Eric de Clermont
June 1229 C.E.
Rome
"Gallowglass," she whispered, hovering just over his shoulder or perhaps right before his willfully closed eyes. Just there – just within reach – if only his eyes would open. If only he could move to hold her.
"Gallowglass," she called again, a smile on her lips and her voice a teasing whisper. Her scent curled around him as though it had never been gone at all. He hummed at the delectable way she surrounded him now.
The sun filtered softly through the curtains. He could see its glow through the thin shelter of his eyelids that made everything abstract and gold, a brighter line of light broke through the place where his eyes drifted partially open, his vision blurred by the thick strands of his eyelashes, and the delirium of sleep. The room was a stark white stucco with red and gold tapestries hanging from the walls. The floor was made of stone, warm stone that had baked in sunlight for centuries before the masons came along to cut it from the ground. And across the room, a large stone bathtub had been carved into a corner.
He closed his eyes and sighed into the sound of her voice washing over him, and then as if by magic that bathtub was full of freshly boiled water. Steam curled up off the surface and a soft linen towel was carefully folded and placed on a stool near the water's edge. If he looked down, he would swear he was standing in an old doorway, in an old room. He would swear she was just there in the corridor, with a scarf wrapped loosely around her dark braided hair. If he looked down, he knew he would see her hand held lightly in his own, a bar of soap between them that she refused to let go. If he could just find her, for he knew she was there, Eric knew he would see her staring at his bare chest in shock and desire, flustered and cataloguing every muscle and every scar as she had done once as a different person so many lifetimes ago. If he could just find her, he knew he would see—
"Gallowglass," she whispered again and pressed a kiss to his temple.
And again, her voice sounded, but just barely. "Gallowglass—" she called, but she was cut off just as quickly. She sounded far away now, and his lips turned down into a frown.
The water in the bath across the room had gone cold. The steam was gone, and the linen was missing. He held tightly to her hand and the bar of soap, but she was slipping. Fading. If he looked down now, he would see only the soap, and then just as soon as he realized this, Eric also knew that the soap would be gone too.
"Gallowglass—" she cried, and he did not know if this was real or imagined. Had she truly called his name? Had she called for him? She had to have, surely. He could have sworn—
"Unhand me, you needy bastard," grunted Balder as the he tugged his wrist free. "Hell of a time to fall asleep, Eric. Hell of a fucking time. Get up."
Eric jolted and squinted up at his friend, uncomprehending. His hand flexed at the emptiness, and the memory of her skin.
Balder narrowed his eyes and gestured toward the window, where the sun was high and unforgiving on yet another hot Roman day. "Up."
Eric leaned back and groaned, before bringing his hands up to rub at his tired face. "You're in a right chipper mood this morning—"
"You've been asleep for two days," Balder deadpanned.
At this Eric startled and jolted out of bed, frantically reaching for his garments to dress with haste. "Christ man! Why didn't you wake me?"
"I just did," Balder said and tossed the young de Clermont his greaves.
Eric caught them deftly without looking and hastily secured them to his wrists.
"Where's Guillaume?" he asked.
"Bribing several prominent members of the curia, I presume," Balder said.
Eric nodded. That worked well enough for him.
"We're late," Balder reminded him, though it was unnecessary.
Eric rolled his eyes. "Yes," he grunted and clasped his belt, securing his blade. "Thank you. You really should consider becoming a scout with those keen observational skills; my grandfather is recruiting."
The other knight sighed and fixed him with an impatient look, not rising to the de Clermont's bait.
"How do you think I ended up in this godforsaken city in the first place?" he asked.
"I don't know," Eric replied, making for the door. Balder trailing closely at his heels. "A taste for wine and a sense of adventure?"
The lion haired de Clermont quirked an eyebrow at his surly, dark browed friend, but Balder's frown only deepened in displeasure.
"No," he said.
They strode, lockstep, down the corridor toward the stairs. "Philippe bloody de Clermont, that's how."
Eric grinned back at him before thundering down the steps and out into the street.
The de Clermont villa in Rome was built over an ancient domus that once housed the original members of the same family. At the base of the Aventine Hill in a once affluent region of the empire at its former glory, de Clermont house remained. Rome, now, however was a much more nuanced place. After the sacking of the ancient city by the Ostrogoths and several other barbarian invaders in the early days after the empire fell, what the world now considered to be Rome was a vastly different place. It was a beast, in and of itself, wholly unlike anything it had been before.
There was no clear delineation within the topography of the city that separated rich from poor, affluent from powerless. As it was, a man in rags sat on a corner near the de Clermont villa. Eric and Balder passed him without looking down at the place where he was perched on the border of a region known as the Vatican. He was playing a simple tune on a lute. All around them on the busy road were silk road traders at the ends of their journeys sipping casually at cups of ale and cheap wine, while passersby stopped and measured the value of their wares.
Eric, who had set off at a brisk pace, regretted not turning back for his horse. Walking across the breadth of Rome to the Lateran Palace, and home of Pope Gregory IX, would take all day if he were to maintain his human charade.
Balder kept pace easily, and just as they made it to the bridge that crossed the Tiber River, Guillaume appeared on Eric's other side as though he had always been there, as though he knew exactly where they would be and when. It was a useful quality in Guillaume, this. And he had mastered it more skillfully and more subtly than many of their fellow knights and vampires had ever done. Eric dipped his head in the other knight's direction but did not say anything by way of greeting. His mind was on his coming audience with the pope.
