The Stuart Vampire
A Gothic Novel
The Seventeenth Century Lady
www.17thcenturylady.com
Copyright © 2013 by Andrea Zuvich
The moral right of this author is hereby asserted in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication,
other than those historical figures who are clearly in the public domain,
are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any
form, or by any means, without the prior
written permission of the publisher.
Cover design and typesetting by Orland Media Ltd:www.orlandmedia.com
First edition cover image by Maureen P. Smith:www.maureenpsmith.com
Cover design for this edition by The Cover Collection, 2014.
This novel is dedicated to T.J. Hiller.
The Stuart Vampire
By
Andrea Zuvich
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1: The Seventeenth Century
Chapter 2: The Renaissance Vampiress
Chapter 3: The Begetting
Chapter 4: The Devil’s Paramour
Chapter 5: The Stuart Vampire
Chapter 6: A Dark New World
Chapter 7: A Gnawing Conscience
Chapter 8: Sanguinem Castle
Chapter 9: Coffin’s Bishop
Chapter 10: The Devil’s Council
Chapter 11: A Mutated Plague
Chapter 12: Susanna
Chapter 13: A Dark Romance
Chapter 14: Escape into the Unknown
Chapter 15: Henry’s Curse
Chapter 16: Adolphe’s Betrayal
Chapter 17: The Witch Hunt
Chapter 18: Retribution
Epilogue: 1886
Afterward
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For the life of every creature is its blood: its blood is its life.
- Leviticus 17:14
If I must die
I will encounter darkness as a bride,
And hug it in mine arms.
- William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure, Act III, Scene I
How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations! …Yet thou shalt be brought down to Hell, to the sides of the pit.
- Isaiah 14:12-15, KJB
Prologue:
1886
It was a dark evening in London; the streetlights seemed like ghostly orbs of pale light, floating in the midst of the city smog. Plumes of smoke obfuscated what little moonlight crept out from behind the many layers of grey cloud.
The rattling of Hackney carriages and the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves reverberated down the streets as they passed the hodgepodge of London’s architecture: Restoration, modern Victorian, and Georgian. The stench of horse excrement and urine from both man and beast permeated the air, despite the incessant rain that had fallen throughout the whole of the day. Occasionally the splashing sounds as Hansom carriage wheels passed over puddles could be heard.
The long street of Ludgate Hill, with its view of St. Paul’s Cathedral, was quickly emptying. Another day of work had ended. The statue of Brandy Nan stood just before the steps of the great cathedral, grey and bespattered by pigeon droppings. The newspapermen on Fleet Street were now on their way home or into one of the many dining-rooms in the City.
One of these dining establishments was The Mitre, known for its good food at a moderate price. It was a bustling place, humming with considerately low-volume conversations, and the sounds of the customers masticating their food and imbibing of a variety of beverages.
It was into this well-recommended and popular culinary establishment that a beautiful, mysterious couple entered. They walked in with such grace it seemed as though they were gliding upon ice. Their presence was immediately felt, and a hush fell upon the establishment as people turned to gawp at the newcomers. Some people even stopped chewing and just gazed at them, transfixed. One bespectacled man, halfway through cutting into his pork chop, accidentally dropped his knife upon his plate with a resounding clatter.
They were elegantly attired, he with a black top hat (which he had courteously removed once he had entered the establishment), black cape with a crimson satin interior, a black suit, polished black shoes, and in his white-gloved hand he held an ornate silver-topped walking stick. He had thick, long black hair, which had been neatly parted and brushed. It was a most unfashionable hairstyle, but it suited him greatly. He had an oval face, with haunting eyes made only more striking by their strangely vibrant hue. His mouth was wide and his lips sensuous enough that the Pre-Raphaelite artist Rossetti himself would have been tempted to use him as a model.
The shorter woman at his side was equally intriguing, and she stood erect and poised by his side. Her tightly corseted waist was accentuated by a single black ribbon tied into a bow upon the front of the luscious purple dress she wore; the back of which featured a large bustle with black fabric roses. These same roses adorned the fetching purple hat that she wore atop her head, and copper-red curls framed her pale, round face.
Their strange eyes scanned the room until they found the person for whom they had come. The man looked like a journalist, for he had ink stains on his middle and index fingers and he also possessed a general air of shabbiness — of a life of long hours and perhaps little pay. He had a beard, streaked with grey, and his close-set eyes were dark and vaguely beady.
They removed their capes and handed them to the attendant by the door, and then they walked towards this man, leaving a wake of staring eyes as they passed.
“You are the journalist from The Telegraph, I believe?” enquired the elegant man, his voice as mellifluous as caramel.
The journalist arose immediately from his chair, “Yes, erm, Mister and Missus Stewart, I take it, how do you do? Please, come and sit.” He gestured for them to take the seats in front of him at the table. “I’m afraid I have had to order already, the waiter was rather impertinent.” He cast a disapproving look at the young man by the mirrored wall who seemed to think he was above serving. The couple glanced at the youth, who certainly had a look of disdain etched upon his face below a mop of blond hair.
