Chapter 2: Rebirth
London. August 1, 1603.
"It was entirely my fault," Jack insisted. He'd used the time while Father H rowed them back to the pier at Blackfriars to explain why they'd sneaked into the tower. "You mustn't blame Leonard."
"I'll blame whoever I like, pup," he retorted. "Leonard should have known better.'' He paused to glare at the remorseful wearh. "Surely you learned a little responsibility by now. At the very least, you should have come to me beforehand."
"I didn't think you'd help," Leonard muttered.
"By God's Grace, I shouldn't have. I don't care if the cause was a generous one. Sir Walter's already in mortal peril. If your idiocy had been linked to him, his case would be even more difficult."
Jack didn't attempt to argue. His ankle throbbed and his head ached abominably. But he'd managed to see Sir Walter. Lady Bess would soon receive the letter. The warm feeling Jack had from being able to help two friends who'd been so good to him made everything else seem not very important.
His ankle wasn't broken, but the sprain was nasty enough to keep him off his feet. Father H let him stay in the bell tower, claiming the only reason he did so was to prevent Jack from getting into even worse mischief. Leonard delivered the letter to Lady Bess for him. When she heard about Jack's injury, she sent him a couple of meat pies and enough fresh fruit to last a week.
The next day, Leonard left to rehearse with the playing company in Richmond. Jack decided to delay his departure till the weekend to let his ankle recover. He'd still have ample time to learn the music. Father H was having him do penance by writing prayers for the townspeople to affix to their doors. The prayers appeared to be ineffective at preventing the plague, but they provided a measure of solace.
Jack was glad Father H didn't order him to do anything more demanding. The sultry heat of London in August was bothering him like never before. With each passing day, his headache grew worse. Would the heat never let up?
A week later. Christ Church Greyfriars.
"How long has he been ill?" Leonard demanded, dropping to his knees beside Jack's pallet.
Father H wrung out a rag in a basin and placed it on the boy's forehead. "Five days. He took a turn for the worse two days after you left."
Leonard had returned to London to check on Jack when he failed to appear in Richmond. He'd assumed Jack's ankle was continuing to bother him. When he didn't see Father H in the nave of the church, he tracked him to Jack's room in the bell tower.
Overlaying Jack's scent of fig and rosemary was the stench of the plague. Jack was unresponsive, in the throes of a high fever. He had a distinctive goose-egg bump on his neck that was already darkening.
Fear gripped Leonard by the throat. They'd grown complacent since Jack had escaped unharmed from previous outbreaks. But Leonard shouldn't have let Jack return to London. If Jack had gone with him to Richmond, would he have been spared?
"You can't let him die!" he blurted, then cringed that Jack might have heard him. But did it matter? Jack had the right to know what his condition was. "We can save him!"
Father H didn't take his eyes off the boy. "Death is everywhere. It is not for us to say who lives and who dies."
A blood tear slid down Leonard's cheek and he angrily swiped it away. He felt like he was reliving the nightmare of the Old Lodge but this was a thousand times worse. On that occasion, there had been a sliver of hope the boy could recover. Now death was staring him in the face. "You told Mistress Roydon you'd protect him. It lies within your power—and mine—to do so. If you won't, I will."
"Your love for Jack could kill him instead. You were born too young. You don't have the necessary control. What your sire did was inexcusable. He was a youth himself and he committed the same folly with his children. You and Amen were the only ones who survived his attempts."
Leonard's blood father had been killed during the Battle of Bosworth Field. At the time, Leonard had only been a wearh for three years—still an infant. Father H gave him and Amen a home, taught them what they needed to know to survive.
"Then you save him."
Father H shook his head. "Jack could be tainted with my sins."
"What do you mean?" To his knowledge, Father H had also never sired children, instead adopting waifs and misfits off the streets. Leonard had assumed it was because he felt creating wearhs was ungodly.
Father H exhaled, replacing the rag on Jack's brow. "My blood might cause Jack to be consumed by a rage he can't control. He could destroy himself as well as others. That's not a destiny I would wish for anyone, let alone someone I care about."
Leonard sat back on his heels, horrified. He'd heard of the disease Father H referred to. There were wearhs who couldn't control their emotions. When they became angry, they transformed into killers, lashing out at their enemies and friends alike. The only warning was that their eyes became inky black, a sign of the darkness inside them. "But I've never seen you display the symptoms of blood rage," he whispered, clutching at any straw that could prove he'd misunderstood.