On the bridge they were accosted by the many sights, sounds and smells that often came with life in cities such as this one. The heavy tread of boots on stone walkways, the creaky wooden wheels of carts that had seen better days, the clop of horse's hooves on that very same ground, and the shouts and laughter, cries and moans of angry, jubilant, bereaved, hungry, lustful, tired people. There was a baker on the other side of the bridge, and the scent of fresh rosetta and panino all'olio wafted toward them in an inviting manner. The sharp, salty aroma of olive oil quickly followed, as well as the satisfied sounds of the baker's satiated patrons.
To his left a fishmonger tossed a pile of guts out onto the ground for the gulls to take care of, while his wife argued with a dissatisfied customer who claimed they were overpriced and undercut. A silk merchant sat with too many wares and not enough income, and a handful of orphan children weaved about underfoot, nicking fruit off of stalls and picking the pockets of the unassuming.
They moved quickly and they moved with grace – Eric, Balder and Guillaume. The young de Clermont tossed a handful of coins to a beggar with a pilgrim's badge around his neck, and dipped his head in quiet acknowledgement, while Balder stopped to tell him where best to find shelter from a fellow crusader in the city.
Before long they were passing the Colosseum over which Eric's uncle, Baldwin, had agonized at length for many years as the city's leaders turned the once great arena into apartment housing for the poor. A prostitute with her yellow headband and uncovered hair, smiled at them from one of the ruin's many archways. And when she dipped her chin demurely in their direction, the little bells she wore around her neck to signify her status, chirped a dainty little note.
The men acknowledged her with kindness but kept moving. Even had they been interested, the brothers-in-arms wore their knightly attire. And no knight, be they Templar, Teutonic or Hospitaller would dare be caught in the presence of any woman while acting in an official capacity. To be seen in public and perceived to be propositioning a woman of questionable morals, would have been social and political suicide, and cause for a great scandal.
Finally, they reached Il Palazzo Apostolico al Laterano – the Lateran Palace – and the pope's official residence within the exhausted city. The sun was high in the sky to mark midday, and as Balder had agonized this morning, they were very, very late.
Eric left his brothers behind in the square. There they determined to wait for him in the shadows, between the palace and the basilica. The young de Clermont took the steps to the main entrance at a rapid pace. His face, he kept carefully neutral and unperturbed. Even with his hurried step, there was no question about his authority. To look at him was to know that he and power were inextricably bound and had long been well-acquainted friends. The guards at the entrance recognized him for who he was and quickly stepped aside, bringing their blades to their chests in silent acknowledgement and eyeing his blade with no small amount of trepidation.
There were a very precarious few who would dare enter the heart of the Holy See with their weapons strapped to their person. There were even fewer who would hold audience with the Holy Father in such a state. But the young de Clermont was no ordinary person, and though he bowed before kings and swore his fealty to popes much like Gregory IX, there was no doubt in anyone's mind of who he was, and how the order of the world had shifted around him. And yet, this too was an unspoken thing. A dangerous thing better left unvoiced. It was a quiet truth, wary of being too loud.
Eric de Clermont's sole purpose in this life was to humble himself before the powerful, so that the powerful may forget to fear him, and allow him on his way unencumbered by their suspicious gazes and fear-fueled plots.
"Philippe de Clermont has the audacity to withhold his resources from my crusade. We sit. We wait – the Holy Roman Emperor and the Holy Father – twiddling our thumbs like fucking simpletons, waiting for that man to come along and extend to us his hand."
"My family, and your most humble knights, live only to serve, your grace," Eric said.
He was kneeling, deferentially, before the pope. One knee pressed solidly to the ground in display of his loyalty. His head was bowed. His eyes, downcast in a careful show of submission to the papacy and the holy powers that be.
This made Gregory scoff. He waved his hand in dismissal, turning away from the saccharine display of fealty.
"Stand—" he said and coughed into a cloth. "Stand up."
He was well aware of who Eric was. There would be no Holy Roman Empire without the man they called Philippe de Clermont. And the pope knew as well that Eric came to him now not as a holy supplicant, but as an extension of another man's power.
Eric stayed where he was. Still bowed. Still subservient. Gregory's lip curled.
"I come to request your pardon for the misunderstanding with my father."
"Misunderstanding," the pope grumbled and eyed the young de Clermont warily.
"Yes, your grace," Eric replied. "The Templars wished only to prevent disaster and further aid your cause in the holy land—"
Gregory cut him off with a dark chuckle. He mumbled something to himself that Eric pretended not to hear.
"I excommunicated the man," the pope continued and coughed again. "Frederick," he sneered.
Eric remained silent. And he remained bowed.
"Your father..." Gregory's voice was cutting. "He knew of this."
There was no point in denying it. Eric nodded but remained unmoved.
"Stand!" the pope's voice was a clap that echoed through the great halls and shook the mosaics of the Lateran.
Eric clipped his head down in an obedient nod and drew himself up to his proper height. Relaxing easily into his stance before the human pope. Gregory looked him up and down once astutely, nodded to himself, despite the way his lip had curled into a seemingly permanent sneer.
In one move, the young man before him had reclaimed his own sacred ground. There was only one here who would truly inherit the earth, and he was neither meek nor was he Pope Gregory IX.
"Your father," the pope said, and every word was punctuated by a thick roman accent. Punctuated by the disdain on the other man's tongue. "Hugh de Clermont."
Gregory coughed. "He has answered the emperor's call."
"He has, your grace," Eric said. His voice was little louder than a murmur.
