The Red Duke

by C. L. Werner - (ebook by Undead)

  Jacques sat himself at the edge of the bed and began pulling off his boots. Lumpy and rough though the bed was, he would still welcome Entoine’s effort at luxury.

  The smile died on the troubadour’s face as a clammy chill gripped him. A shudder passed through Jacques’ body, a pulse of raw, unreasoning fear that had him back on his feet before he realised it. He licked his lips nervously, his fingers crushing the velveteen surface of his boot as he drew it off the floor, hefting it like a club.

  Jacques’ eyes peered into the darkness as his breath grew still more rapid. As a child, he had once been trapped in a salt pit with a hungry weasel, forced to spend the entire night with the predator circling him in the dark, waiting for its chance to strike. The memory of that old fear returned to him now, crushing his heart in an icy embrace, sending tendrils of pure terror crawling through his body.

  He couldn’t see anything in the dark room, but like the peasants who had ventured out into the night, he knew there was something there. He didn’t need to see it or hear it to know it was there. He could feel it, feel its menacing presence, sense its lurking evil.

  At that moment, silvery moonlight filtered down into Jacques’ room. A further indulgence for visiting nobility, the only window with glass in the entire inn stared out from this chamber. The sudden illumination made Jacques turn his head, made his eyes stare out into the night. He could see the shadowy bulks of the thatch huts of the village and the shimmering waters of the River Morceaux beyond. More, he could see the black, forbidding outline of the Forest of Châlons stretching across the river’s far bank, a sinister wall of darkness, a barrier between the realms of men and the domain of Old Night.

  Jacques shuddered again and turned away from the nightscape, trying to banish the frightful imaginings it conjured in his mind. As he returned his attention to the room around him, all the colour drained from his face. A dark shape stood in the far corner of the room, a tall shadow that he would have sworn had not been there before.

  Jacques tried to look away, tried to tell himself that there was nothing there. He had the urge to dive beneath the woollen blankets, to hide his face and hope the apparition would go away. Stubbornly he tried to cling to reason, to tell himself that there could be nothing there. Yet, the longer he stared at the corner, the more feeble the effort to deny his fear became. With each passing breath, Jacques imagined more detail in the shape. He fancied he saw a head and shoulders covered by a long black cloak. He saw fierce red eyes staring at him from the darkness where a face should be.

  Desperately, the troubadour tried to convince himself it was his imagination when the shadow began to stalk outwards from its corner. He choked as the stink of rotting flesh assailed his senses, shivered as he heard the rattle of armoured boots striding across the floorboards. Tears of terror coursed down his face as Jacques cringed away from the ghastly figure. Now he could see the richly engraved armour the apparition wore, archaic in its style, hoary with age. He could see the enormous falchion, its pommel crafted in the shape of a skull, swinging at the figure’s side. A face, pale and lean, began to emerge from the darkness, red eyes still trained upon the cowering troubadour.

  A cruel grin twisted that inhuman countenance, withered lips retreating from wolfish fangs.

  Mercifully, the moon retreated back behind its clouds, plunging the room once more into darkness before Jacques could see anything more. The apparition’s red eyes continued to burn in the darkness.

  A voice, thin and vicious as the scratch of rat claws upon a casket, rasped from the darkness. “Be unafraid,” the voice said. “Sit and be content. This night, at least, you are safer than any soul in all the kingdom.”

  Somehow, Jacques managed to find the edge of his bed and seat himself upon it. There was something compelling about that sinister voice, an imperious quality that brooked no defiance. Jacques knew he could no more resist obeying than an ant could resist an ox’s hoof.

  “I have journeyed far to hear your ballad,” the thing in the darkness said. “Had it offended me, I should have draped your entrails from the Massif Orcal to the Silent Isle.”

  As the voice made this threat, it lowered into an almost animalistic snarl. Not for an instant did Jacques doubt the creature was capable of visiting such a horror upon him. He had learned enough to know what the thing was and what powers a vampire had at its command.

  The vampire let the menacing words linger, seeming to savour the troubadour’s fear. After what seemed to Jacques an eternity, the creature spoke again. “The tale was well told,” the vampire conceded. “I listened to you from the eaves. Even this dead heart was moved by your words.”

