are about to see.” Louis nodded his head silently and cast a worried glance at Isabeau. She returned it with a level gaze, betraying none of the anxiety she felt inside.

            She was to become a vampire? These men, all four of them, they were vampires? She had never thought of the creatures of night as more than stories to scare young children. But here she was, confronted by four men who were offering her immortality, the eternal life of the damned; and yet, in an odd way, it pulled at her soul. She could sense the heavy cross on the altar behind her, and it seemed to fill her with hope. God Himself was giving her the opportunity to carry out her father’s work. She would be the avenging angel of his cause, the spiritually delegated defender of not only her people, but of all serfs and anyone who was oppressed. It called to her to accept these men’s offer.

            “My lady, time is short.” Nicolas said softly.

            She nodded, fingering the rosary beads she still held in one hand. “Let it be done.”

            The four men looked at each other until Nicolas spoke again, “I will do it.” The others nodded and backed away from him and Isabeau. He moved closer to her and spoke softly. “You may want to lie down, my lady.” She nodded and laid herself flat on one of the steps. He knelt by her side and looked into her eyes. She was afraid, he could tell, but had a fierce determination to do this in her father’s name. She would be a good addition to their brethren. “Are you ready?” She nodded again and closed her eyes, awaiting this death and the life that would come after it. She felt his hands lifting her shoulders and then gentle breath on her neck. Suddenly, his teeth had found her vein and she cried out in instantaneous pain, but that quickly gave way to the blissful sensation of her lifeblood being drained into his mouth. She could still feel his lips against her neck as dizziness washed over her and she looked up at the altar. The cross was surrounded by a hazy glow, and was the last sight her mortal eyes would ever behold.