This too bothered Gregory IX, for it was the quietest man in the room who was oft heard the most clearly. To shout was to give way to ineptitude. It was to admit your defeat. Your impotency. The lesser qualities of your being. The man who had to shout that he was king, was no king worth following at all.
The quiet man before him held the room, and Gregory had no patience for it.
"That is why you are here," he said.
"Yes, your grace."
"To beg pardon for a man who would defy the Holy Father?"
"To beg pardon for a man who hoped to mitigate the damage the emperor might have caused to both your grace and the Holy See."
"Mitigate the damages..." The pope looked at Eric, one milky eye partially blinded by age, the other sharp and piercing. He released a short disbelieving laugh that didn't do anything to transform his bemused face or his skeptical eyes. "Mitigate the damages," he said again.
Pope Gregory IX turned away from the young de Clermont. He turned, instead, for wine. His robes swished and slid across the ornate floors of the Lateran in an almost callous manner.
"This is Philippe de Clermont's bidding," he said, and he did not veil it as a question as others might have done. Neither man was in any doubt. And neither man would deny the truth of the de Clermont's troublesome meddling. "He sends you, only to ensure his son will not lose my good favor."
"With respect your grace," Eric said. "I come on behalf of your holy warriors – not the de Clermont –"
"Do not—" the pope barked. "Do not lie to me."
Silence rung around them as the pope's words echoed through the halls and faded out slowly. Eric stared back at him resolute, resigned, and unyielding.
He nodded once and drew his blade, extending it to the pope hilt first, skin unpierced by the sharp steel that rested in his immortal palm. Eric knelt before the Holy Father and bowed his head.
"If I have spoken falsely to your grace, let the punishment be true," he said and looked back up into Gregory's eyes, not breaking his gaze once. A challenge in the shape of a plea. "If God has found me to be in contempt of my vows, then by your hand shall he take my tongue from my head, and I shall never commit such a falsehood again—"
Gregory held in aged hands a blade that was just slightly too heavy, the steel dipped and swayed with the wavering faith the man had in his own grip. Eric did not waver once from the pope's gaze, though the blade swayed more than once accidentally toward his cheek and his brow. The pope gritted his teeth and threw the blade at the young de Clermont's feet.
"I told you to stand," he grouched as he turned away, though his voice had lost its magnitude and the halls no longer echoed with his ire.
Eric nodded, retrieved his blade, and sheathed it once again. Drawing himself back to his proper height.
"The Knights of the Temple of Solomon—" he began but the pope cut him off with a laugh and a look.
"The Knights of Lazarus, you mean," he said.
Eric didn't miss a beat.
"Your Templars rode for the Holy Land to protect your interests against the negligence and callousness of the emperor."
"My Templars have abandoned me—"
"Holy father—" Eric said and bowed his head once again in deference. "I must humbly disagree—"
"And your humble disagreement would be a lie."
Eric gritted his teeth; the pope did not hide his knowing grin. His sharp, angry, bitter, acquisitive grin.
"Your family has been stealing my warriors out from under my nose—"
Eric opened his mouth to deny it, but the pope shook his head. "Lepers," Gregory chuckled. "That man—Philippe – he makes me laugh with his treachery—"
"A serious accusation, your grace, one that I must contest—"
"Oh, must you?" The aged man scoffed. "Must you contest?"
He studied the young de Clermont with his good eye and tilted his head. "How old are you anyway, young man?"
Eric stared back at him, terribly bored of this conversation, terribly impatient to take his leave. "A great deal older than you can imagine," he said with a sigh, turning his face to stare out a window toward the bustling city below.
"Hugh de Clermont..." the pope murmured and turned toward an ornate hourglass that sat on an ancient table "Knight of the Temple... Knight of Lazarus... man of diplomacy heads for war..."
He stared down at the falling sand, lost in contemplation.
"Philippe de Clermont sends the diplomat to fight my war... while the general sits at home," Gregory said. "Tell me... where is the war-minded one? Where is the roman? Lucius... I believe is his name."
Eric remained silent. His eyes hard. His face a carefully practiced neutral. The pope turned to him when he did not answer and frowned in displeasure at the look on the other man's face. He sighed and coughed and waved his hand as though to clear the question away.
"Fine," another cough. "Fine. Keep your secrets. I have no need of them. God knows I have plenty of my own. A complicated man... your father," he said instead. "Hugh de Clermont... complicated man. Not to mention his ties..."
"His ties, your grace?" Eric's voice was a carefully neutral blade of steel.
"Oh yes," Gregory said. "They are... murky at best. Your father's ties are very interesting indeed."
"Indeed?" Eric asked, though his voice was flat and lacking in sufficient care.
Gregory smiled and shook his head. "And the man with whom he travels..." he said. "His... companion? I have heard stories about him."
Eric remained silent, for even to deny such accusations was to give them life and breath and a frantic heartbeat. Instead, he returned to the purpose of his visit. The origin of the pope's displeasure and the reason Philippe sent him here today.
"If the emperor were to have his way, when he wished to have it," he said, his voice deceptively even. "He would have driven an entire army of plagued men to the gates of the holy land. He would have slaughtered whole lands and whole peoples – whole ships and their crews – without lifting a blade. Would your grace have preferred a wave of pestilence overtake the Kingdom of Jerusalem as Holy Roman warriors waved the banner of your church high for all to see? As women and children died a most horrible death. As the elderly succumbed to the impotence of their bodies... would you have them thank you for your piety? Your liberation? Would you have the Holy Temple of Solomon become once again a symbol of human suffering at the hands of yet another Roman Emperor?"
