by Don Dewey
“Of course I do, you bastard. You’re no father of mine. You’re in your forties, older than most men, and too wicked to die. I pray you don’t get to fifty!” he cried in bitterness for the crippling of his arm, and perhaps in the hope that his father would become angrier with him and finish him.
“Again, shut up Robert.” William sighed and sat by his son. “I’m older than you could possibly know. I was part of the army that received Normandy one hundred and fifty years ago, and not a young man then. I’ve held several names, and lived as many lives. People live so brief a time that after a while I don’t fit in, because I never seem to get any older, so I have to move on and establish a new identity. It’s been convenient of late to take an identity connected to the family I’ve entered, so as to keep some continuity. Now I’m William the Bastard, King of England. While I’m not thrilled about the bastard part, I quite like being the king, and fully intend to keep the crown, and to enjoy it. And you’re my son. Which means you may have the means of living as I have lived. As far as I’m aware, my sons haven’t had my ability, but your body acts as though it may. We must see if you can heal. If you do, we’ll share long life and great power. Do you understand me?”
Robert hissed at him. “Fool! Your madness has made you a monster.” Then the blackness hovering at the edge of his senses took him, and he fell limply back on the bed.
William had his son taken to his rooms, and his own personal physician took charge of his recovery. William didn’t go to see him for a week, during which time Robert developed a deep hatred for him, and a terrifying but exhilarating suspicion that he might have told him the truth, because he was healing at what seemed a miraculous speed. And when his father did finally arrive to see him, an amazed Robert waved his arm about, his wounded right arm, and shouted at him. “You’re crazed, but you may be right because here’s the proof. My arm has recovered, and I’m gaining strength enough to lift things. This shouldn’t be possible.”
“Ahh, you are the son of my blood, and it looks as though you’ll live so long as you don’t get yourself killed. I’m surprised it took you this long to recover, and as yet you’ve not fully recovered, but you will. You’ll live, and you will inherit Normandy, as I’ve said. There surely must be more of us in the wide world, but I’ve only rumors to go on, and none have proven true as yet. Sleep, recover.” On that note he walked away.
Chapter 18
Death
William had found out that having a thing is not so much fun as wanting a thing, or even winning a thing. England was not an easy place. The throne was difficult, and the crown was heavy. As he moved about on the throne later that day, he thought, “King! And on a throne that numbs my ass. What a lousy piece of furniture. I wonder if the maker of this instrument of torture is alive. I would enjoy killing him after he has to sit on this thing for a week.” William knew that he was petty in some ways, but then again, he really didn’t care.
There was treachery everywhere, and William sometimes longed for the days past when he could be the simple soldier he once had been, fighting other people’s enemies. Even to be in charge but somehow avoiding all of the troublesome day-to-day minutiae of the Kingdom would be fine. But this, being visibly in charge, was more work than it was worth. It felt like he answered to everyone instead of them answering to him. He thought after he’d taken London he could just give orders, but now he realized that ruling here was taking too much of him.
During this time he had his infamous Doomsday Book compiled, which recorded the lands throughout England and those who held it. He carefully wove a code into it, recording information that no one else would likely find without his help. No one was quite sure why he did it, and he shrouded it in mystery. Still, it was commissioned, he was the King, and so it was done. A copy of it he had hidden away, and the official one was kept under guard. Someday, he was sure it was going to become most useful to him.
Robert left home shortly after his recovery, full of himself with the knowledge that he might live far beyond his anticipated forty or fifty years. He became reckless, believing he would recover from any and all injuries. He was becoming very skilled at weaponry, and indeed recovered from every wound so far. He took up with some other young men who were supported by his father’s enemies, which was no great surprise to his father. Yet William, with his hands full of England, ignored it for some time.
***
Finally angered beyond restraint by the costly raids Robert and his friends were making into his country, William took action. He and his troops gave Robert and company a merry chase, which ended badly for Robert’s friends, most of whom were killed, and not so well for William; it cost him a bit more of his soul. He imprisoned Robert for a while, debating how severe he should be to this one surviving son, and eventually released him with the hope that he’d learned from the experience. William had warmed to the idea of seeding the world with others like himself, and Robert was a start.
Unfortunately, the next year Robert and some new friends, dissidents like the old ones, caught William unaware, and during the battle Robert managed to knock his father from his horse, after which William suffered some severe injuries. Robert had good cause to truly hate his vindictive, selfish father, even though he loved the heritage he had apparently gotten from him.
Still tough and resilient, William, or rather Karl as he had just now started thinking of himself again, struggled onto a horse and returned to his castle. His wounds were terrible, and he had his current mistress, Trina, brought to him. As she came in the tears started to flow. She looked at this powerful man with blood soaked clothing, great gashes in his shoulder and arms, so much blood having run across his hair and face that she wasn’t sure how badly he was actually hurt. Based on what she saw, he should already be dead. She knelt by him and cradled his head where he had collapsed.