  Jacques tried to stammer out words of gratitude, anything that might appeal to whatever humanity the vampire might yet possess. A dry croak was the only sound that managed to fight its way up the troubadour’s paralysed throat. His visitor ignored the futile attempt to speak. It had not come for conversation. “There were many things wrong with your ballad,” the vampire hissed. “The dead have their pride. I will point out your missteps so that you will correct them. When next I hear you sing this tale, I may take some pride in its accuracy.

  “To start, Louis Kinslayer did not finish the Red Duke at Ceren Field,” the vampire said, its voice seething with hate. “That battle was not the end of the Red Duke. Indeed it was, perhaps, only the end of the beginning for him…”

  CHAPTER I

  The troubadour’s song rose above the happy murmur of the crowd, ringing out with its merry cadence, the melody of his lute acting as a serene landscape to his words. Young couples swirled about the green meadow, the rich dresses of the ladies whipping about them as they danced with their noble companions, laughing as they kept time to the minstrel’s song. Older lords and ladies stood aside, too sensible to lose themselves in such vigorous celebration, too happy not to join in the laughter.

  The marble chapel stood at the centre of the meadow, its plaster ornaments gleaming in the sun. The stone sarcophagus of the knight who had built the chapel seemed to smile down upon the celebrants, his feet buried beneath bouquets of primroses and snapdragons. Garlands of daisies were strung about the walls of the chapel, swaying in the gentle breeze, casting their fragrance across the gathering.

  An old man, his raiment richer and finer than those around him, stood at the doorway of the chapel, his wrinkled face pulled back in a broad grin, his eyes misty with tears. He beamed down upon one of the dancing couples, a dark-haired youth dressed in black tunic and hose, his rich raiment edged in golden thread. In his arms he held an auburn-headed woman more beautiful than any frolicking about the meadow. She wore a flowing gown of white, a veil of flowers threaded into her hair.

  Only an hour ago she had been the Lady Melisenda. Now she was the Viscountess Melisenda du Marcil, wife of the Viscount Brandin du Marcil and daughter by marriage to the Margrave du Marcil. The old margrave smiled on his new daughter even more than he did his son. He had begun to despair of ever seeing this day, when the bold young knight would set aside his reckless ways and settle down to the more important duty of perpetuating the bloodline. There was a time and place for gallivanting across the realm slaying monsters and rescuing damsels, but it was a pastime that was unbecoming the only son of an ancient and historied name.

  The margrave chuckled as he watched the graceful figure of Melisenda glide about the meadow in his son’s arms. There would be small need to worry about the du Marcil name now. Unless Brandin had ice water running in his veins, he’d be working on perpetuating the family name as soon as the wedding celebration broke up.

  The smile flickered and died on the margrave’s face as a sudden chill coursed through his old bones. He cast his eyes skyward, noting the sudden darkening of the sun as stormy clouds swept across the heavens. Aquitaine had been plagued by these sudden storms for months, as though the very elements conspired to cast the land under a pall of perpetual gloom. It was but one of many complaints that afflicted the realm. Peasants spoke of great
wolves prowling the countryside, taking whom they would with uncommon boldness. There were whispers of ghouls haunting the old graveyards, rumours of unquiet ghosts abroad in the night.

  The ugliest tales revolved around the duke himself. It was said the duke had never really recovered from the wounds he had suffered fighting the sultan in Araby. It was said the duke’s mind was broken, that he was a maddened beast. His court had removed itself from Castle Aquin to a castle at the edge of the Forest of Châlons in order to hide the madness of the duke from his people. Even so, the duke continued to issue edicts that affected every nobleman in Aquitaine. He had instituted a blood tax, requiring each house to send a tithe of knights to the duke’s castle. The blood tax fed into another hideous rumour about the duke that he was going to make war against King Louis!

  Margrave du Marcil shook his head and tried to banish the forbidding thoughts from his mind. He looked again upon Brandin and his bride. This was a day of celebration, to look forward to a bright tomorrow beyond the darkness of today.