"No, but I carry the seeds within me. All wearhs may. When I discovered the truth, I stopped siring children. I realized that in my desire to save them, I was sentencing them to a death even more cruel." His expression softened. "I'm sorry, Leonard. I love the boy too."
When Jack moaned faintly, Leonard grasped his hand. It felt like it was on fire. His face was drenched with sweat from the fever. Jack was always on the thin side but now he looked like he was being consumed from within. Leonard could hear his heart faintly beating, but it couldn't hold out for much longer.
"L'nard?" Jack's voice was a mere thread that only a wearh could hear.
Leonard leaned closer. "I'm here," he said, choking back a sob.
"Where?" Jack's eyes had faded to dull brown and were glazing over. "I can't . . ."
"Do something!" Leonard pleaded. "Not everyone becomes sick. He has to be given the chance!"
Father H silently moved his lips as if in prayer, his eyes closed and his hand resting on Jack's forehead. He took a slow breath. "Jack, can you hear me?" His voice was low but it held the echo of thunder.
Jack's brow furrowed. "Father H? Are you angry at me?"
"No, Jack. Listen to me. You are dying."
"I know." Although he mumbled the words, Jack appeared marginally more alert, his eyes fixed on Father H's face.
"I may be able to save you, but you will become a wearh. Do you understand what that means?"
Jack's bloodshot eyes opened wide. "You can do that?"
"Yes, but it may make you sick. You could be worse off than now."
"How can I be worse?"
"You'll have to live on blood. You may be tortured by emotions you can't control. Your life will not be easy."
"Is there a chance I could see the Roydons again?"
He hesitated for a moment. "God willing, you may."
"Then do it." Jack's eyes closed, the words ending in a moan.
"Act now before it's too late!" Leonard hissed.
"You forgot yourself, pup!" he snarled. "No one orders me. God's will must be done." He stroked Jack's brow then stood up and retreated to a corner of the room, his back to Jack.
Blood tears stung Leonard's eyes, as he rewet the cloth to wipe the boy's face. If Father H had gone downstairs to pray, Leonard would have started the process. He knew what had to be done. Emptying the boy of his blood would not be difficult. Jack was too far gone to struggle. Leonard would need to stop himself in time. But the main concern was if Jack would be too weak to feed. Each minute of delay brought more uncertainty.
"Move aside," Father H commanded.
Leonard shot him a look but didn't question him. Father H's expression was set in stone like the sculptures on the façade of a cathedral. The priest knelt beside Jack and lifted his torso into his arms. With one lightning-quick move, he bit into Jack's neck.
#
Pain, blood, and more pain. Jack screamed. The agony he felt was worse than he'd imagined possible. His life had turned into a crimson inferno. The acrid smell of blood surrounded him, nauseating him. He screamed again . . .
A slap scorched his face. "Jack, feed!" a voice commanded. It was faint and hard to hear over the roar of the sea of red engulfing him. "You said you wanted to see Mistress Roydon again. This is your chance."
An arm was pressed into his face. There was no air, only blood. A loud thrumming in his ears. Smells too intense to be endured. He was dying over and over again.
"Feed!"
#
And eventually he did. For days, weeks, an eternity, Jack's world was reduced to Father H. He had no strength, no will, only an incessant desire for the blood which repelled him even as he craved it. Along with Father H's blood, he drank his memories, his mind assaulted with a constant stream of disjointed memories that made little sense.
Master Roydon was in some of them. Jack could taste Father H's dislike of him. Jack yearned to defend him, but the vision was quickly swept away by others. He was tossed from one to the other like a piece of flotsam. Flashes of people, prayers, Father H drinking from their wrists. Scenes of Jack as a boy. What he'd looked like when Father H rescued him from the sinkhole. Mistress Roydon appeared but he couldn't hear her voice. There were images of a huge man with tawny hair and beard. Father H called him Philippe. That was the name of Master Roydon's father. Did Father H know him too? A few images of the man who'd sired Father H—dusky hair, eyes dark as midnight.
Gradually Jack became more aware of his surroundings. Father H told him he'd been reborn. He was who he'd been before but not. Smells, sounds, colors—everything was much more intense. Muscles he thought he knew how to use had grown treacherous. When he took his first steps he careened straight into a stone wall. If he grabbed his wrist, he broke it.
He was still alive, but he had no idea how to live. Father H made it look easy. His touch on Jack's skin was a soft feather. Jack's was a hammer blow.
After a week or so, Leonard returned to Richmond. Would the day ever come that Jack could rejoin the playing company?
He tolerated Father H's blood well enough but after a few days, his sire insisted Jack feed off those who were at death's door from the plague. He claimed that Jack's actions would bring a measure of relief to their suffering.