As the light began to fade from his eyes, Karl whispered to Trina, “Lay my body in the far reaches of the north cellar. Let no one know where I am laid. Make sure they know I’m dead. Leave me just as I am, with my weapons and half the gold hidden there. You’ll know the spot when you find the gold. Keep the rest and live well for the rest of your life. Hide the room. I wish to never be found.” He gave a convulsive gasp. “Swear it!”
Trina choked back a sob. “I will my love. Trust me.”
“One last thing,” he whispered to her as he held her eyes with his. “Whoever helps you take my body there, kill them! Don’t trust them, lest they betray us both. Swear it.” His head fell back and unconsciousness took him. She checked his pulse, only to find the king was already dead.
Trina did as William ordered, and not even his son knew of his final resting place. The eventual state funeral was a sham, and used the body of another man. Trina was as conniving and deceptive as Karl had been, and that was what he’d trusted about her. First she cleaned his body of the blood and sweat and dirt from the battle and his wounds. She cared for him as though he would always be with her. After his body was prepared, she enlisted a couple of servants, a man and her own maid, to help her with him. She couldn’t have moved his body alone.
Trina may not have been a Pure, but she had a heart like William’s. Together she and the two servants arranged the King’s body appropriately. She gathered one of the two bags of wealth she found there, and handed it to the man. “Lead us out,” she ordered him. “You, follow,” she directed the maid. As he walked toward the door she slid her long stiletto into his back, shoving it deeply upwards into his heart. With just a grunt he collapsed, and she whirled to face the horrified woman behind her. “You and I must be the only ones to know of William’s final resting place. It was his wish, even to the death of this man. You’ve served me well, and will continue to do so.” She looked at the maid with upraised eyebrows, awaiting a response.
“Yes, my lady.” She was terrified, but having trusted Trina for the two years she had served her, she really had little choice but to trust her now.
“Good. Pick up the pack, an
d let’s go back to my apartments. As long as you serve me faithfully, you’ll be fine.” As they arrived at her rooms, she closed the door and told the maid to set the bag on the bed, because she had to go through it.
“My, but it’s heavy m’lady, I can barely walk with it. What do you think…?” At that moment she died, Trina’s stiletto driven into her neck, the point far into her brain.
“For you, William, my love,” Trina whispered, with a sincere but misguided heart. “For you.”
England continued to know turmoil and strife, and Robert settled down in Normandy, just as the father he hated had wished for him.
Chapter 19
Max Meets Robert
Robert enjoyed Normandy, and did fairly well at ruling it in a broad, sweeping sense. Beyond that he didn’t care to be involved with the politics of ruling nor England’s new King. He, as his father, enjoyed the power, not the pomp and ridiculous pageantry that had to go with it. Therefore, Robert decided, I’ll ignore what I want and enjoy what I choose. After all, Normandy is mine. Thus he did a poor job of ruling, and his subjects found themselves very low on his list of priorities, if they rated being on the list at all.
He’d often considered the possibility that Pures matured late, due to their long life. It seemed only natural to him, and it would explain why he felt like he had a long way to go to reach maturity.
One day as he sat at court a man appeared who would change his life. “Hail, Robert of Normandy!” The impudent visitor flashed him a grin. He was a solid, muscular looking man with black hair, something of a pronounced nose and piercing eyes.
“Do I know you, sir?” Robert raised himself off of the throne and walked toward the stranger. He had armed guards all about the room, so he felt nothing in the way of fear. He didn’t feel much fear anymore, knowing what he did about himself.
“Not yet my Lord, but you will, and I have much to offer you.” He looked around warily. “May I speak with you alone, sir? Take my weapons, and keep yours trained on me if you wish, but I do need to speak to you away from any others, and you’ll see why, when we speak. Perhaps an archer or two just out of ear shot? I know much of your father, and share some things with him, and perhaps with you. I’m a teacher, and have letters of merit and recommendation for you if you like. I’ve been a teacher for a very long time, and have taught in many places. Perhaps you’ll enjoy what I have to share with you.”
Suspicious from being raised by a father who sought a throne, and who never really paid much attention to his sons until…still, he was curious about several things. At the top of his list was to know more about his father’s background, and the incredible claims he’d made. He wanted to know if he truly would live for centuries. He lusted after knowledge of his own heritage, and desired to know every iota of it. He took the stranger apart into a small room he occasionally used for private audiences.
“Your name, sir?”
“I have several, but allow me to give you my first, favorite and current one. I am Maximus Palamos, at your service. I believe you won’t worry about my killing you, since that would be a difficult task, would it not? Were you to be stabbed right here and now, you wouldn’t die, would you?” Realizing he was talking about his long life and ability to heal, Robert’s ears pricked up and he paid much more attention to his visitor. He allowed the private audience to continue, and learned far more than he could have expected.
Maximus gave him most of his own history. “By my reckoning I’ve lived just over ten centuries. I believe I was born in, or close to, what you would call 40 AD. Of course I skipped part of it, specifically the descent and fall of the Empire. But still, a long life, eh?” He explained some of the unique characteristics of the Pure: the way they could “skip,” and spread their seed only to get the same seed born. Men could sire boys, so he assumed, if there were any female Pures, that they could only have girl children. It seemed a cruel twist of fate in a way, but they could only give life to their own gender.