  The troubadour’s voice cracked, his fingers strumming it false note upon his lute. The gaiety and festiveness of the crowd collapsed, replaced by drawn countenances and grim whispers. A pall had fallen upon the celebration, a sense of doom that none was capable of dismissing. Brandin gripped his bride, holding her tight as he turned to cast a worried look towards his father.

  The margrave could only shake his head and stare at the darkening sky. There could have been no more ominous time for the weather to take such a capricious turn. The mood in Aquitaine was one of uncertainty and fear, fertile for all manner of superstition. Even the nobility were ready to see omens at every turn.

  Margrave du Marcil opened his mouth to compose some amusing words that would dispel the distemper of the wedding guests. “My friends…”

  The margrave’s speech went no further. A clamour of hooves thundered across the meadow as a dozen horsemen emerged from the woods, galloping straight towards the shrine. All of the riders were garbed in black—black armour, black cloak, black steed. Only the foremost of the riders broke the sombre appearance of the group, for his armour was a bright crimson, as was the billowing cape flowing from his shoulders and the caparison that covered the huge destrier he rode. Margrave du Marcil recognized the lean, drawn features of the crimson knight. He was the Duke of Aquitaine.

  The Red Duke.

  The riders brought their steeds to a canter a dozen yards from the shrine and the terrified wedding guests. None of the guests dared to retreat before the advance of the liege to whom they had sworn oaths of loyalty and service, though the heart of each quailed at his approach. There was an aura of power that exuded from the Red Duke, a brooding intensity that made even the bravest knight tremble like a lamb before a wolf.

  The Red Duke reined his horse before the congregation. The black knights, silent within their armour, walked their steeds slowly around the celebrants, closing them inside a circle of steel. The duke’s pale, stern face swept across the crowd, his intense gaze transfixing each of them in turn.

  “A wedding,” the Red Duke observed. “A festival of which I was not informed.” His voice dropped into a low hiss. “And to which I was not invited.”

  Margrave du Marcil bowed contritely before his lord. “Only my son and… and… I did not think… to impose… disturb your grace…”

  The Red Duke turned his gaze full upon the young Viscount du Marcil. “Your son should be fulfilling his duty in my army,” he said. “He should be defending Aquitaine against the traitors and enemies who would destroy her. Instead,” the Red Duke made a dismissive motion with his gloved hand, “I find him here.”

  Brandin stared defiantly at the imposing lord. “I am the last of the House of du Marcil,” he stated. “It is my duty to secure the line. I have exclusion from the blood tax.”

  The Red Duke leaned back in his saddle, a thin smile upon his gaunt face. “No one in Aquitaine is excluded from the blood tax,” was his retort. Suddenly he turned his eyes from the defiant viscount to the woman beside him. A hungry quality crept into his gaze that made Melisenda gasp in fright. Brandin put a protective arm around his bride, pushing her behind him.

  “It is an old law you have evoked to escape your duty in my army,” the Red Duke told Brandin. “I shall evoke an even older one.” He lifted his hand and pointed at the viscount’s bride. “I claim droit du seigneur.”

  Horror flashed across Brandin’s face, quickly replaced by disgust. He glared at the smiling lord. “The stories are true,” the young knight spat. “You are mad.”

  Margrave du Marcil rushed down from the steps of the shrine, interposing himself between his son and the Red Duke. “My son… means no…offence. Invoking the old right… it has surprised him. Please, forgive him…your grace.”

  Brandin shoved his father aside. “I can speak my own words. And I say you are mad if you think I’ll let you touch Melisenda!” In his fury, the knight reached for the sword at his belt. Instantly the silent companions of the Red Duke edged their steeds towards the outraged youth. A gesture from their master made the grim riders stay back.

  Slowly, the Red Duke dismounted, an expression of prideful malignance twisting his features. His cape flowed behind him as he stalked towards Brandin and his bride. “First you deny me the blood tax, now you deny my right to… examine… the noble qualities of your charming lady. I wonder if you understand who here is lord, and who is vassal.”

  Brandin drew his sword from its scabbard, glowering at his arrogant liege. “Take one more step towards my wife and it will be your last.”

