The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood - Volume 2

by Shane KP O'Neill

  “They contain his blood. It makes them equally sacred. In his memoirs Alexander said they would help locate the remains of Andrei’s sons. It can also serve to hunt Dracula and his kind.”

  “We are going to need to keep them in a safe place.”

  “They can remain with Andrei. We are going to need to open this crypt again. The most vital of the seven stakes is the one that will come from his breastbone.”

  They nodded that they understood. Paul placed the vial back inside the box and returned it to the crypt. He reached down and tugged gently on the scroll in Andrei’s hands. It slipped out from between his fingers with relative ease.

  When he opened it he realised there were two documents rolled up into one. Both were maps leading to different locations.

  “They are maps?” Ludovisi asked.

  “Yes, Alessandro. One shows the location where Andrei’s sons are buried.”

  “What is the other?”

  Paul was silent for a moment. He then looked his friend straight in the eye. “It leads to the Castel Sant’ Angelo.”

  For each one of them the revelation made their hearts pound in their chests. What was at the Castel that was so important?

  The two of them held their gaze. They shared the very same thought.

  “We will have to go there,” Ludovisi said. “Tonight.”

  Paul nodded. “Yes. Tonight.”

  Something fell to the floor. Giuseppe reached down to pick it up. It was a letter. He handed it to the Pope. It had been stuck to the back of one of the maps without his realising.

  Paul read it slowly. He ignored the noises coming from the others to know what it said. As he read the words his legs almost gave out from beneath him. The captain was wise to this and reached out to support him.

  “What is it, Camillo?” Ludovisi asked.

  His friend trembled all over. He did not posses the strength to read it to them. “Take it,” he said, hardly able to breathe.

  Ludovisi took it from him. He felt his own pulse race, as he touched the letter for the first time.

  “Read it out loud.”

  The cardinal looked down at the letter in the dim light. He feared he might not be able to read it at first. His eyes were not the best. But he saw at once the most skilled hand had written it. He took a deep breath and began to read out loud as his friend had asked.

  My dearest…

  He paused. Paul had expected the look of disbelief he saw on his face. “Read it, Alessandro. Go on. I want you to.”

  Ludovisi composed himself.

  My dearest Camillo

  It pleases me so much that you have found me at last and that you are reading my words. It is no accident that it is you. Only a man with a pure soul and heart can undertake this immense task. You are the first to come along since the day they laid me here to rest. I have waited here until this day when I knew you would find me. Soon my soul will have peace.

  I have every faith in you to see this through. There is a man you can seek to retrieve the remains of my sons. One of the four of you will know who he is. Find him and bring him to Rome. After you have taken from our bodies what it is you need, bury my sons here with me. Remember what Alexander said. Do the right thing. For so much depends on what it is you do.

  Andrei.

  A stunned silence came over them. It was the captain who spoke first again. “Perhaps we should go to the Castel Sant’ Angelo, Holy Father.”

  “Yes,” Paul nodded. “We will go at once.”

  The slab holding Andrei returned inside the crypt. Once it had closed again the blue light burned around the edge of the stone and sealed it.

  The Pope’s carriage took him and the two others the short distance to the Castel Sant’ Angelo. More than twenty of the Swiss Guard accompanied him on the trip. They helped him out and walked with him inside.

  The moment Paul entered the fortress a faint glow appeared on the map. It led him to the old dungeon area in the basement. The closer he got to his destination, the brighter the map glowed. Ludovisi brimmed with excitement, but little surprised him after what he had seen tonight.

  They ended up in a dank cell deep below the fortress. It contained many thousands of documents stored by other popes in the past. At first glance Paul could see mildew had attacked some of them.

  He stood in the cell and looked. “Whatever Andrei wants us to find is in here.”

  The other two stood with him. They scrutinised the dark cell. The only light they had was that which emanated from the torch the captain held.

  “What could it be?” Ludovisi asked.

  “Perhaps it is this,” Giuseppe said, crouching near to an old chest.

  “What is it?”

  “It looks like a strongbox.”

  “Is anything written on it?”

  Giuseppe wiped away the dust. The captain drew closer to give him some more light. “Yes,” he said, his voice tinged with excitement. “This box belonged to Niccolo Machiavelli.”

  “Then it is hardly of any use to us.”

  “Wait! Did you see that?”

  “No,” Paul said. “What do you mean?”

  “I saw a faint blue glow. As though it were inside the box.”

  “Then open it,” he said. His voice showed the same excitement. “Does it open?”

  “Yes,” the monsignor said, lifting the lid.

  Paul knelt down beside him to look inside. He saw many more documents.

  “We will have to take them back to the Vatican to examine them.”

  “No,” Paul said. “It cannot wait that long.”

  He spent nearly an hour looking through them. In all that time he did not speak. He read as much as he needed to know for now. The documents confirmed the existence of Dracula.

  “These must be taken to my chambers,” he told Giuseppe. “Indeed I want every document moved from here to the Library. No one can know what we have found.”

  He discussed what he had read with the others on the short carriage ride back to the Vatican. The subject changed to something Andrei had said in his letter. He mentioned in it that one of them would know of a man. They threw ideas about, but came up with nothing.

