Caleb Knight 1695

Henry Purcell, composer-in-ordinary to King Charles the Second, was dying. Tuberculosis was the diagnosis. His alternate choking and sweating was harrowing to watch, as his secret lover, Caleb Knight, the beloved court singer, knew.

"Harry, I beg you. One little bite and you'll be free from your pain."

"And live as a cursed creature for centuries! Caleb… no…" Harry began to cough again.

"I don't feel I'm cursed. I had a pleasant enough time in Ancient Rome, let me tell you. Please, Harry. Let me heal you."

"Well, you can always drain me without my consent, Caleb…" again the composer strained for breath in between racking coughs.

"I will only do this with your consent."

"And I do not."

He sank back, exhausted, closing his eyes. Then:

"I want you to swear on your love for me, Caleb, that you don't wreak vengeance on my Frances for this. It is not her fault that I'm unable to love her as a woman should be loved, and it is not…"

"Harry, she caused this! She locked the doors against you just because you wished to attend a little soiree…"

"Many's the time she warned me, if I went out swilling and came back intoxicated once more, she would…. She was not to know I would catch this vile disease but she knew there was heavy rain outside…"

The sound of coughing filled the air.

"Then she killed you. She'll inherit as your widow when she should be dangling from a noose. At least let me finish her…"

"CALEB!"

The composer's anguish caused him to collapse and lie silent, and Caleb hastened to reassure him:

"I'll not lay a finger on the silly bitch. But I cannot stay in this land, in this century, if I'm not allowed to avenge you. I shall travel."

Harry forced a smile:

"Caleb, you must use that voice. There are ways to perform without the people in the audience knowing what you are. Swear to me that voice won't die."

"Ah, I shall make people well aware of my voice, Harry. I want fame. Unlike some of my poor brothers and sisters in misfortune, who just want peace, I want to be spoken of in drawing-rooms. I wish for people to pay to hear me singing. So I shall…"

He broke off and hastened to Harry's side, and cradled the dying man. Then, tears of blood on his pale cheeks, he kissed Henry Purcell's forehead, raised a little noise in the room to summon the wretched Frances to her unfortunate husband, and disappeared into the night.

"I am having the strangest dreams" Dr Dylan Keogh informed Max the attractive young porter, who just wanted to get back to his crossword while he still had a break. But Dylan continued:

"I'm hearing music in my head, constantly. Purcell. I bloody loathe Purcell!"

"Isn't that a washing power?" asked Max flippantly.

"And what do I see in my dreams? Troikas. Samovars. All things Imperial Russian. And then, as if somebody had changed a channel, a Victorian orgy! Something is very wrong here, Maximilian!"

"It's just Max!" grizzled the young porter.

Then Dr Keogh's pager sounded and he left Max poring over his crossword. But the dreams were to continue for Dylan Keogh.