Eric's voice did not waver. It did not rise, though a lesser man's would have. Gregory's would have. He made his point in that same neutral, taciturn manner that got under the skin of every man, woman, and child who had ever been on the receiving end of it.
Gregory bared his teeth at the young de Clermont across from him, and curled his fingers tensely around the hourglass with its sand still falling. But Eric did not react, he did not falter. He had no reason to fear the teeth of the mortal man on the other side of the room. He simply carried on, as he was duty bound to do.
"Would you have those faithful few die for the acquisitive nature of one man, even if that man be an emperor? What good are a handful of Christians to you if they die by your Christian army? Should the emperor have gone and made martyrs of them all? The emperor waited of his own accord, but my father understood the decision, and he supported it. My father advised the empire to bide its time, and the empire took that advice. And in doing so, spared your papacy a breathtaking scandal, sir. He insisted that Frederick treat his men properly for the illness they suffered—"
"For all I know Philippe de Clermont – and his terrible sons – unleashed the plague upon Frederick's men in order to postpone their crusade—"
"None but God could manage such a feat—" Eric clipped. "To suggest any other man held such power, your grace, would it not be blasphemy?"
"Are you not blasphemous in nature?!" The pope shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. "Philippe de Clermont is no man of God, demon child! Blaspheme! Do not speak to me of His power! I am the hand that blesses the sinners and heals the sick. I wash the feet of the poor. I deliver them unto themselves so that they may—"
"I apologize, your grace, it was not my intent to offend. I only speak in the hope that you will see—"
"I see plenty," Gregory spat.
He picked up the hourglass when it ran out of sand, and turned it upside down, watching time slip through the ornate glass structure with no small amount of disdain.
"Well, that could have gone better," Balder quipped as he fell into step by Eric's side.
"It could have gone worse," Eric sighed.
"I've sent his grace a cask of your grandfather's finest vintage," Guillaume said softly as he fell into step on Eric's other side. "A few sips and he'll be too plastered to remember his anger."
Eric sent Guillaume a skeptical look. "You helped yourself to Philippe's wine cellar?"
"Well, I could hardly afford a gift worthy of the papacy," the serene knight shrugged.
Balder snorted. Eric stared straight ahead, bemused.
"Be that as it may..." Eric said. "I don't think a simple cask is going to solve this one, brother."
"Have faith, de Clermont," said Guillaume. "Expect a missive with your father's official pardon by tomorrow morning."
"What did you send with the cask?" Eric arched an eyebrow, there was no way a bit of wine would do the trick alone.
Guillaume gave a soft smile and stared straight ahead. "Jacqueline."
Balder snorted. "Here we go again."
Guillaume arched an eyebrow. "She's terribly bored these days."
"And what, pray tell, will Jacqueline be doing with the pope and his wine?" Eric asked, staring at his friend in alarm, and wondering about the safety of the man's relatively strait-laced mate.
Guillaume grinned. "When his grace inevitably accepts the wine and invites her to partake, she will mix a small amount of her blood into his goblet. Once he is in her thrall, she will ask him kindly to pardon the desired parties and be on her way."
Eric stopped and stared at his brother knight in alarm, before turning to head back in the direction of the Lateran. Back in the direction of the pope and Jacqueline, but a strong hand on his shoulder bade him stay. The young de Clermont stared at the unusually stern face of the serene knight, disgruntled and alarmed.
"Leave her, my lord," Guillaume said, reverting to Eric's title to smooth over any offense at his command.
"No," Eric said. "It's too dangerous; I'll not have her involvement."
"My mate knows what she's capable of," Guillaume replied patiently.
"There is too much risk—"
"She asked to help. It was her idea," Guillaume supplied. "She is bored, and restless. A bit of light treachery will be good for her mind."
"You trust she will be well?" Eric asked though he knew it was an absurd question.
Guillaume would sooner cut out his own heart and eat it than allow his mate to walk into a situation beyond her capabilities. But still, when he thought of Jacqueline, he inevitably thought of Fernanda, and the idea of either of the young women he considered to be under his protection plunging themselves headfirst into a dangerous political situation was enough to send him into a panic.
"She is my mate, Eric," Guillaume said, his voice equal parts stern and forgiving. "While I thank you your concern, allow me to worry about her. Jacqueline has been a loyal retainer to this family much longer than you have been alive."
They attended the rest of their duties for the day, together and apart. Balder left them soon after the meeting with the pope had ended. Before they had arrived in Rome, Philippe had ordered the surly Viking to shake down a bishop in a neighboring city, who had used the money loaned to him by the Knights of Lazarus to open a brothel rather than feed the poor as he had promised he would.
While Balder made his journey, Eric and Guillaume found their way to the Lazaran Temple that sat on the borders of the city, where Eric was to oversee a shipment of gold that required safe passage to Il Castello della Magione – a prominent templar parcel of land conveniently situated on the road that led back to the kingdoms of France, and subsequently, back to Philippe de Clermont and Sept-Tours.
They passed easily through the gates that barred the entrance from commoners and nobles alike. Passed their brothers-in-arms who kept watch at the gates and doors, and who saluted them with reverence and ease. Eric ducked into the great hall and greeted the knights and sergeants who had gathered there. The men in question were familiar members of leadership and were eager to begin. Eric gestured to the large stacks of gold housed in thick wooden crates and nodded his head.
Together, several men – some of them human – began the difficult task of unsealing the crates and handing off the heavy bars of gold to their superiors.
Eric claimed his seat at the center of a long table, with Guillaume to his right, and a set of scales before him, thus beginning the long, tedious task of weighing the shipment and cataloguing its worth in their records before moving it along.