  The conversation continued inside the Vatican. The captain remained with them. “The letter said one of the four of us would know, Holy Father,” he reminded him.

  They all turned to him. Almost as one they said, “Do you know of someone?”

  The captain grinned. “Yes. I know of such a man.”

  The Holy Land. The road between Bethlehem and Jerusalem.

  June 1608.

  Pelou! Pelou!” the rider cried out at the top of his voice.

  The great knight tugged on the reins of his horse and turned to face him. The urgency in the man’s voice worried him. His friend was not one to get excited easily. He had to be the bearer of bad news. “What is it?” he asked, when the rider drew near.

  “I see a large groups of riders over the brow.”

  “Muslim?”

  “Yes, my Lord. They are for sure,” he said between deep breaths.

  This was not good news. Pelou tried to keep his calm. “How many of them could you see?”

  “Two hundred. Perhaps even three.”

  He clenched his fist. “Damn!” he cursed.

  His friend chose to ignore it. Such a curse was not becoming of a Knight of the Holy Sepulchre. Pelou did not care if it bothered him. But he did about a group of Muslim riders that large. It amounted to real danger for the people in his care. He had over a hundred with him. They were pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem.

  The group comprised women and children in the main. Their journey had started at the place of Christ’s birth. Now they neared the last leg on the way to the site of His death. The Order had entrusted him with their safe passage. Such a large group of riders threatened that. He only hoped they were heading for the nearest oasis.

  “Are they carrying weapons?”

  “Yes, my Lord. They are waving them aloft a
s they ride.”

  Pelou did not need to give it any thought. “Then they can have only one aim.”

  Dujon agreed with him. “How can we protect these people with only fifty men?”

  “We will do it,” Pelou said firmly. “It is our duty. Our honour depends on it.”

  “There is no shelter for a mile in any direction. The nearest oasis is even further afield. The pilgrims are out in the open.”

  Pelou’s horse jostled about in the sand. “Then we fight!” he said out loud.

  Dujon nodded. “I will organise the men.”

  Pelou was the finest knight in the Holy Land. He chose the same profession as his father at an early age. Like him he fought in the religious wars in France against the Huguenots. He rode under the banner of Henry IV of France at Angers in 1598. The exploits of he and his father brought them fame, as well as titles and wealth.

  He had a big hand in the victory at Angers. But an Act of God on the field changed his life forever. In the thick of the battle an arrow struck him in the chest in the area of his heart. On that very same spot on his chain mail he had fixed a crucifix. It was what saved him.

  From that day he felt a need to serve God. Yet he was a soldier. He knew nothing else. His mother suggested he go to Jerusalem. The Order of the Holy Sepulchre still existed there as a part of the Franciscans. Being a knight of noble birth they would welcome him into their fold.

  The Order dated back to 1099. His mother told him all she knew of it. She said its roots began with the first Christian king of the city, Godfrey of Bouillon. He had led the first crusade there in the same year. The Holy Sepulchre was the sacred Tomb of Jesus. The Order protected it on their oath. They also watched over the pilgrims who came from afar to see it.

  Pelou sat tall on his horse. He showed no emotion, as he watched his men get organised. They herded the people to a small grove of trees just off the road. He did not feel the need to join in. His men knew him well. They knew what he would do and what he expected of them.

  The knights sat in a line atop their horses. They looked on as the large force of bandits came over the brow. The Muslim horsemen stopped to study the group below. Their leader then raised his sabre aloft. He screamed out a battle cry and led the charge down the hill.

  Pelou did not flinch in the saddle. The Muslims had come to kill him, his men and the pilgrims. Behind him the women and children cried with fear. The men in the party crowded around them in a protective cordon. Pelou turned to face them. “Do not worry,” he said. “I will protect you.”

  A light breeze ruffled his long hair. Even so the sun scorched down on them. In his early days here he had hated the searing heat. But now after ten years he was well used to it. He drew his sword. Gritting his teeth he held it high above his head. Made by the finest swordsmith in France, it sparkled in the sunlight.

  To the people behind he looked magnificent. He was their one ray of hope. They had all heard the stories of him. Jean Pelou was the greatest knight in the Holy Land. Many of the women dropped to their knees to pray. They clutched at rosary beads and sped their way through their own novenas. The ones that did not pray held their children close. They would need the Virgin Mary on their side. But most of all they needed Jean Pelou.

  Pelou watched them come, though he continued to breathe slowly. He held the hilt of his sword tight in his grasp. His arm did not tire. Nor would it until every last one his enemies was dead. While he waited he thought back to the day he had acquired his status within the Order.

  It was his third month in the city. Everywhere he went the people eyed him with suspicion. His was a face they had not seen before. But Saladin’s promise remained true. Any man could walk freely in this city. It was a tradition that remained from the earliest days of Christian conquest.

  Pelou joined with the Franciscan convent of Mount Sion. Just as his mother had said, they welcomed him with open arms. He made known his wish to join the Order. They advised of the responsibilities that came with the role. He agreed to them and applied to the Franciscans. They accepted him into their fold. This meant he could now join the Order. The night before his investiture he gave his confession to absolve his soul of any past sins. He needed a pure heart and soul to enter this esteemed group.