  The Red Duke paused. His lips pulled back in a murderous grin, exposing a mouthful of sharpened fangs. The lord’s hand closed about the hilt of his own sword. In a single, smooth motion, he drew the blade. Merciless eyes bore into those of the young viscount.

  “Prove it,” the vampire sneered.

  Sir Armand du Maisne stared up at the massive portrait that dominated Castle Aquin’s grand hall. Poised above the yawning mouth of the immense fireplace, anchored into the stone wall by steel hooks, the painting was a masterpiece in the heroic style of Anatoli Bernardo Corbetta, Tilea’s most famed portraitist of the sixth century. The subject of the painting was such that was made for the Tilean’s brush. King Louis the Righteous, Duke of Aquitaine, seated upon his snowy destrier, Chevauchee, riding through the broken walls of Lasheik to rout the hosts of the Sultan Jaffar. King and warhorse were depicted life-size, a nimbus of light surrounding the sovereign’s head and drawn sword. Before him, the swarthy Arabyans cringed in terror, behind him the face of every Bretonnian in his army was filled with awe.

  Even now, over four hundred years since Corbetta had captured the magnificence of the king upon canvas, the portrait exerted an aura of magnificence that thrilled Sir Armand’s heart.

  “It is impressive, is it not?”

  Sir Armand only half-turned from the portrait as he heard the question, reluctant to let his eyes leave the radiant figure of King Louis in his moment of triumph. “It is inspiring,” he said, his voice quivering with emotion. The knight’s expression darkened as he remembered who it was he addressed. Hastily he turned away from the hearth and the huge painting, directing his attention completely upon the nobleman who stood beside him.

  The other Bretonnian was a stark contrast to Sir Armand. Where Armand was still a youth, the other man was well into his middle age. His hair was dark where that of the knight was fair, his face lined with the stress of power and responsibility where Armand’s was marred by the scars won in battle. Dressed in velvet doublet and hosen, the knight’s frame still suggested a brooding strength, waiting to be unleashed. Wrapped in the heavy folds of a thick fur cloak, Armand’s host moved with the lethargy of an invalid, a man of waning vitality. In the eyes of the two men, however, there was a resemblance, a keenness of mind and temperament.

  “Forgive such familiarity, your grace,” Sir Armand said, dropping to one knee. “I forgot myself.”

 
Duke Gilon of Aquitaine chuckled at the knight’s severe contrition. “Things are not so grave,” he assured Armand. “The presence of King Louis the Righteous was such that he inspired men to feats of heroism as have not been seen since the days of Gilles le Breton himself. It is only natural that his influence should still inspire boldness in the hearts of the brave.” Duke Gilon gestured with a beringed hand at the portrait, drawing Armand’s attention back to it. “Whenever my heart despairs, I come here to gaze upon the visage of the king and I am filled with a renewed sense of purpose and duty. King Louis was a true grail knight and never faltered in his quest to defend all things good and honourable. Whether leading a crusade against a foreign tyrant or riding to save this very dukedom from the rule of a usurping monster, the valour of King Louis was never found wanting.”

  The duke took a step closer to the portrait, smiling as he admired the work of the famed Tilean painter. “This was painted shortly before the death of the king, upon his own command. He wanted to leave something for his descendants to remember him, as though his great deeds would not resound down through the centuries.”

  “It was King Louis who built this castle, was it not?” Sir Armand asked.

  His smile faded as Duke Gilon’s gaze lingered upon a space just behind the fetlock of Chevauchee. Here, a hand far less skilled than that of Corbetta had inserted the hindquarters of another warhorse, almost completely obscuring one of the knights behind King Louis, leaving only a single boot and stirrup visible. There was no clue to who the censored knight was, though he had apparently been included at the king’s command and then removed at a later time. But Duke Gilon could guess who it had been and why the knight had been erased from the painting.

  “This castle stands exactly twelve miles from where the old Castle Aquitaine once stood,” Duke Gilon said. “The old castle had been foully used by the Red Duke, defiled until its very stones were corrupted with the vampire’s evil. After the monster was vanquished upon Ceren Field, King Louis ordered the old castle razed and a new castle built far from where the Red Duke had perpetrated his evil.”