One
Lampeter, Wales, spring 1220
The swirl of wind was steady, yet not too strong. The light mist of rain that had been falling for the past week had finally stopped, but even at this early hour of the morning the clouds hung dark, low, and heavy. Thirteen-year-old Bethan of Lampeter stood on the highest rampart on the south edge of the timber castle, her mother at her side, her eyes pinned to the scene below.
The view down to the fortified bailey was unobstructed and Bethan watched with growing puzzlement as her stepfather, Sir Agnarr de Bellemare, walked among the hundreds of prisoners, barking out orders and separating them into groupings.
“Whatever is he doing?” Bethan questioned, leaning forward to get a closer look.
“I suppose he is arranging them into new squads of workers,” her mother speculated. She pulled the windblown veil away from her face and tucked a lock of honey-colored hair beneath it. “He told me yesterday the foundation of the new castle has finally been completed, so the stones must be moved in order to begin construction on the lower half.”
“All he thinks about is building his wretched castle,” Bethan grumbled. She looked beyond the wall that surrounded the village and the dwellings protected within those walls to the acres of cleared land stretching between the forest and the manor. “A portion of those men should be working the soil. We are already weeks behind. The fields need to be plowed and planted now or else we shall all go hungry this winter.”
“There are some furrows awaiting seed,” her mother replied, pointing to a small section where mounds of dirt sported neatly dug rows.
“’Tis a pittance,” Bethan countered. “I see but one oxen straining mightily to pull a single plow and less than a dozen villeins toiling behind. If this does not change soon, we shall once again be racing against time and weather to harvest whatever meager crops reach maturity.”
“Goodness, Bethan, such gloomy thoughts. When I was a girl of your age I thought only of my needlework, my prayers, and my future husband.”
“I have not that luxury, Mother,” Bethan replied with honesty. “Nor would I wish for it. I want only to see our people safe and prosperous.”
“As do I,” her mother whispered, a tremble of emotion in her words.
Guilt instantly washed over Bethan and she silently cursed her wicked tongue. She had not meant her remarks as a criticism. She knew there were many within the walls of Lampeter who blamed her mother for inflicting de Bellemare and his iron-fisted rule upon them all. Life, while never easy in this harsh, rugged climate and wild countryside of Wales, had been good for nearly everyone when Bethan’s father had been alive.
To the surprise of many, within days of her husband’s death Lady Caryn had married Sir Agnarr de Bellemare, a man who spoke the Norman French of England’s noble class, yet fought with the ferocity of his Viking given name. For the past three years, discord, discontent, and fear were the predominate emotions among those who lived within these walls.
The soldiers, tradesmen, even some of the peasants thought Lady Caryn a weak female, frail in figure, spirit, and mind. In their eyes she did little to stop her husband from his often abusive behavior toward them.
But others knew the truth, including Bethan. Lady Caryn had no choice in the matter. If she had not accepted de Bellemare he would have laid siege to the castle and taken it by force. Many would have died; all would have suffered horribly.
“Come, Mother. Let us walk out to the fields and see what crops are being sowed today. The fresh air will do you good.”
Taking hold of her mother’s arm, Bethan led her slowly down the winding staircase. Lady Caryn’s thin frame seemed more frail and fragile this morning, the burden of her swollen belly almost too much for her to carry. The constant sickness she had experienced since first quickening with child had weakened her previously strong constitution. Each day she seemed to wilt more and more.
Bethan worried about her mother, resenting this unborn child for myriad reasons. The very last thing she wanted was a blood tie to a whelp of de Bellemare. Still, Bethan was astute enough to realize there were times when it was only the promise of the child her mother carried within her body that kept them safe from the worst of her stepfather’s wrath. The knight had made no secret of his desire to have a son and heir, regardless of the toll it took upon his wife’s health.
When Lady Caryn had miscarried two other infants, de Bellemare’s anger had been felt throughout the castle, but he saved the majority of his displeasure for his wife. Though she never spoke of it, Bethan knew her mother feared what would happen if she could not successfully deliver the son her husband demanded.
As they strode through the large wooden front doors of the keep, Bethan saw her stepfather heading in their direction, the captain of the garrison at his side. She quickly steered her mother out of his line of view, hoping to escape an encounter.
Unfortunately, de Bellemare stopped before entering the keep. Bethan braced herself for his comments, but he apparently did not take notice of them, for he turned his back and spoke directly to the captain.
“Kill them,” he commanded in a deep, emotionless tone. “Start with the group on the left and finish with those I have placed in the center. I want them all dead and buried by tonight.”
“But my lord, we need these men to move the stones,” the captain protested.
“I culled out the larger men for that job. They will carry the stones and begin building. The rest can be eliminated.”
The captain frowned. “Moving the stones is an enormous task. All these men are needed.”