“Do not be troubled, for we shall not dine with you, thank you; we merely wished to converse with you about the contents of our letter,” said the gentleman, pushing the chair in as his lady sat down. She delicately removed her gloves, pulling each leather finger off her own, then sliding the glove off to reveal her perfectly formed alabaster hands.
“What a pity,” said the journalist, shifting his gaze from her hands to her bonny face, her striking eyes mesmerising him from beneath her fringe of dark lashes. He was certain that he must have seen her before. He cleared his throat out of embarrassment, for her husband sat before him, watching him intently. The journalist fought hard to get his thoughts back onto the matter at hand. “Your letter was most intriguing, Sir, but I am not sure that the newspaper will want to run an article on so macabre a story. A whole town massacred by two strange beings? Why, the ladies will be reaching for their smelling salts!” he chuckled. He then grew serious when he realised they were not amused. “These creatures you mentioned –“
“Vampires,” offered the gentleman, his pale face eerily still in the flickering gaslight above them.
“Yes, that’s the word! I have heard the term be
fore from a friend of mine who has travelled extensively throughout Eastern Europe. Do you know of Mister Vámbéry? He, too, has told me of this common myth. The folklore in that region is quite shockingly imaginative, I grant you, but highly implausible. No one would be able to believe in such supernatural stories of reanimated corpses that stalk the living to feed off their blood.”
He reached for his glass of wine and slowly sipped the contents.
“I can assure you, Sir, that they are no mere myth. And these creatures are not only present in that part of the world — they are everywhere. Almost every culture in the world has legends and tales about creatures that live off the blood of the living. What’s more, these creatures are not only real, but can pose a very serious threat to humans.”
The journalist looked up at him with a rather dubious mien, though he was slightly perplexed at the serious expression on both faces opposite him. He patted his creased lips with the cream-coloured linen napkin.
The young waiter came to the table, notepad in hand, and stood in a posture that seemed to ooze indifference. “Are you ready to order, Madam, Sir?”
“No, thank you,” replied the handsome man. “We have already dined.”
“Very good, Sir,” he said, with a slight irritation in his voice.
“If not a myth, then this phenomenon,” the journalist continued, “this disease, for surely it is a disease that could possibly account for such a change in a human. But all this nonsense about plunging a wooden stake into a dead person’s heart is just too much!”
“It is transmissible via blood, so, yes, it is a kind of disease. If the blood of a being infected with vampirism gives their blood to a human, that human becomes infected. Once infected, they are reborn as a vampire.”
"But you are talking about animated corpses!" laughed the journalist, highly amused by the sheer ridiculousness of the conversation.
"Indeed, that is precisely the subject upon which we are now conversing, but it is so much more than that."
The journalist scratched the grey-streaked hair at his right temple. “But why would transference of such a kind happen at all? For I have been led to believe that these vampires feed off untainted, healthy humans, and so why would the vampire blood go into the victim’s body?”
The flame-haired woman answered this time. “It is only during the act of Begetting, or Creating, or Making, that such a transmission occurs.”
Her voice was as honeyed as her husband’s. Her eyes were the same entrancing hue. The journalist thought they must be related, and once again found it difficult to concentrate. “And what do those terms mean?”
“Begetting is the process by which a person becomes a vampire. It is during the act of creating a new vampire that transmission of the infection occurs,” she replied. “Usually it is when one vampire seeks a mate for life.”
“Mate for life?” repeated the journalist, his brows furrowed with disbelief.
“Why, yes.” It occurred often enough in nature, why should it be deemed preposterous among the animated undead?
He was not convinced. “Alright, but on a biological level, have scientists identified the name of the disease, its origins, and if there is a cure?”
Mr. Stewart answered this time. “There has been no study, as yet.”
The journalist knitted his eyebrows again in confusion. “Well then, surely all that is required is a visit to a reputable physician. Why, here in London, we have the Hospital for Tropical Diseases, and I’m sure someone there would be able to run some tests should someone with this disease happen to be in area.”
“There are dozens of vampires in London, if not more now.”
“Come now, Sir, really…”
“There is only one cure — vampires cannot be killed easily, for as I mentioned before, they are already dead. They can, however, be destroyed,” the elegant man interrupted. “There is one vulnerability, only one spot on the whole of a vampire’s body where they can be destroyed.” He pointed to an area on his chest, where his heart was. “Here, here is where a stake can penetrate through the otherwise impermeable skin and access the heart. For ‘tis the heart of the vampire that controls all.”
The journalist had heard enough of this nonsense, and patted his lips again with the napkin and tossed it casually onto the table before him.
