5.

Two days later we arrived at the city of York, and marched through her cramped streets to the Cathedral of St. Peter.  At the doors we were greeted by a monk named Samuel, who showed us to our accommodations and promised to call upon us when the bishop was free to hold council.  Antonio and I were given one room, Juan another -- to which we all breathed a sigh of relief.  Our boyish antics wore on poor Juan.  He had become our leader by default, and he feared our brashness for its consequences, and the damage to our egos it was bound to cause.

 

6.

The next morning at daybreak, we were summoned before Bishop Godfrey, a worried looking man with a greasy complexion and a balding pate.  Though it was the first light of morning, his robes were rumpled, like he had slept in them, and the smell emanating from his person was not pleasant.  It was the smell I would later recognize as fear.

As we entered his ornate study, his eyes widened, and he directed a questioning look at Samuel.

“Where are the others?” Bishop Godfrey asked, his voice rising to a crackling crescendo.

Samuel merely shrugged; it was our leader Juan that stepped forward to meet the Bishop’s dismay.

“We were the only Venatore dispatched,” Juan told this Bishop in English, his rich Spanish accent somehow soothing to the ear.

“These boys?” The Bishop cried, unaffected by Juan’s calming demeanor.  “This is all his Holiness could spare me?”

Juan, undeterred by the Bishop’s dismay, simply nodded.

A look of abject horror filled the Bishops face and he turned on his heel, retreating to a large oak table, his long red robes flaring out behind him.

“Three Venatore are a match for armies,” Antonio boasted defiantly.

A warning look from Juan quieted him, but it seemed to matter naught, for if the Bishop had heard Antonio at all, he gave no response.

I shall never forget the way the Bishop seemed to age in that short trek across his study -- the way he fumbled for his chair, almost missing it entirely.  It was raw fear I saw that day, an emotion I had never experienced in my short time upon this Earth, but a feeling I would soon know.

            “All is lost,” the Bishop sobbed into his hands, as we stood in the door of his study, uncomfortable and embarrassed for this trembling lump of a man.  “Soon the kings eye will turn towards us, and our secrets will be laid bare to the world.”

Juan stepped forward, flipping aside his black cape and revealing a black breastplate embossed with the crest of the Vatican.  A noble sight he was.

“All is not lost Bishop Godfrey.” Juan said, his thickly accent voice no longer soothing.  “We are the Venatore, sworn on our lives to protect the Church from her enemies.  So tell us now Bishop, what troubles this place?”

The bishop looked up from his hands then, as if seeing us for the first time -- if the sight inspired any confidence in the Bishop of St. Peter’s, he did not show it.  Instead he shook his head and sighed deeply, like a man coming to grips with his worst nightmares.

“Very well then.  The people of Northern Yorkshire a ways past Edinburgh are besieged by an ancient evil -- even this Cathedral has been defiled.

“The local magistrate has sworn to me he would tend this.  Sworn upon God he would not involve the king.  But I fear Richard, Duke of York, has been touched by this terror -- and he is no ally to the Arch Bishop of Canturbury.

“The King is occupied by the unrest in France, but eventually his stewards will be unable to ignore the treachery within their own borders -- then all will be lost.  Our secrets will be revealed to the world.  The King would use this information to proclaim us heretics, and exile us from his sovereign borders.  For he too is no friend of Canturbury, and feels the Arch Bishop has favored the rebels in France over his Majesty in their disputes.  We will surely lose England.”

 

7.

“Speak clearly man,” Juan said harshly.  “Tell me not of politics, simply name this evil so that we may know it.”

Behind us, Samuel sucked air through his teeth.  I did not turn; I followed our leader as we focused our wills on the sniveling Bishop.

Again the Bishop placed his pale face into his hands like a man despondent, refusing to meet Juan’s fiery eyes

            “It is an evil not seen in these lands since the time of the Celts -- long since thought to be exterminated.  King Arthur was the first on these isles to oppose it, and it was thought to be defeated with Mordred at the Battle of Camlann.  But alas, it has returned from the East, and it spells our doom.  Like a black cloud it is come all the way from the dark city of Igarka -- from those vermin, the Black Cossacks.  It is the Dracua, the spoor of Satan, that now infests our land.”

I held my breath, even as the shock registered in Juan’s face.  This was not all -- some deep-seated intuition told me what was to come.

“It came to our lands in the guise of a loyal friend of the Church -- a Crusader,” The Bishop continued, his voice trembling weakly.  “It is come to us as the Venatore Maxmillius Crowe.”