Whatever it was that gave them long life and good health also gave them exceptional senses: hearing, vision, and even their sense of smell was sharp. They were stronger and more resilient than Normals, and had far more stamina.
After some discussion of Robert’s explanation of his own healing abilities, Max told him a sobering truth. “You’re likely the next tier down from your father. Your healing abilities may not be as great as your fathers, and your longevity may not be the same. But you are of the Pure, and you’ll live long, and build power and wealth that come from planning and great age. You could certainly live as long as I, or even longer, and I intend to live a long while yet. May I rest here tonight, and tomorrow we can consider some options, and plans for your next life, as it were?”
“My castle is your castle for the immediate future, ‘Uncle?’” He asked a question with that single word.
Max laughed. “Our relationship is certainly closer than what we could have with these lesser beings around us. They simply can’t plan far ahead, for they’ll not live long enough to see great plans through. While it’s not their fault, it’s a simple fact. They can’t enjoy the fruits of labor and long life, for their lives won’t give them that. ‘Uncle’ it is then. I like that. Let’s get some sleep.”
Chapter 20
Session 6
Kenneth found his host enthralled by his own rhetoric. He would go on for hours, telling his stories, including the tiniest minutia, much of which was obviously his own personal opinions. I guess his attention to detail is to be admired, although I’m getting sick of all this.
His host met him yet again, as he did every morning, at the table. The coffee was wonderful, and Kenneth had already had two cups. His host had explained that he served only the best, which included the most expensive coffee in the world.
He gave a prolonged explanation of how Kopi Luwak was made. “It comes from coffee beans after they’ve been eaten, partly digested and then excreted by the common Palm Civet, a weasel-like animal. ‘Kopi’ is the Indonesian word for coffee. ‘Luwak’ is the local name of the animal which eats the raw red coffee beans. The civet digests the soft outer part. The beast excretes the inner bean, undigested. From that inner bean is roasted this wondrous brew. It’s a bit like you Normals; now and then one of you excels at something.”
Kenneth was a bit disgusted after he understood the process. However, he still loved coffee, and sure wasn’t going to turn any down that would’ve cost him over $50 for a tiny cup at an exclusive cafe. His host certainly served great stuff, not that any of it made up for the invasive act of being kidnapped and hidden away.
On his third cup he was debating whether to bring up his freedom again. His previous attempts had gotten him threatened, choked, and dropped unceremoniously on the table. No, let’s just allow this to take its course.
“Kenneth, are you ready for the next chapter?” His host smiled, beaming and ready to go on with his never ending story. “Have you any questions? I’d be happy to answer them now, as I want you to truly understand all of this.”
Not wanting to make this period of his life any longer than it was going to be already, Kenneth hesitated to ask much. He had a boyishness about him which had served him well, but which did nothing for his host. He was making a story of it as they went along, typing it out each night. “All right. Do more of these ‘Pures’ hook up, or are these all individual stories?”
“Oh, yes, they meet. Well, some of them do. Remember that there are probably more Pures undiscovered by us than those we’ve found. My experience with them is limited primarily to conflict. I have in fact killed at least one Pure. Hmm, I would like to kill some more of them actually. As it turns out, they don’t care much for me either. Not all of the people I’m telling you about know who I am. They’ve not had direct dealings with me, or haven’t yet put it together that I’m a Pure. They can be as dense as you Normals at times. Ruby, for instance, has never met me personally. Yet I know all about her from spies and investigators. What I know of her is
irritating, and I’m glad to tell you what I know of her. She’s incredibly intelligent, careful, and usually suspicious enough to be safe, but above all she’s a woman. She has the wrong priorities, is too soft, and all in all is just slightly more than a Normal. I’ve little use for her. Mostly I see her as a rarity, or even an oddity. After all, she’s the only female Pure I’ve ever found.”
Kenneth cut into his host’s monologue and asked another question. “Are all these Pures really as vicious and evil as you portray them?”
He smiled his humorless smile and brushed back his blonde hair. “Evil is what you perceive it to be, young man. I see some of them as weak, too interested in Normals, and therefore less of a Pure than others.” He stared at the young reporter in silence long enough to make Kenneth uncomfortable, and then abruptly continued. “You no doubt see the weak ones as ‘good.’ That simply goes to your mind set as a Normal. Does Gheret giving money to charity make him good? Does Ruby sobbing about some child’s situation make her good? It makes them weak. It robs them of the tempered steel they have at their core, and it makes them like you.” He finished his tirade with a sneer.
“Today, as it happens, I’m going to tell you about Ruby meeting another Pure.” He laughed an eerie, mirthless laugh. “These two deserve each other; a woman who can’t trust men and a man who keeps searching for his own kind. It’s kind of sad when you think about it,” he said as he continued to laugh.