They finished their required accounting in the late hours of the evening when the sun had set, and the sky was still a resistant sort of blue. Eric and Guillaume parted ways once they reached the bridge that crossed the Tiber on the path that led back to the de Clermont villa at the base of the Aventine Hill. Guillaume had patted him on the shoulder, before murmuring that he should check on Jacqueline. Eric nodded and wondered after the success of her rogue mission. He hoped all had gone according to her plan. He hoped she was well and tried not to worry.
Guillaume had been right. Jacqueline was more than capable, but Eric was responsible for her care in a different way than her mate was. Her wellbeing was a reflection on his family's honor, for better or for worse. She had been his own mate's maid at one point, before Fernanda disappeared, and she would be her maid again if the day came that his heart returned to him. Jacqueline had been a loyal servant for his family decades before he had been born, in his human life and as a manjasang, and she was the daughter of their late stablemaster, a loyal and formidable man named Alaric, who had lost his head at the hands of Eric's own twisted cousin, Benjamin.
The young de Clermont watched the serene knight go, a heavy weight in his chest at the thought of Jacqueline and all the memories she came with. For with Jacqueline came the inevitable thought of Fernanda. And with his memories of Fernanda came an abundance of questions, a hopeless regard for the future, and a growing horror that she may be forever lost to him somewhere in the dark void left by time.
As Guillaume disappeared over the curve of the bridge and beyond his view, Eric turned on his heel and made his way back into the depths of the beleaguered city. A pauper, with her raggedy dress, swept passed him on her way to complete her chores. A little boy followed after her, but in his pursuit did not hesitate to try and pick Eric's pocket. Eric snorted and bit back a sharp retort at the little heathen, catching up his bony wrist, and pulling the boy to a halt.
"None of that, you little shite," he said, and the boy stared up at him with wide, fear-filled eyes.
"B-begging your apologies, sir," the boy stuttered.
Eric stared down at him bemused and a little impressed. He had caught the lad easily, but there was no denying his skill. He'd make for a great criminal one day, and that was not a horrible profession to have in a city such as this.
Eric shook his head and felt his hair accidentally come loose from its leather band. The young de Clermont grimaced. He released the boy and tossed him a coin.
"Off with ye," he said quietly. "And you best spend that on a warm meal."
"Y-yes sir," the boy stuttered and looked back and forth between the tall knight and his spare coin. He didn't pause for longer than a second, shock did not overpower hunger and poverty in places such as these.
Watching the little boy run off and disappear into the crowd, Eric simply continued on his way.
The walls of the convent were tall, but Eric had climbed taller.
He didn't bother looking behind him to see if there were witnesses. He knew there were none. He scaled the divide with ease and hopped over the wrought iron spikes that would have killed a lesser man had he fallen on them, before landing on the roof of the Convent of Santa Maria in Capitolio without making a sound.
He turned his ear to listen as the nuns prepared themselves for yet another series of red-letter days that they had ahead of them for the week, completing their vespers before their evening meal. Beneath him was sure to be the chapel then. His eyes followed his nose across the courtyard to the kitchens where a humble stew was on the fire and ready for serving.
Their final meal before a week of fasting, no doubt.
He quickly made his way to the bell tower, where he took advantage of its complex structure to hop down to the ground, hidden from view by a pair of stone pillars, before disappearing into the shadows. To his left, behind a locked gate, the creak of a bench and the undeniable scent of parchment and vellum suggested there was the library. Having no interest in their books this day, he turned right instead.
He ran his hands over the stone walls and the wooden beams that made up the path to the nun's private quarters, leaving an undeniable trail of his scent behind. The giant Gael moved in shadow. And when he reached his desired destination, an unassuming door made of faded brown wood, he picked the lock with ease.
At a vampire's speed, the young de Clermont swung open the door and entered. At a vampire's speed, he closed the door which made no sound. And at a vampire's speed he was caught by the throat and slammed into the hard stone ground.
Eric grunted and shook himself.
"When are you going to learn to stop sneaking up on me?" a bemused voice intoned from above.
Eric grinned. "Hello, auntie."
Stasia de Clermont stood above him in her habit and wimple, with her hands on her hips and a perfectly arched eyebrow. Her eyes were sharp and forgiving. She quirked her lips down at her nephew.
"You were supposed to be here two nights ago."
Eric winced and stood, bringing a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck when he did. "I fell asleep."
Stasia, who had turned to light a stick of incense and pick up a letter, whirled around to face him in utter disbelief. She studied him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.
"You... fell asleep?" the youngest de Clermont sister nearly purred her incredulity.
"Oh aye," he said, attempting to sound more casual about it than bashful. "Didn't even know I was due—"
"A child's mistake," she commented blithely. Chastising. The young de Clermont watched the letter in his aunt's hands as she turned it over and over in her frustration.
He grinned, embarrassed, but without shame. He didn't take such commentary personally. Exasperation with each other's faults was just the family way.
She handed him the letter, and without glancing down at it again, he tucked it safely from view, securing it on his person until it could be handed over to Philippe. She took a seat at her desk, as he propped himself against the wall, and then they began.
"What news of the pope?" she asked.
Eric sighed and looked down at the floor. "It could have gone better, I'm afraid."
"Have you arranged for another audience?"
He shook his head. "He seems more exasperated than defiant at this point, but we've not earned any favor by way of his displeasure—"
"So, he'll pardon Hugh?"
"Remains to be seen," he said. "We've taken matters into our hands in other ways, but I know not how they will play out."
