by E.J. Stevens
“Interesting,” he said, rubbing his chin.
“So, knowing that, here’s my question,” I said, letting my boots drop and leaning forward. “If you’ve got some vamps dumping bodies and making sloppy kills and ghouls carefully dumping bones in the same city, what does that tell you?”
“I’d say you have two groups of vamps, which those lion and fleur-de-lis markings seem to support,” he said. “One nest of careful vamps with ghouls who do their cleanup for them, and a second group of vamps who don’t care, or don’t fear, the consequences.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said, pounding a fist into my other hand. “So tell me, based on the history of Bruges, what two vamp factions come to mind.
Darryl’s scarred eyes widened and his chair squeaked as he jerked away from the desk. He shook his head and got to his feet.
“Oh shit, you have got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
“What?” I asked. “What is it? You’ve figured something out.”
I bounced to my feet, ready to badger Darryl until he told me everything he knew.
“Sit back down, girl,” he said. “Let me think.”
I managed to wait five grueling minutes before asking another question.
“So, who are the vamp big wigs in town?” I asked. “You got a Master of the City here, or is this unclaimed territory?”
Darryl frowned, the expression tugging on the pink scar tissue around his eyes. I sat across from the archivist on an old, threadbare velvet chair that had seen better days. I tried to ignore the wire spring poking me in the ass and focused on Darryl. If I fidgeted, he’d hear the couch start squeaking, and I didn’t want to distract him.
Darryl may have most of this library memorized in that head of his, but that didn’t mean retrieving it was easy. I needed that information, and I wasn’t about to do anything else to jeopardize getting it. I’d already pestered him with too many questions. I held myself as still as a gargoyle.
“Bruges has a Master of the City, alright,” he said. “Same bastard has been this city’s vampire master since he was Count of Flanders back in the 13th and 14th centuries.”
He frowned, but he started walking further into the archives and waved for me to follow.
“Come on,” he said. “There’s something you’ve got to see.”
I followed Darryl through a maze of bookshelves and into a dark, dusty room in the back. When a blind man tells you there’s something you need to see with your own eyes, you listen.
I jumped, but it was only Darryl snapping on a series of sconce lights throughout the room. The gaslights had been converted to electric, the threat of fire too great in a library filled with dry parchment. Dust motes shimmered in the air giving each bulb its own personal halo. I hesitated before entering the room, fighting against instinct.
The room was old, obviously part of the original structure, built into the very foundation of the guildhall. My heart raced as I scented the hint of mildew in the musty carpets and traces of dust along the shelves lined with books. There were underlying signs of neglect here that made the rest of the archives feel homey by comparison.
It was that same neglect that set off my alarm bells. Most humans can’t see ghosts, but that doesn’t mean that deep down they aren’t aware of their existence. On the surface we may not care about cold spots, or places that seem to shroud themselves in shifting shadows, but our animal brains can feel the wrongness. It’s that animal part of our brains that make us sidestep places that are haunted, shutting off rooms or abandoning entire buildings.
This room had all the signs of being avoided, but a cursory search turned up no sign of ghosts. There must be some other reason Hunters abstained from using this part of the archives. I hurried to catch up with Darryl, my boots kicking up little clouds of dust from the carpet.
Darryl stopped in front of a painting that hung over an empty, soot stained fireplace and folded muscular arms over his chest.
“Should I know what we’re looking at?” I asked.
The painting was creepy, like the man in the portrait was laughing at me. It was also older than dirt.
“That is Guy Dampierre, the vampire Master of the City,” he said.
Even if I hadn’t known that the supernatural existed, I might have guessed after examining this ghoulish painting. Dampierre sat astride his horse amidst a battlefield strewn with dead bodies. Hundreds of human corpses lay tangled with the lifeless husks of their mounts.
Forcing myself not to turn away, I realized that every man and beast sported the same disturbing wounds. Their throats had been viciously mauled. Even more sinister was the fact that the only blood depicted in this battle was on the hands and faces of the victors—Guy Dampierre and his men.