The held breath escaped my burning lungs in a whoosh, and for a moment it seemed as if I saw everything at once:  I saw Juan’s shoulders slump, and Antonio’s eyebrow go up quizzically -- I saw the Bishop avert his gaze to his trembling hands, and I saw Samuel’s eyes narrow maliciously.  Suddenly, the purpose of my life became clear, the will of God was revealed to me at last.  I was to test myself against my silent mentor, Maxmillius Crowe.

“Where is the evidence of this?” Juan asked after a moment, breaking the heavy silence that hung over the Bishops study like thick smoke.

“He is gone mad,” The Bishop said quietly, resignation to Crowe’s guilt plain in his tired voice.  “Death has followed him since his return to England – but I suppose that has been his lot in life since he fought with the Templar in the Crusades.”

“The last Crusade was over two hundred years ago,” Antonio said in awe.

The Bishop nodded, “Aye.”

“Looks as though your dark knight is an old gaffer William,” Antonio said to me plainly enough for all to hear.

I shook my head to silence him and honed my concentration on the Bishop; some development was yet to come, something important.

 

8.

“It is said that Crowe was the greatest knight in Yorkshire before the Crusades, though by all accounts he was a solitary man.  Even then, he was said to be blood thirsty, renown for his ferociousness in battle.  Some said it was his Roman heritage that made him so.  Others said he was possessed of an angel -- or a demon, depending on which side of the battlefield was speaking.

“His Lord was a weakling, and not attending the holy Crusades, but Maxmillius was a free man and God fearing, so he offered his formidable services to King Richard the Lion Heart -- the year was 1190.  The Knights Templar had been severely depleted by the Crusades, and the Pope had given his Arch Bishops authority to knight any man showing loyalty to the Church and prowess in battle.  Maxmillius showed both -- so, without initiation, or any formal theological training, Maxmillius was knighted Templar and sent directly to the Crusades.  There he fought with valor and distinction -- his fame spread wide across the lands, even reaching the ears of the Pope.

“He was named The Sword of God upon his return, and immediately sent to Siberia with a party of Templar to aid the Church in her opposition to the Black Cossack hoards.  For years there was no word -- more Templar were sent to Siberia, and still nothing.  At last a communiqué reached the Vatican that the Ataman of the Black Cossacks, a man whose soul was blacker than any to inhabit this world, was slain in combat by Maxmillius.”

“But what of the Sword of God?” the Hessian messenger was asked.”

“There the story unfolded:  Maxmillius had penetrated the land of the Cossacks, killing vast numbers of them, and burning their food stores as he tore his way to the hidden capitol city of Igarka. On their approach to the city, a veritable army of Cossacks entrapped his company in ambush.  They were killed -- all of them save Maxmillius.  Crowe was taken captive, and imprisoned in a stone coffin for one month before being allowed to see the light of day again.

“Weakened from a meager diet of black bread and foul water, besmirched by his own filth, and half mad -- Maxmillius was taken before the Ataman of this evil people.  The Ataman, seeing Maxmillius’ helpless condition, challenged him to a duel.  And Maxmillius, realizing death at the hands of the Ataman would be preferable to life in a small stone coffin, accepted this challenge.  But the Ataman underestimated Maxmillius’ prowess -- just as Maxmillius underestimated the evil that lay within this bear of a man.  Maxmillius won the duel, cleaving the head of the Black Ataman with an axe -- but at some point he was bitten.

“The new Ataman, grateful for his sudden promotion, allowed Maxmillius to leave the city unmolested.  From there Maxmillius traveled to the Church at St. Petersburgh -- with a high fever, and the bite wound of the Black Ataman festering on his neck.  For days he lay inert, very near to death.  His fever burned like an oven, and the wound on his neck festered so that leeches would not draw from him -- but he recovered, and from that day forward he has not aged a year.

“We should have known -- the priest at St. Petersburg must have known -- that Crowe was infected with the Dracua.  Why he did not destroy him then I will never understand,” the Bishop recited to us as we all stood in stunned silence.

“In 1307, when King Phillip IV of France accused the Knights Templar of herasy, Maxmillius was given sanctuary at the Vatican.  And when the Templar were destroyed, executed, and outlawed -- Maxmillius was pardoned by the Pope himself.  Soon after, he was the made first of a new order, the Venatore -- Maxmillius was already well over one hundred years old.