Eric grimaced, deciding not to mention the move made by Guillaume and Jacqueline.
"And what do these other matters entail?"
Stasia narrowed her eyes. Eric met her look with a bored one of his own and shook his head.
"Leave it be, auntie," he said. "Come tomorrow, all will either be forgiven, or I will find a way to make my next move. We will just have to wait and see what comes of things."
She pursed her lips but retreated from her pursuit. "Very well then," she said, though he could tell this displeased her.
"And what do you have on—" he began but she cut him off.
"The Venetians have been toying with matters regarding their finances, but I cannot quite make sense of it yet," she said. "I would tell Philippe to keep his eyes on them either way."
Eric nodded and stored the information away.
"And then of course there's the bishop of—"
Eric cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Balder's handling that as we speak."
Stasia nodded her approval. "Good," she said, "And you'll have heard, Walter of Ceasarea has died."
Eric had not known this. He bowed his head in silent acknowledgement of the recently deceased man before storing this information away as well to pass on to his grandfather. Though he doubted Philippe would not already know. Walter of Caesarea had been a crusader from near the start. He had fought with Eric's father and uncles on more than one occasion, and the Cypriot had become Lord of Caesarea with the help of Eric's own father, Hugh. The young de Clermont had met him once or twice on occasion, but he couldn't claim they'd been close.
On and on this continued. Stasia and Eric exchanged intelligence until the wee hours of the morning. Between them there was not a bit of knowledge or information about the comings and goings of the world that did not pass from one's lips to the other's ears. Eric fed Stasia what she needed to know from the lands beyond her convent's walls; he gave her letters from her siblings, and orders from her father – his grandfather – Philippe. And in turn, she provided him with the intelligence she had collected from within the church, in her position as one of the few women in the world that was visible only for her perceived marriage to God himself. Stasia had the ears of bishops and cardinals. She had the confidences of priests and friars. She passed easily under the noses of kings and took the confessions of secret keeping queens. And none were the wiser to the fact that this same nameless, faceless, regardless nun who was worth only her piety, was none other than the daughter of their most feared banker, advisor, and creature superior in every way. They were none the wiser to the fact that she was a member of the elusive de Clermont clan itself. And they had absolutely no idea that, with the presence of Stasia, there was truly nowhere they could hide from Philippe de Clermont.
She kissed both of his cheeks and sent him on his way. Eric murmured his love, and she patted him affectionately on the cheek when he did.
"Now you remember what I told you," Stasia said, as she often did when they parted. "Never forget it, nephew."
He gave her an easy grin and dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Dinna fash, auntie, I won't forget."
She hissed and smacked his wrist in warning.
"Speak properly," she said.
He fixed her with a cheeky grin, knowing his Scots-butchered-French grated on his family's nerves. Before he could receive any more of a scolding, the young de Clermont turned on his heel. He melted back into the shadows. Climbed back over the walls. Made his way into the street and carried on back home.
When Eric had been born for the second time in his life, his father and Fernando had raised him in a cave on an island in the Hebrides, just off the coast of the place where he'd died. And when his first hundred days had come to pass, they had taken him without warning to meet his father's family.
He'll never forget the dark of the night. The black cloaked riders and his father's dark mood.
He'll never forget the weight of Philippe's eyes on him as he unknowingly walked toward a fate that had not yet been decided.
Eric, then Sorley, would never forget.
On either side of his grandfather had been a gathering of grim-faced men. Men he would come to know as his uncles. Men he would come to care for and respect... even if he still wouldn't let some of them anywhere near his vulnerable throat.
Behind those men had been a cloister of women, their dark hoods pulled down over their faces, concealing from him their watchful eyes.
Back then, in that moment, he had sensed the threat in Philippe for what it was. He had sensed the danger in his uncles and responded accordingly, though he still bent the knee in the end.
This is all to say, Eric had measured the scales of his family wrong. He had sensed danger in the men at the front, and not in the shadow-like women at their backs.
In the following days and weeks of acquaintance with these new family members, he would come to understand what a grave mistake that could have been.
In the decades that followed, he would learn of the intervention staged by Philippe's – and Ysabeau's – desperate sons, as they gathered around their father and begged him not to create any more sisters for them. For, Eric had quickly learned, Philippe sired truly savage, fearsome, daughters... the likes of which the world frankly would not survive any more of. Let alone the men of the family.
But in that time, he had grown to know and care for his grandmother, and his aunts, for the formidable manjasangs that they were.
Ysabeau was cunning and beautiful, and sharp edged though you wouldn't know it until it was far too late.
And Verin was imperious, and dainty, and by far the strongest of them all. She could easily snap Eric in half with the grip of her bird-like fingers.
Freyja favored him dearly and gifted him with many trinkets he had no use for and did not need. But it bothered his uncles to no end, and exasperated his father beyond belief, so he took each gift with a grin and earned her favor even more solidly as she hissed at her brothers her displeasure. She coddled him, and this bothered the family. But she also relished in their shared ancestry. Freyja was a Dane. And while Sorley's own Viking ancestors were Norse, they had developed a kinship over their shared family traditions and raising, finding solace in a familiar culture in the face of an eternity as manjasangs.
But Stasia who played no favorites, and drew very little attention, had quickly become his favored auntie. This, because she was incredibly keen. She had the sharpest of eyes, and the easiest of grins. More than to spoil him, or to toy with him, or to use him as a pawn... Stasia genuinely wanted to see him succeed.