Surrounded by all of this, Guy Dampierre faced the painter with a look of cold satisfaction on his blood stained lips.
“Seems like a nice guy,” I said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “We should invite him over for tea.”
Darryl snorted and shook his head.
“Even during his reign as the Count of Flanders, he would have opted for blood over tea,” he said. “The Hunters’ Guild kept close tabs on the House of Dampierre, and there is evidence that Guy may have been turned as early as 1251 AD.”
“How did it happen?” I asked. “Was he attacked?”
“No,” Darryl said, shaking his head. “The fool chose to become undead. In a plot to murder his brother and gain control of the seat of power here in Flanders, Guy unearthed the secret of his father’s bloodline. When he discovered that the House of Dampierre had a long history of undeath, he chose to become a vampire in order to gain the power he wanted.”
“He chose to be a walking corpse just so he could rule over Bruges and the surrounding area?” I asked. “That’s…that’s…insane.”
Most vampires are turned against their will, chosen as a power play in a deadly game between monsters. They were pieces on a game board, pawns that may someday become masters, but pawns just the same.
“True that,” he said. “I won’t argue that the bastard’s elevator don’t go all the way to the top, but his actions make more sense in context. You see, it all started when the Holy Blood was brought to Bruges.”
Darryl got that glazed over look he got when he was retrieving data from memory, and I knew he must have read about Dampierre in the years before his injury.
“Constantinople was sacked during the 4th crusade, led by Baldwin I in 1204,” he said. “Holy relics were secreted away to safety in Western Europe. The Holy Blood was no exception. It was brought to Bruges with the help of Baldwin I and the Knights Templar. Baldwin was killed before ever leaving the Holy Land, but his daughter, Margaret II, Countess of Flanders, oversaw the installment of the Holy Blood in the basilica here in Bruges.”
I nodded, not that he could see me.
“I visited the Basilica of the Holy Blood my first day in Bruges,” I said. “I heard a little of the history behind it,” I said.
“What you probably don’t know is the connection between the blood and the vampire Master of the City,” he said. Darryl frowned and scratched his neck, clearing his throat. I flicked my eyes back to the gruesome painting. A connection between Guy Dampierre and the Holy Blood? That couldn’t be good. “You see, the Holy Blood was brought here in secrecy and was believed to be safe until Margaret married her second husband, William II of Dampierre. According to archivists of that time, there was a darkness that haunted the House of Dampierre, and although the city thrived, the Holy Blood remained hidden until his death in 1231.”
“You think Margaret didn’t trust her new husband?” I asked.
“That’s my best guess,” he said. “Unfortunately, she was a little too trusting of her sons.”
“Guy Dampierre,” I said.
“Bingo,” he said. “Believing the city to be safe, Margaret allowed the Holy Blood to finally be venerated in the basilica soon after her husband’s death. It looked like the danger from the House of
Dampierre had been averted, but in 1251 her first son William III was murdered by hired assassins. The death of Margaret’s first son shifted power to the second son, Guy Dampierre.”
“Three guesses who ordered the hit on Guy’s brother,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Yep, Templars who were here at the time traced the money trail back to Guy, but there wasn’t much they could do,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked.
I knew that the Hunters’ Guild traced its roots to the Knights Templar. So it was no surprise that most of our original archives were scribed by Templar archivists. What surprised me was that they hadn’t done anything to take out a vampire who so obviously was planning to take over the city.
“The Templars were here to watch over the Holy Blood, not interfere with local politics,” he said.
“But…” I started.
“No, listen,” he said, holding up one of his large hands. Damn, if Darryl wanted to, he could palm my skull like a basketball. I shut up. “Dampierre was smart. He didn’t go around killing humans and dropping them on the Templar’s doorstep. Even when he wanted his brother dead, he had someone else do his dirty work for him.”
“He wasn’t a rogue, so the Templars didn’t step in,” I said.