“He exacted the revenge of the Templar upon Phillip that same year by poisoning the French King.  We should have seen then what arrogance and madness we were dealing with, but he was such a powerful man of such great charisma, that Pope after Pope found him a useful and powerful ally.  We thought we could control him you see, but it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to the Dracua.”

 

9.

At the end of his recitation, the Bishop broke down into blubbering tears.  I had the distinct urge to slap the man -- this sniveling weakling who jumped at his own shadow.  Merely hearing the story of my mentor and his travails in the land of the Cossacks made my blood run hot -- and my battle lust was ignited.  It was the first time of but a few times that my blood has run anything but cold in my veins.

Juan had grown silent, deep in thought.  He had heard of the Dracua – we all had.  It was a myth, a fairytale we had heard in passing.  None of us knew then what it really meant, what it really was.  The tales of Dracua told by common folk were boorish -- simple as the people that told them.  They were boogieman stories recited to frighten children into bed or into obedience.  Yet here before us stood a Bishop of the Church, a respected man of the cloth -- here stood our theological superior telling us that these gaudy folk tales were true.

“Tell us of the Dracua, the truth of it now,” Juan commanded the blubbering Bishop.

It was Samuel who spoke up -- the monk had been so quiet during the Bishop’s recitation; I had almost forgotten he joined us in the room at all.

“The Dracua is a plague -- a disease spawned in the dark reaches of the Taiga Forrest.  The folk tales you’ve no doubt heard have a spark of truth, but just a spark.  It is true that he who is possessed of the Dracua does not age as a normal man ages, and his strength is ten times that of the uninfected, but the cross does not harm him, and garlic has no effect, though it is not a pleasurable taste for him.  He could bathe in holy water and simply clean himself.  Sunlight does not kill him, but he is sensitive to the light of day.   His skin burns easily, therefore he is pale, and will travel and be about mostly at night.

“Alas, it is true that blood is their preferred form of sustenance, but it is not their only avenue for food.  The Dracua can be killed just as any mortal, but they are hearty, and it takes many times the wounding it would take an ordinary man to destroy them.  Beware them, for their senses are sharp -- his hearing and smell are keener than that of a wolf, and his eyes quick as a hawks,” Samuel told them in a low voice.

He blushed and looked away as his tale was completed, as if he had spoken too much, or bragged in some way.

I remembered the menacing way his eyes had narrowed when the Bishop had told us of Maxmillius and his betrayal.  I wondered where this monk’s loyalties lie.

 

10.

Juan shook his head, and I could hear his teeth grinding together in frustration.

“His condition has been abided too long, and by people of higher station than I to slay him merely on that charge.  And still you have not told me what Crowe has done to warrant the suspicion of madness,” he finally said angrily.

“Murder,” The Bishop wailed into his meaty hands.  “Murder so vile we thought it to be a wild animal at first, but even the carrion feeders of the hills would not touch the bodies after they had been desecrated by the Dracua.  Proof it is -- proof that the Dracua Crowe is responsible for this mayhem.”

“How many murders, and where?” Juan pressed the wailing Bishop.

“Twenty or more we think -- from York to Edinburgh their lives have been ripped from them. Ripped out by the Dracua Venatore Crowe.  He is gone completely mad -- evil has taken hold of The Sword of God.  It is our folly that has brought us here -- all is lost.”

While Juan pondered what the Bishop had told us, I spoke up for the first time.

“You said the Dracua is akin to a disease?” I asked, addressing the sneering Samuel beside me.  “A disease is not inherently evil -- a punishment perhaps, but not necessarily evil.  Why then do you lay these murders off on Maxmillius, and speak as though he has turned from God?”

Samuel’s sneer darkened on his face as he began to answer my query, but it was the Bishop that chimed in first.

“You are correct young Venatore, the Dracua is not inherently evil, but make no mistake -- it is spawned from evil.

“Crowe did indeed go on serving as a loyal Venatore for almost two hundred years,” The Bishop said quietly, his irritating wailing under control at last.  “But it brings madness -- to some faster than others.  Imagine a mortal with a never-ending life --what madness would that inflict?  What mortal, formed by God with a soul aching to return home, could withstand the torment of this world forever?  Whether it is the madness of the Dracua, or the madness of immortality matters not -- Crowe is still gone mad, and his swath of terror grows.  It is bound to attract the attention of our King, and that cannot be allowed to happen.”

I could tell that Juan was growing tired of listening to the Bishop with his whining about The King and the doom of the Church.