Jack doubted that strongly. Some died before he could force himself to feed on them. Plague victims were in endless supply. Was that what his life was destined to be? Was this how Master Roydon lived? Feeding off pitiful victims and corpses? Jack began to loathe what he'd become—a vulture feeding off carrion. Perhaps this was why Father H despised his own sire.
The lore Jack had acquired through Father H's blood was confused and chaotic. Mainly it consisted of vague impressions. Jack now knew that Benjamin, Father H's sire, was Matthew Roydon's son, and that made Father H Master Roydon's grandson. The man Jack had known didn't exist. Instead, Matthew was a member of the de Clermonts, a family Father H detested.
Was the dislike reciprocated? Fate could be cruel. Jack was now related by blood to Master Roydon, but if he knew what Jack had become, would he view him with loathing?
When Jack tried to talk to Father H about what he'd learned from his blood, Father H brushed off the memories. He claimed bloodlore was unreliable and should never be trusted, particularly the associated emotions, but that didn't bring much comfort.
Jack knew he should be grateful, but in between bouts of purging his stomach from the stench of one corpse after another, he began to be tortured by misgivings. Had he made the right decision? Instead of growing stronger, he was getting weaker.
Driven by hunger, he'd begun to feed on rats. Their blood wasn't repulsive, but they were hard to hunt. He could hear them in the walls and in the adjoining church, but he was so awkward, it was rare that he could catch one.
He was still a walking disaster, crashing into walls and tripping over his own feet. Father H locked him in his room, saying it was too soon to be exposed to other smells and sounds. So he was restricted to the dead and the dying that Father H brought to his room and the ever-present rats. Long ago, Mistress Roydon had bought a rattrap. Would she think that's what he'd become? Would she also be repelled by the sight of him?
He'd agreed to become a wearh, hoping that he could see her and Master Roydon again. He hadn't stopped to think how horrified they might be at what he'd turned into. For the first time since the Roydons left, he no longer had any desire to visit the quays. He was nothing like his memories of Master Roydon. The disgust they'd feel would be more than he could stand.
As the days stretched monotonously onward, Jack began blacking out. He'd wake up with no knowledge of how long he'd been unconscious. He'd find himself alone in a cell of a room with only a corpse beside him.
Father H told him to be patient. This was only a temporary period, and Jack didn't argue. How could he? Father H had sired him, given him the chance of a new life. Jack hid his illness and pretended to be content with the bodies. He never fed in Father H's presence so his sire wouldn't know the extent of his misery.
Luckily, Father H left him alone most of the time. He'd show up to dump a body in his room and remove the old one. After leading Jack through some exercises to judge his coordination, he'd order him to keep practicing and leave. Jack began to sing to himself as a way to pass the time. It was the one thing he could do without damaging anything.
That, and listen. He could now hear the faint scratching of rats in rooms far away, the distant sounds of townsfolk, the rumble of the death carts. Although he'd become a shadow, there was life all around him, existences he could savor vicariously.
When he heard the soft thud of footsteps at the base of the tower, he assumed it was Father H, but this person didn't have his scent of cinnabar and fir. Jack sniffed again. The stranger smelled of raisins and oak . . .
The door opened. At the sight of Leonard, Jack rushed forward to greet him. When he hugged Leonard, he heard something crack and hurriedly dropped his arms.
"Careful, lad," Leonard said with a laugh and tousled his matted locks. "Now I know how you felt when you were a little boy and Mop bowled you over!"
Jack winced in sympathy. "I'm sorry. Is anything broken?"
"One broken rib is quickly mended," he said, giving him a shrug. "Don't feel bad. I was the same way, as no doubt Father H has often told you." Leonard stood back to study him. "How's it going?"
Jack shrugged. "I'm not improving very fast. Father H says not to be discouraged. He calls me a newborn, but I thought I'd already grown up."
"You're only a few weeks old. In wearh terms, you'll continue to be one for months."
Jack nodded, biting back any complaints. He shouldn't take out his frustrations on Leonard, the only other friend he had left.
"Have you been outside?" Leonard asked.
"Not yet."
"No wonder you're gloomy. C'mon, let's go. It's dark. There's no sun to hurt your eyes."
Jack's heart leaped at the prospect. Father H had warned him he wouldn't be able to tolerate bright light for months, but his dark cell was like a tomb.
They sprawled on the ground in the churchyard. The bells had already struck midnight. There was no one about. Compared with the tower, the air felt blissfully cool, and the smell of death wasn't as prevalent.