My hand went to my necklace and caressed the fangs that hung beneath my shirt. As Hunters, we didn’t kill indiscriminately, but if I had my say, we’d change our charter. “Never suffer a vamp to live,” had a nice ring to it.
“Guy became Count of Flanders,” he said, nodding. “Bruges entered a Golden Age of international trade, but Guy’s relationship with the commoners was strained due to his preference for nocturnal meetings, and a rumor that he’d made a deal with the devil. The powerful merchants of Bruges, however, didn’t seem to care where Guy’s luck came from, so long as it continued to make them wealthy.”
Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed hard. Maybe that rule should be, “Never suffer a vamp or his greedy cronies to live.” It didn’t roll off the tongue, but it sure as hell was a smart rule to live by. I had no sympathy for men like those merchants who supported monsters like Dampierre. The only difference between the merchants and the vampires was that one group grew fat on profits, while the other became engorged like ticks on the blood of the innocent. Either way, they bled the commoners dry.
“So Dampierre and his posse of vampires and greedy merchants ruled the city, which was the goddamned envy of the outside world,” I said.
I’d seen enough in the guidebooks and souvenir shops to know that during Bruges’ Golden Age it was one of the most prosperous trade ports in the world. But behind the lace markets, towering cathedrals, and the Van Eykes lurked something sinister. In fact, if you look at the later work of Hans Memling and Hieronymus Bosch, it is clear that all was not well here.
“Yes, but he didn’t rule unchecked,” he said. “Dampierre may have had most of Flanders in his pocket, but he still had enemies.”
Darryl took two measured paces to the left and turned to face the wall at our backs. I spun on my heel and sighed. Just as I suspected, another creepy painting hung on the wall. This one depicted two men, one wearing a crown while the other stood just behind him at his shoulder. There was obviously a difference in rank between the two men, but they also shared something in common.
They both had dead eyes and twisted smiles.
“Let me guess, vampires,” I said.
“Yes, Dampierre’s territory continued to grow, encompassing most of medieval Belgium, but he had a rival enemy in France,” he said.
“Who are they?” I asked, moving closer to the portrait.
“Philip IV, King of France, and ruler of House Capet, sometimes known as ‘Philip the Fair’ and his man Jacques de Chatillon,” he said with a frown.
The freaking King of France?
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” I said.
I recognized the pattern on Philip’s cape. It was the same fleur-de-lis pattern that he’d branded his vampires with.
“I wish I were, girl,” he said, shaking his head. “On my momma’s grave, I swear I wish it were anyone else.”
“I take it that Philip the Fair wasn’t given that name for his winning personality,” I said.
“No, he was nicknamed the Fair because of his handsome appearance,” he said. “One of his contemporaries, Bernard Saisset said, ‘He is neither man nor beast. He is a statue,’ to describe him, which about sums it up. The man was a coldhearted bloodsucker with a throne.”
His “handsome appearance” would most likely have been due to vamp glamour. My stomach twisted. A vampire on the throne? What a nightmare.
“You said this guy was Dampierre’s nemesis,” I said.
“Yes, in 1284 Philip tried to gain control of Flanders, and the battle over the city of Bruges between Guy and Philip officially began,” he said. “Ten years into their power struggle, Guy arranged the marriage of his daughter Philippa to Edward, Prince of Wales. This should have granted Dampierre the support of the English crown, but Philip thwarted those plans. He had his men kidnap Philippa and bring her to Paris where she was thrown into prison.”
“Was Philippa human or vampire?” I asked.
“The Templars believed her to be an innocent,” he said.
“So she was just another pawn in this game between Guy and Philip,” I said.
“Looks like that was the case,” he said, nodding. “But that’s not the worst of it. Philip wanted Guy’s territory, so he sent his man Jacques de Chatillon to rule over Bruges.”
“The other guy in the painting,” I said.
Darryl nodded.