“I am sorry, Mister and Missus Stewart, but I cannot write about something for which there is no evidence.” He was in no mood to have his time wasted by these obviously insane publicity seekers. And so he slid up out of his seat and attempted to get the waiter's attention for the bill, but the young man was engrossed in conversation now with a table of pretty young ladies. It was some feat that this incompetent man had managed to keep his job this long. The journalist gritted his teeth in frustration.
“We have ample evidence, Sir,” said the elegant man. “I understand how you may doubt the verisimilitude of what we have said, but I can assure you it is the truth. If you would be so kind as to indulge us, you can both enjoy your meal and listen to our story. Make of it what you will, only hear us out, please.”
The journalist put down his hand and leaned towards Mr. Stewart, eyeing up the elegant man warily. “What you have said would make a fine plot for one of those ghastly penny dreadfuls, but I fail to see how it could be of interest to a reputable newspaper. You speak of having ample evidence, Sir, so what would that evidence be?”
“Ourselves. My wife and I are vampires.”
Chapter 1:
The Seventeenth Century
The Stuart Vampire was Begotten at the human age of twenty, on the date that everyone believed he died — the thirteenth of September, in the Year of Our Lord Sixteen-Hundred-Sixty from smallpox, it is said. To know more about how he became the monster, we need to learn about the man he once was…
Until that fateful day of his Begetting, he was one Henry Stuart, Duke of Gloucester, third surviving son and eighth child born to King Charles I and his Queen consort, Henrietta Maria, a French princess. He had had a tempestuous childhood, with his elder brothers Charles and James, and sisters Mary, Elizabeth, and Minette. Their days of happiness were all too brief and few — for the horrors of civil war soon shattered everything the royal family had known.
King James I had always inculcated in his sons, Henry, the eldest, and Charles, that they had been chosen by God to rule over the Three Kingdoms. No one was to oppose them; no one was to question their leadership. When his beloved, golden brother died suddenly, Charles was thrown onto centre stage as heir. Perhaps the deceased Henry would have been more moderate in his rule, but for Charles, it was this firm belief in his God-given right that lay behind all of his future actions. Once he became King, upon his father’s death, he commissioned the ceiling of the Banqueting Hall to be painted with scenes showing his father ascending into Heaven. It was a brilliant piece of propaganda, but what’s more, it showed what Charles truly believed.
But there were those who did not accept the King’s way of thinking, and there were some who openly questioned his governance of his kingdoms, and rebellion soon destroyed what was once blithe. In time, the beautiful green English hills soon turned red with the blood of thousands of men in the horrors of the English Civil War. The once close-knit Stuart family was soon torn apart by the machinations of the blackest, the most ambitious and treacherous of hearts, Oliver Cromwell.
Those who sided with the King were the Royalists, or Cavaliers, and those who supported Parliament were the Parliamentarians, or Roundheads. Throughout the whole of England there were battles, and man-made atrocities were carried out throughout with width and breadth of the country. Battles raged in Marston Moor, Maidstone, and few areas were left undisturbed by the violence and inhumanity of war. Limbs were hacked off with swords, cannonballs destroyed heads, arms and feet, and pikemen impaled their enemies with their long halberd-ended pikes. It was a gruesome spectacle, the horrific side of humanity.
Henry’s family soon separated and fled abroad, with the
eldest sons fighting for their father the King. Years filled with warfare and great suffering came to a decisive end with the Battle of Naseby in Northamptonshire. It was one of the greatest battles in English history, and many a life had been lost, muddying the soil below with blood.
Parliament eventually won. The King had lost everything, and yet, there were those who would not be content until his head was severed from his body. And that would mean only one thing: Regicide, something never before done to a King of England. Some of those who would have the King murdered signed the Death Warrant with glee, craving the power that they were certain they would obtain with the abolition of the monarchy. Others hesitated, their consciences plagued by thoughts of the consequences of so abhorrent a deed.
Regardless of the fact that Charles, Prince of Wales, had signed a carte blanche to spare his father’s life, the King was sentenced to death. The day before his execution, he was granted an audience with Henry and Elizabeth — the only two of his children who had been captured — and who were the last of their broken family to converse with their father.
In that poignant last interview, Henry and Elizabeth wept as their ashen-faced father lifted them and placed one child on each of his knees.
“My dear children,” he said solemnly, his hair having gone grey and white with his extreme anxiety. “They mean to cut off thy father’s head.”
Elizabeth sobbed into her dear father’s chest, “Nay, father, no! It cannot be!”
Little, eight-year-old Henry was weeping as well. He had seen the boiled heads mounted on spikes on London Bridge, and the thought of his own father’s head being mounted in such a manner sent a shiver down his spine. It frightened him so much that he trembled, his little heart pounded with an erratic rhythm.
“Hush, now, my children. Mark well what I say, Henry,” Charles said, moving away strands of Henry’s dark hair from his damp face. “You must not be a king as long as your brothers Charles and James live. For they will cut off thy brothers’ heads when they catch them, and cut off thy head too at the last. And therefore I charge you, do not be made a king by them.”
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