"You know you can tell me anything," Leonard said tentatively. "I've been there. I know how miserable it can be. You have no need for sleep but you don't have enough control to be around anyone or engage in your normal activities."
Jack nodded, his emotions rising to his throat. "Except for you and Father H, everyone I've been near stinks of the plague. Father H says I'm doing them a kindness by finishing them off. I've become an executioner."
"It will get better. Once you're able to paint and play the viol—"
"But when will that be? Right now, if I touch a bow, I'd probably snap it in two. I tried to write. The quill was crushed in an instant." He sprang up and leaped high in the air. "I'm filled with energy but have to keep it bottled up inside." He plunged his hands in his hair as he fought for control. Leonard was remaining silent. What could he say? It was the truth.
"Forgive me," Jack added, forcing himself to relax. "I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you. Father H said you helped convince him to save me."
Leonard looked at him sympathetically. "But you didn't really understand what you'd agreed to. That's why I'm here."
"You're going to stay?" Jack's heart soared at the news. "But what about the playing company? How will you explain it?"
"I already have. I told them you were sick, but that you're getting better. I've taken leave to take care of you." He smiled ruefully. "They were more upset about you than me. Your skill will be missed much more."
#
When Father H returned to the church, carrying yet another victim for Jack, they went inside. Leonard couldn't help noticing Jack's anguished grimace at what his dinner would be. This one was a woman in her fifties. She was unconscious, alive by the thinnest of threads. Father H was right. It was a kindness Jack was performing.
Leonard left Jack in his room and withdrew to the church nave with Father H.
"I gather Jack's been having a hard time," Leonard said, not wanting to overstate the situation, although he felt in his gut that Jack was at the breaking point.
Father H took a slow breath. "I didn't prepare him adequately. I should have warned him about the difficulty of the transition."
"You didn't have the time. Jack was near death. I feared we'd already waited too long."
Father H shook his head. "But I should have done more in the aftermath. Several times I've found him lying on the floor unconscious. Once he was mumbling something about killing himself. That's when I sent for you. I suspect Jack is suffering from bloodsickness."
Leonard's stomach clenched at the news. He'd heard of the disease. It was particularly dangerous for newborns. If they didn't get enough diversity in their diet they could develop intolerances for certain types of blood.
"I fault myself," Father H continued. "Jack couldn't continue to live off me alone. I brought in as great a variety of warmbloods as possible, but it wasn't enough."
"You don't think it's blood rage?" Leonard asked, dreading the answer.
"I don't believe so. He shows no sign of aggression or viciousness. Instead he's purging his stomach far too often. You must have smelled it."
Leonard nodded. "That's why I took him outside."
"I change the straw daily, but it's not enough. Jack needs to get away from London. The boy doesn't have enough control to be around humans, but he's surrounded by them here. Ordinarily I'd say he's too young to hunt, but he needs an outlet for his energy."
"I could take him to Tom's house at Syon," Leonard suggested. "It's empty now, and there's plenty of excellent hunting on the estate. Jack will have a much more varied diet than anything London can offer."
"Will Tom object to wearhs living in his home?"
"No. I'd already written him about Jack. He's offered to help in any way he can. He also wrote that he'd inform Lord Northumberland."
"You have my blessing then," Father H said. "Keep me informed of Jack's progress. Until we learn more about the nature of his illness, don't let him associate with warmbloods. That's another reason he'll be better off away from London. Tempers of those who aren't sick are at the boiling point. If Jack made a wrong gesture, he could be attacked, and he doesn't know how to respond."
This would be Leonard's first time care for a newborn. He'd never sired any children of his own. The pitfalls were huge. Jack was still a virgin, and that might help cool the flames of his heightened passions. The first three months were the hardest. Afterward, he'd probably be able to resume some of his normal activities. Until then, Jack was likely in for a world of hurt.
#
Although Jack was reborn on August 8, he felt like his life began anew on August 29 when he and Leonard left London.
They ran the entire distance on foot. When the sun was out, they holed up in the forest and Leonard explained the way of the wearh. As soon as dusk fell, he led Jack on hunts.
Jack had often lost consciousness when he was confined in the bell tower, but to his knowledge, he'd never slept. Leonard explained that bloodsickness made him pass out. Normally newborns never slept. It would be months before Jack would be able to take even a brief nap.
Leonard encouraged him to ask him anything, no matter how stupid, and that meant Jack could finally ask the question top on his list. "Do we have to kill in order to live?"
"We have to feed on blood, but death doesn't necessarily follow. Is that what's bothering you?"