“With Philip’s backing, Jacques became governor of Bruges, and Guy went into temporary hiding,” he said. “But the merchants rebelled and Jacques had to request more troops to cement his position as Philip’s puppet governor. Unfortunately for Jacques, Philip sent a human army, an army that never had the chance of a fair fight against Guy’s vampire militia.”
“What happened to the French army?” I asked.
“The Bruges Matins happened, one of Belgium’s bloodiest massacres,” he said. “On May 8, 1302, Dampierre’s men snuck into the homes where the French troops were garrisoned and drained every Frenchman while he slept. Over two thousand men died that night. The only French survivor of the Bruges Matins nocturnal massacre was Jacques de Chatillon.”
“Because he wasn’t human,” I said.
Darryl nodded.
“Jacques escaped and returned to Paris,” he said. “In retaliation, Philip sent an army of elite cavalry, but again, Guy used his vampire militia to defeat the huge invading army. Philip’s army far outnumbered Guy’s militia, but it was mostly human. The long ride to Bruges couldn’t be limited to nightfall, which made sending large numbers of vampires difficult. On July 11, 1302 Dampierre’s militia defeated Philip’s army of over eight thousand men in the Battle of the Golden Spurs.”
“Golden spurs?” I asked.
“There were so many French cavalry dead that the battlefield was covered in thousands of golden spurs,” he said.
“The painting,” I said, turning back to the portrait of Guy Dampierre. “Dampierre was there that day.”
“Yes,” he said. “The history books sometimes say differently—Philip was King of France and used his position of power to spread rumors that Guy was a prisoner of the throne—but in fact, the only Dampierre prisoner was Guy’s daughter, Philippa.”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“In 1306 the poor girl died in a French prison,” he said with a frown. “After Philippa’s death, Guy Dampierre, Count of Flanders, disappeared from public life. He was said to be dead, and some believed the rumor that Philip had finally imprisoned him, but Guy’s sons, the later Counts of Flanders, were all said to bear a striking resemblance to their father and Philip’s troops were repeatedly repelled from the city.”
“So to keep the humans from asking too many questions, like how he continued to look so yout
hful, Guy switched identities taking on the role of his sons and grandsons,” I said. It wasn’t an unusual practice for vampires as deeply entrenched in one city as Dampierre had become. “But what happened to King Philip?”
“After his men were slaughtered during the Bruges Matins, and his armies defeated at the Battle of the Golden Spurs, Philip turned his attentions away from Bruges and the House of Dampierre, and focused his hatred on the Knights Templar,” he said.
So, Philip went from having a hard-on for control of the city that housed the Holy Blood to obsessively destroying the Templars, the order of knights who were sworn to protect it. A coincidence? I think not.
“What reason did he give for attacking the Templars?” I asked. “And am I the only one who thinks it’s weird that Philip went after the militaristic religious order that eventually became the Hunters’ Guild?”
“Philip didn’t just go after the Knights Templar,” he said, nostrils flaring. “He destroyed them.”
“But how?” I asked. “The Templars were trained in battle and knew how to fight vampires.”
“By deceit and treachery,” he said. “On October 13, 1307, Philip had hundreds of Templars arrested, accusing them of heresy. These men were tortured, and forced to make false confessions of witchcraft and demon worship. He had Jacques de Molay, the last Grand Master of the Temple, burned at the stake.”
“My god, he started the Burning Times,” I said.
Darryl nodded, hands clenching into fists.
“Eight months after the death of Jacques de Molay, Philip conveniently died in a hunting accident,” he said.
He used finger quotes for “died”, and I got the hint. Like Guy Dampierre before him, Philip faked his death but continued his despicable unlife.
I swallowed hard.
“So there really are two factions here in Bruges,” I said. “Those marks, the lion and fleur-de-lis—it’s Guy Dampierre and Philip IV.”
One had killed tens of thousands of men to maintain control of Bruges, while the other had annihilated the Knights Templar and sparked the Burning Times. They were here, in Bruges, and they were fighting again.
