PART ONE, 1

Ludden England 1540...

He could see the village in the distance from his place on the crest of the hill. The sky was grey and cloudy as it always seemed to be in this blasted country. The village walls were high, and the manor was built into the side of the rocky hill. It was certainly a defendable post but not one conducive to farming, though he did see farms outside the walls. From here, he could tell the crops were failing. The grass was not green, which was strange for that time of year. They were suffering from rain, another odd occurrence for the island.

Deon looked back over his shoulder into the cart he had been hauling with him for the last fortnight. The body was covered by a gray wool blanket, but it had begun to smell. He had promised his old friend his dying wish to return his body home for a proper burial. He intended to do just that.

Deon clicked his tongue and gave the reins a little snap to urge the horse forward. Though the village was within sight, it would still take him a good quarter-hour to reach the gates. The path was worn with deep ruts and loose gravel, causing the cart to rock side to side.

Descending into the valley below, Deon noticed the creek, which John had often referred to as rather large, was small and almost dried up. He passed small farms taking note of the rather shabby animals wandering around grazing on dry weeds instead of healthy grass. The crops were looking stunted and brittle. At no point, though did he see one solitary individual.

Deon could smell death in the air, and it was not coming from the body behind him. The horse began the rocky trek back up the side of the other hill leading to the gates of the village. Outside the walls, Deon saw a large graveyard with many fresh graves. Bodies buried beneath heaps of grey rocks and wooden crosses.

Even before entering, Deon’s heightened sense of smell could smell the plague and pestilence that blanketed this village. Like so many others, this village had been touched by death. Reaching the gates, Deon climbed down from his seat on the cart and walked over to the gate. Taking the large iron knocker in his hand, Deon knocked hard and waited.

He had knocked three times before the tall wooden gate opened. Deon climbed back up into the cart and took up the reins. Entering the village, Deon studied the faces of the individuals in the street, many of which were covering their faces with masks, hoping to avoid becoming ill. Moving slowly through the street, Deon passed another cart piled high with bodies of the dead while two men in masks hauled another lifeless corpse out of one of the huts.

The town was riddled with the plague. Unfortunate for most, but for an immortal like Deon, it was a perfect place to hide. He could feed to his heart’s content and never be noticed. Only Deon was not like other immortals. While they fed on human life, Deon chose to stalk livestock. Only when goats and cows started dying mysteriously, the townsfolk screamed witch and some poor girl met her end at the stake.

This did not sit well with Deon, but there was little he could do. Though he could go without feeding for some time, eventually, the blood lust always won out and be it mortal or bovine, an innocent always died because he could fight the hunger no more. For four hundred years, Deon tried to fight his basic instincts, but he was what he was, and he could not do anything about it.

Deon had been on the verge of death when he met his maker. An immortal that had the need of an army to vanquish his enemies. Being a soldier, Deon had been added to his ranks. He had gone from a soldier in a holy war to a soldier in an unholy war. Deon had left his master’s side a hundred years ago; the two of them had a difference of opinion as to how to live their immortal lives.

Deon had gone through the years with very few friends. It had been difficult at first to bond with someone he craved to kill, but with self-restraint and unwavering conviction, Deon learnt to live among the mortals once more, pretending to be one of them. He had lived to see many good friends die. John had been one of the closest friends Deon had. So close that Deon had even entrusted John with his secret. In all truth, John had handled it rather well. He had been surprised and in denial at first, but after time he came to accept it.

He had never exposed himself to a mortal he had not intended to kill, but things were different with John, and Deon had felt the loss of his death worse than any of the others he had called a friend.

Deon reached the main house where the Lord of the manor resided. John had been the youngest son of an English Lord. With no chance of inheriting the title, he had set out into the world to earn his medal as a knight. He had been a good knight and a strong soldier. Deon had been proud to fight at his side. He had expected more from John. He had expected John to die a glorious death in the heat of battle by the sword of his enemy. Instead, he had been stabbed by a jealous husband while searching for his trousers.

He had told Deon many times about his home and about how he wished to be buried there. John had spoken of its beauty with such found memory; it would have been a shame if he had seen what it had been reduced to. Deon stepped down from the cart and stroked the side of the tired horse’s face. His steed needed food, water, and a good rubdown.

Two armed guards came down from the stone steps of the main door, their hands resting on the hilt of their swords. “What is your business here?” One barked.

“I have come to see the Lord,” Deon announced, walking around to the back of the cart.

“His Lordship is not seeing anyone, let alone the French.”

The tension between their nations often made his acceptance difficult, but Deon had stood apart from the French government for a long time now, and though their initial response was often disgusted, he had a way of growing on people. “I believe his Lordship will receive me,” he said, pulling back the blanket to reveal John’s body. The smell made all three reel back while the guards covered their mouths and noses from the smell. “I am bringing back his son.”

“Wait here,” one of the guards gagged, and they both went inside the manor. Deon waited, and soon they returned with masks covering their faces to combat the smell. Deon helped them lift John’s body from the cart, which he could have done himself, but he knew from experience to hide such talents they were far too hard to explain. A stable boy no more than nine took the reins and led the horse and cart to the stables.

Carrying John inside, they soon found themselves in the main hall surrounded by servants and the family. At the head of the table rose an old man with heartbreak in his eyes. “My son,” he breathed with grief as they laid John out on the floor. The old man came down to the body to inspect his lost son.

At the table where he had sat were an old noblewoman, no doubt his wife, and two younger women at her side. The younger two held John’s grieving mother up as she cried. They were all dressed in fine clothes, but that could not hide the one woman’s plane appearance and mousy blonde hair. He was not sure who this woman was, but next to her stood a young dark-haired beauty. He had never met her, but John had spoken at length of his sister Amelia. A fierce youngster with midnight locks and ivory skin with eyes so dark one could see the stars in them. She was much older than John had remembered her as, but Deon supposed time had a way of changing children into women.

“What has happened to my son?” The Lord demanded.

“Lord Adeon, it is my sad duty to bring your son home in this state. I will have you know he died bravely defending innocents,” it was a falsehood, but he saw no reason that they needed to know the truth about John’s demise. Better a hero than a philandering adulterer. “I have come a long way, so he may be buried here. I only wish I could have arrived sooner,” the body was in quite a state now, but no one seemed to mind they appreciated that he had gone out of his way to bring John home.

“I thank you for bringing him home. We shall prepare a burial straight away,” the Lord said, lifting his gaze to meet Deon’s. He looked Deon over from his clothes and cap to the sword at this hip. “You are a knight?”

“Oui.”

“A French knight.”

Deon smiled. “Oui. Your son was my friend. No one feels your loss as much as me,” he said with a respectful nod.

“What is your name, knight?” The old Lord asked.

“I am Deon of Dabell.”

“You will stay with us. You will dine with us and be present at my son’s burial.”

“But first, he will need a bath to wash the stench of death from his body,” her Ladyship said, coming forward as she used her handkerchief to dab at her tears. She gestured to a servant to show Deon to his chambers. As he walked out of the hall, Deon’s gaze caught that of the raven-haired beauty. He could see the quiet sorrow in those dark eyes. So young, and she had seen so much death.