Despite the transgressions of her brother, Hugh. Despite the controversy of Fernando. Despite Philippe's less than favorable opinion of his father, and the instability around the line of succession within their clan – thanks to all the aforementioned unpleasantries – Stasia wanted her nephew to succeed. Even though Eric was a Gael – which to Verin was the equivalent of an uncivilized heathen – Stasia found something in him worth rallying behind.
There was no bribery with Stasia. No frills. No fuss. Just the truth. And she had given it to him plainly the first time he was with her on his own. She reminded him of that truth every time she was in his company, following up her parting words of love with a quiet reminder of the power that ran through his veins.
"Never lose who you are," she said. "And always make sure that you fade into the background as quickly as possible. You should be a footnote on every mind. An afterthought."
His aunt had taken him aside for the first time since that fateful night when he bowed with his father and Fernando before Philippe. And it was during this uncertain period, when he was a young thing and Philippe was still deciding what to make of him, that Eric first got to know each member of his new clan – his new family. His father's siblings were eager to measure him up and prepared to cut him down if necessary.
She gestured behind her, to the place where they had left Sept-Tours behind, as they walked among the trees and stalked the beasts that lived among them. And with that gesture she took his mind back to his new eternal family. Back to his father, and Fernando. Ysabeau and Philippe.
"You're the future of this family," she had said. "They know this, but they do not feel it. Creatures of our make and matter... we often fall victim to our own hubris. We often forget that no matter how long we live, we are not truly eternal. There is only one kind of end for those who are living – whether we live a matter of days or millennia – and that end will always be death."
Eric had nodded along with her sentiments, still so close to his own humanity that her words made sense to him. Though the craving for blood that coated his throat, and made his teeth ache, sang to him sweet songs of immortality. Despite the sense of her words, he sometimes found himself eager to believe he was eternal. A small dangerous voice in his mind whispered to him that the words she spoke weren't actually true. The desire in him, for life was so strong and visceral that the thought death had become slightly absurd.
Stasia watched him, wary and discerning. She knew the kinds of thoughts that were spinning around in his mind. He met her gaze, steady though he did not feel it. Her lips turned down into a contemplative frown.
A rabbit scurried out of the bushes, and with its heart aflutter, froze in their path. The two manjasangs – one very young and the other very old – stopped and watched the frightened creature, waiting in apathy for it to run on its way. This was too small, and too unamusing, a prey. Stasia continued speaking while they regarded the rabbit, unconcerned by the tiny little creature and the lure to take it anyway.
"They should recall every moment of their day – or their lives, even– and only much later say, 'oh yes, and the young de Clermont was there as well. Nice man – funny."
She said this and quirked an eyebrow as he absorbed her words.
"And then they should move along as though that is all you are and all you will ever be," Stasia's voice was impossibly grave. "Be likeable if you please. Be pleasant if you must. They will still bow and scrape and curtsy for you as they know they must, because of who your father is, but live your life in the way I tell you, and they will forget their animosity toward you. They will forget their envy and their acquisitive natures. Let them feel your power, nephew, but make them forget that it is you from whom that power exudes. Let them forget until at last they need to be reminded. And I assure you they will need reminding. Then, let there be no doubt. No question. Remind them of exactly who they are dealing with and make sure they never forget you again. One day, child, you will be the head of this family. One day you will be the de Clermont, whether the rest of them like it or not, and you must be ready. Never forget this. If you do—"
The rabbit finally found its courage and scattered into the bushes, but there was no point. Stasia snatched the creature up by its scruff, and before even Eric could blink, she drained the creature dry.
"They will kill you."
Eric made his way slowly back to the de Clermont villa.
The city was dark and dismal though there were patches here and there, beneath archways and tucked into ruins, that remained alight with warm fires and raucous laughter.
Men with nowhere to be at night mixed with prostitutes and opportunists, while the civil guard stood idly by, taking bribes, and partaking in the drink and revelry too.
Rome, now, was nothing like his family remembered it. And although Eric had not been alive to see the empire in its grandeur, his heart ached as he meandered through the ruins of his family's former home. Part of him felt shame for this place. There was a distinct lack of dignity here that contradicted the still recalcitrant local pride. He had been born of greatness, born of the same men who had given life to this empire of old. Eric felt a sort of fraternity with the gloomy ruin of Rome. Between him and the empire, only one of them had descended into capriciousness and poverty so far. And Eric wondered if this was the price of prosper. The de Clermont family was well and thriving, but this significant part of their history had spent the last few centuries desperately resisting decay, and thus far failing.
The soft jingle of bells caught his ear, and Eric did not need to look in her direction to source the prostitute across the way with her tired, rambling gait.
Many others like her had offered their bodies to him this day, but her eyes didn't drift in his direction. Perhaps she had noticed him, and perhaps she had not. She was simply walking. She passed him, and Eric followed her figure with his eyes, watching the sway of loose fabric on her frame. Her back was to him, bare from her shoulder blades to the swell of her hips, and he could count the dips and divots in her spine as she moved. Her figure was slight from hunger. But it was her hair which caught his eye, dark black and flowing down her back freely, secured from her face by her yellow headband which signified to all her status as a woman of questionable morals.
She tensed under the weight of his gaze, and Eric watched her spine straighten, smelled her fear as it spiked.
He'd never understand his family's low regard for human instincts. This woman's fear now was a testament to her skill. He had not made a sound. He had given not a hint to her of his presence, but still this woman knew when the dark creatures of the world were about. Her body tensed with her instinct. And she was flooded with that all powerful urge to run. Eric admired this quality in humans above all. There was nothing more admirable than an all-encompassing desire to survive. He'd never lose his respect for the creatures who often fell prey to his kind.