Jack nodded, relieved to finally be able to admit it. "I don't want to have to hurt others."
"And you don't have to," Leonard assured him. "There's a known network of people who like to earn money by letting us feed on them. We don't take enough blood to harm them. In cities, the practice is particularly common, but it requires control."
Jack winced. "In other words, not an option for me."
"Not right now, but soon you'll be able to. As for animals . . ." Leonard thought for a moment. "Do you remember how I gave you blood when you were thrown from your horse?"
Jack nodded. "That was to help me heal."
"Our blood deadens pain. It can put your prey to sleep, allowing you to feed at leisure. If you don't want to kill the animal, you don't have to. If you'd like to feed on a deer, for instance, you can have it lick your blood first. You can even use a little of your blood to help the bite wound heal faster. The effort takes a special type of discipline since you need to establish a rapport with the animal. Do you want to give it a try?"
"Yes, please." For the first time, Jack realized there might be a way to make his new life work.
There began to be moments when he actually reveled in his new life. He could hear the rustle of rabbits in their burrows and the grunts of badgers as they dug tunnels. He could catch the scent of a deer a field away.
Most of his attempts to catch prey were failures, but Leonard was a patient coach and consoled him with stories of his own initial awkwardness. Jack's first success was a rabbit. The animal stared up at him with huge eyes, trembling at being caught. Jack's heart went out to it. God's Truth, he felt a kinship to that helpless bunny. He pricked his index finger against his eyetooth as Leonard directed him and rubbed a couple of drops of blood on the rabbit's nose. Once it was asleep, and only then, he bit into his neck. The taste of fresh blood, uncorrupted by plague, had a savor better than the finest wine. Leonard pulled him back after a few sips and instructed him on how to seal the wound. Jack insisted on staying, holding the rabbit till it awoke and hopped away. The sense of pleasure he obtained was indescribable.
They settled into Tom's familiar house at Syon. When Jack was exhausted from the drill of exercises, he rested on the floor rather than take the risk of smashing Tom's furniture.
Leonard taught him that he didn't have to subsist on blood alone. Nuts, wine, raw meat, cheese, and beer were all acceptable supplements. By night, he hunted fallow deer on the Syon estate. His lordship had granted Tom and him privileges long ago. Jack's fear over how Lord Northumberland would view him was alleviated when he received a personal letter from his lordship. Master Roydon was one of my dearest friends and you are too. Your new status will not affect our relations in any way.
Once Jack was able to write without destroying the quill, he wrote to both Tom and Lord Northumberland. He was grateful beyond words that the men wanted to continue being his friends. Tom urged him and Leonard to join him in Norfolk as soon as he was able.
Jack's horse Sienna also accepted him. He tested his ability by refusing to use reins and guiding her strictly by gentle nudges. He figured if he could control his thighs that well, soon he'd be able to play the viol once more.
#
Leonard was strumming the lute in the garden outside Tom's house on a warm afternoon in early October when he heard the strains of a viol being tuned from inside the house.
He smiled. Another milestone. It was the first time Jack had picked up his viol. Leonard figured the new music would do the trick. He'd left Jack for a couple of days to check in with Father H and give him a progress report. While in London, he'd met a musician through an acquaintance. Tobias Hume earned his living as a soldier but was quickly acquiring the reputation as one of the best viol players in England. Playing companies were vying for his services, but he declined all requests, mocking them for the low pay they offered.
Leonard had bought several manuscripts from Hume. The viol was gaining in popularity because the new king was fond of the instrument. When Jack was up to it, he'd have no trouble acquiring jobs.
Father H didn't understand the need for Jack to return to his former pursuits. He thought Jack should lead a life of penance, finishing off victims of the plague, digging graves, and helping him monitor the lives of the creatures in his domain. But that was no way to live.
Leonard had never seen Jack so depressed as that night in the bell tower. Was the real cause behind Father H's refusal to sire wearhs the fact that he'd had too many spectacular failures?
Jack needed to be around his friends. He needed reassurance that he was still accepted. Leonard had developed a four-step plan. Step one was going well. After a few days, Jack would be ready for step two.
Notes: The plague of 1603 was one of the worst London experienced. It lost roughly one-quarter of the population. The plague was transmitted by infected rat fleas.
In Time's Convert, Deborah Harkness describes how carefully and thoughtfully the process of rebirth can be conducted. I assumed Jack would have had a much more difficult time. Luckily, Leonard was available to ease the transition. In Chapter 3, Leonard continues his efforts with varying degrees of success.