  Unlike other men who had joined, Pelou did not need to prove his lineage. The Grand Master of the Order, Jean Luc Maniére, knew his father well. It was he who would conduct the ceremony.

  At sunrise it began. He emerged from the convent draped in the heavy white robe of the Order. A red cross adorned both shoulders. Within the arms of the cross were four smaller ones. Beneath the robe he wore his usual battle dress. But over his chain mail he wore a white vest with a tall red cross on the chest. On the left breast the vest showed his family crest.

  He walked to the site of the Tomb where the others waited. When he stood before it, Maniére stepped up to him. The Grand Master placed a gold belt and sword around Pelou’s waist. Pelou’s eyes met his when he stepped back. Two knights approached from either side. They stretched out their arms and held up a bible between Pelou and Maniére.

  Hundreds of knights and monks stood behind him. Every one of them bore witness to a new investiture. They were already aware of Pelou’s might with the sword. He had defeated every last one of them in practice. They knew he was the finest among them and they were glad to have him there. It was a proud moment for one and all.

  “Place your right hand on the Holy Bible.”

  Pelou did as the Grand Master said. He waited for the moment he would make his vows.

  “Will you swear an oath to take up your sword in honour and devotion to God? And the Virgin? And Saint George?” the Grand Master began.

  “I swear it.”

  “Will you guard and defend the Holy Church against the enemies of the Faith?”

  “I will.”

  “Will you aid, with all your power, the reconquest of the Holy Land?”

  “I will.”

  “Will you guard and defend God’s people and render justice?”

  “I will.”

  “Do you swear to keep faithful your marriage vows? To not engage in treason against your rightful Lord and King? And to defend widows and orphans?”

  “I do.”

  The two knights with the bible moved away. Pelou drew the golden sword from its scabbard. He held it out on the flats of his palms and bowed his head. Maniére took the sword from him. He held it aloft before touching the blade twice against each of Pelou’s shoulders. When Pelou raised his head he took possession of the sword once more and returned it to its scabbard.

  Maniére then moved aside. The two knights flanked Pelou as he stepped forward and placed his right foot against the Tomb. The knight on his right side stooped down and attached a spur to Pelou’s right boot. The other knight did the same when Pelou placed his left foot on the Tomb.

  The Grand Master waited for this part of the ritual to end. He then unbuckled the belt from Pelou’s waist. One of the monks took it from him to return it to the safety of the convent.

  Someone handed Pelou his own sword back. He attached this around his waist before Maniére held out his hand. Pelou shook it and returned his smile.

  Maniére pulled him close in a tight embrace. He kissed Pelou on both cheeks, and said, “In the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit and Saint George.”

  When they parted Maniére gripped him by both arms. “Be a faithful Knight. But above all stay both pious and just. Welcome to the Order.”

  The knights behind him all cheered. Maniére took a hold of Pelou’s hand again and turned him around to face them. “Raise your swords in salute of the distinguished Knight!”

  They raised their swords above their heads to honour him. “We honour you, distinguished Knight!” they shouted as one.

  That day seemed so long ago now. Pelou returned to the present. His horse jostled about beneath him. It found the vibration of three hundred sets of hooves on the ground unsettling.

&nb
sp; He eyed the approaching force. “Get ready!” he shouted to his men. “Lances!” they heard him cry.

  They raised their lances high in the air. Pelou waited a little longer. When the Muslim horde was within four hundred yards he gave the signal to his men.

  “Forward,” he said, pointing at the enemy with his sword.

  The group pushed forward in a perfect line. Their lances remained high, as their mounts broke into a canter. They kept their nerve even though the enemy continued to charge towards them at full gallop.

  Pelou reached out to the right with his sword to keep the line. “Steady!” he shouted so his men could hear.

  The distance between them closed to two hundred yards. Then one-eighty. One-fifty. “Steady!” he shouted again. One-twenty. “Charge!”

  Their horses reached full gallop in seconds. In that moment the knights lowered their lances. They pointed them straight ahead at the oncoming enemy. Thirty. Twenty. Ten.

  A deafening crunch filled the air. The pilgrims heard the cries of man and beast as the two sides met head on. The knights smashed through the first two Muslim lines. Their lances ripped limbs from bodies and impaled others. Horse smashed into horse. It sent their riders flying in every direction.

  All but three of the knights made it through the first two lines. The three that did not, fell from their mounts in the collision. Each of them got to their feet with sword in hand. The others tossed away the broken remains of the lances they still held in their grasp.

  The third line of Muslim riders came towards them. It numbered perhaps forty in all. Each of them stood in the saddle with bows raised. The knights continued forward. They raised their shields in front of their bodies, as they charged the line.

  A hail of arrows rained in. Some missed the mark. Others struck the shields. But some found their targets too. One knight caught a missile in the eye that lifted him from his horse. The beast galloped on. He was dead before he had even hit the ground.

  Two others took fatal hits. An arrow hit one knight in the throat and the other in the stomach. Several more were hit on the arms and legs, but able to fight on.