She did not stop walking, but she turned her face just enough to glimpse him. Eric was careful to remain unchanged beneath her scrutiny.
He caught a flash of her dark eyes, glinting in the firelight as they passed a crowded archway, and she appraised him shrewdly before pulling herself to a stop.
She still reeked of fear, but she knew a man of wealth when she saw one.
Eric dipped his head in acknowledgement but kept walking, moving past her, but she stopped him before he could get too far. A hand on his chest, and a demure tilt of her head. But her fear was high, and her eyes were bright with hunger.
"It is too warm a night to spend alone, sir," she purred, and Eric regarded her knowingly.
It was in fact an unbearable night, the sweat on her face and clavicle was a bright sheen. She smelled of cheap oils used to perfume her hair. She smelled like other men. She smelled of hunger, fear, and wine as well. Eric was not interested, but for her dark tresses that reminded him of someone else, and her eyes which were deep and brown and glinting.
She was not who he wanted in his arms this night. And he had promised himself to another. He had promised to wait fifty years.
He reached up and removed her hand gently from his chest, lowering it back down to rest at her side, and with his other he produced several coins.
"Take care, lass," he said and pressed the money into her hand. "I'm promised to another."
Her brow furrowed and if his heart were not so heavy, Eric would have laughed. This too reminded him of Fernanda. It was a rare occurrence, a man producing coin for a service left unprovided, but the girl was no fool and she accepted his pay quickly. Backing away from him with no small amount of suspicion, and an abundance of relief, she took her leave. More the fool was he, Eric supposed she must be thinking, as she melted away into the darkness in search of another to sell her body to.
As he approached the Aventine, with its beggars on every corner, and its villas dark with sleeping humans, Eric noticed a maid.
The girl had the region's trademark olive pallor, with flaxen hair, and a humble dress. She carried buckets in either hand as she approached her household well.
Eric froze and drew back, further out of view. It was late, but all around him servants were no doubt working. Cleaning rooms their masters had not vacated until the hour was late and the night had lost its moon, or even rising to clean hearths and light them before the lords of their houses rose to attend business before sun rose in a few hours' time.
The maid shivered though the night was hot, and her eyes flitted nervously around the darkness.
None would come to save one such as her, Eric knew. And she was likely as nervous inside her master's halls as she was on the out. Eric did not know why, for there were many maids in many cities that he had not stopped to consider before, but he felt the need to stop now.
He waited in the shadows, and grimaced in dismay for she could no doubt feel the weight of his vampire eyes on her while she worked. But, at last, her buckets were full, and the girl turned to skitter back the way she came, water sloshing around her feet as she tried to keep her buckets steady in her haste.
When the servants' door closed resolutely behind her, Eric bit the inside of his cheek, lost in thought. He'd need to ask after Jacqueline later when the sun rose again in the sky.
He turned and made his way two more houses down, to de Clermont house which stood prominently for all to see. At this late hour, it was the only villa along this road in which every window was still lit up in cozy brilliance. While the fires did not burn in this heat, for the servants' sakes, candles sat atop immaculate tables and in every windowsill, lighting the darkness of the night as only vampires knew how.
He headed around back to the stables where his horse and several others were housed.
His own steed nickered a soft greeting, and somewhere in the distance a couple whispered sweet nothings to each other in their own bed, in their own home down the way. Somewhere in an alley, Eric listened as a cat caught a mouse.
He checked the tack over his horse's stall and checked that the stableboys were safe and sleeping up in the loft, and then he doused a candle left burning on a workbench in the corner, allowing the humans and their animals the darkness they were due.
When Eric entered de Clermont house, no one was there to greet him. The world was quiet to match his quiet mind, and the shadows cast by the candles in the corridors flickered to him a solemn greeting. Balder would not return until morning. They would wait for him before they departed for the Auvergne. Down a long stretch of corridor, Guillaume could be heard in his chambers with Jacqueline, and Eric easily turned them a deaf ear.
He helped himself to a goblet of wine from a cart that sat near the drawing room before ambling his way to his study. Eric was not yet ready to face the emptiness of his chambers after the dreams he'd had the night before.
This study of his was much like his others. A solid wooden desk. A high-backed chair. A coat of arms on the wall, and a series of weapons mounted among the books and scrolls that littered his shelves. But tonight, Eric's destination was an old harpsichord.
It was clean of dust, of course. In all his years, Eric had never seen a de Clermont home that was anything other than immaculate. But while the servants were adept at cleaning, the neglected instrument was bound to be dreadfully out of tune.
The bench creaked when he sat. The wood protested when he opened the lid. And the keys sighed in relief when he pressed down on them, coaxing from them their dissonant sounds. In his study he remembered her clearly, though she had never been with him to Rome. And he could not stop the flash of memory, fresh as the day it had come into being so many years ago. He did not need to close his eyes to see her, discarded of her wimple, with her long flowing hair. If he looked down he would see her nimble fingers moving tentatively over the keys, teaching him the chords to a song she called heart and soul.
Eric smiled softly to himself as he remembered the scent of berries and wine that followed her in a heady trail wherever she roamed, and he felt the instrument come alive beneath his fingertips with the vividness of her memory.
And when he played, he played a simple tune. The one she had taught him almost a decade ago. His heart ached as he played, and he played like it was all he had left of her to hold. And he hoped that Fernanda was happy wherever she was. Her, and her beautiful heart. Her beautiful soul.