“If you need more workers, then press more of the villeins into service.”
The captain frowned. “We have already recruited every able-bodied man on the estate. There are none left who are strong enough to do the work. Grumblings have started among the people because there are no fit men to till the fields and plant the spring crops.”
“I do not give a damn about the peasants’ complaints!” De Bellemare dragged his hand through his hair and cursed loudly. “I will grant you this day to complete the moving of the stones. Tomorrow morning I want those men killed.”
The gasp of shock and horror that Bethan had struggled to contain burst forth and squealed from her throat. At the sound, the men turned toward her. The gleam of annoyance in de Bellemare’s eyes was unmistakable. The unsettling feeling prickling in Bethan’s belly deepened, but she did not lower her gaze.
She could not allow this to happen. She could not! Helplessly, Bethan cast her eyes beseechingly toward the captain of the guard, hoping for support, a voice of reason to state an objection. He cleared his throat, then lowered his eyes, avoiding her imploring gaze.
She next turned to her mother. Lady Caryn’s eyes were wide with distress, her hand lowered to hover protectively over her swollen belly. She licked her lips in obvious distress, yet remained silent.
“Please, my lord, I beg of you to show mercy. You cannot possibly kill all these men,” Bethan cried, fearing her protests would fall upon deaf ears, yet unable to stop herself. “’Tis unthinkable.”
“These men are prisoners, captured after I defeated them in battle,” de Bellemare snorted, clearly unfazed by her reaction. “Their fate is in my hands.”
“But they are innocent of any crime. You have no right to slaughter them.”
“Innocent? They are my enemies. They are your enemies. You would hardly call them innocent if they pulled you from your warm bed in the dead of night and raped you repeatedly before gutting you through with a knife from belly to neck, now, would you, little Bethan?”
Dismissively, he turned and stepped around her, stalking away. Fear and revulsion coiled in Bethan’s belly at the image of such a brutal act against her, yet she would not be deterred. True, warfare existed between the Welsh tribes. And those living along the border fought long and hard against the Normans and their English allies, defiantly resisting invasion. But even those captured warriors were not treated with the kind of savagery her stepfather intended.
Bethan had not missed the tension surrounding de Bellemare’s features, the annoyance at her interference. Common sense told her to let the matter drop. And yet her feet propelled her forward.
“Please, please, my lord, you must reconsider,” she begged. Racing ahead, she slumped to her knees in front of him. Tamping down the fear that rose to choke the breath from her lungs, she forced herself to confront him. “’Tis a grave sin to shed so much blood in such a fashion. I fear this atrocity will bring us all great suffering.”
“Thor save me from feebleminded women and their meddling ways,” de Bellemare growled.
Bethan ignored the mockery in his tone. Lifting her chin, she stared at his face, schooling herself not to react as his pale, soulless eyes pierced her own. Inexplicably she remembered the first time she had seen him. He had been sitting atop an enormous horse, leading his soldiers through the gates of Lampeter, a broad-shouldered knight with wind-tousled, overlong hair that gleamed as dark and glossy as the richest fur.
The women around her had sighed and giggled, exclaiming over his handsome face with its strong dark brow, blade-sharp cheeks, and stern jaw. But for some unknown reason the sight of him had sent a shiver of distress through her entire body.
“My father would never have ordered such a barbaric act.” Bethan spat the words at him without thinking, desperation clearly overtaking reason.
The light blue of de Bellemare’s eyes first flashed with astonishment, then darkened with anger. “Your father is no longer here to make these decisions. The last time I recall seeing him, he was lying on a battlefield in a puddle of his own blood, a lance planted squarely in the middle of his chest.”
Bethan remained perfectly still as she absorbed his goading comment. She thought herself used to his ever-growing cruelty, yet he so often proved he still possessed the power to wound. But she refused to allow him to see he had upset her. Instead of tears, she permitted the indignity she felt to flair within her.
How dare he speak so ill of her beloved father? De Bellemare was not fit to wipe his boots. She rose to her feet, squaring her shoulders in a pose of confidence she was far from feeling. “My father was a great warrior. He labored hard to keep this land, and his people, prosperous and safe, secure in times of trouble. He inspired love from his family and loyalty and admiration from his people. A feat few men can claim, especially you, my lord.”
At that instant lightning flashed and thunder cracked. The menace in de Bellemare’s eyes glowed red hot. She saw his gloved hand reach for the gleaming hilt of his sheathed broadsword and Bethan knew she had pushed him too far. Thinking he might strike her, she braced for the blow. But it never came.
She realized then that her mother had stepped forward, placing herself between them. Lady Caryn’s face was pale as whey, save for the dark patches beneath her eyes. “Forgive her wicked tongue, my lord. She is but a young, tenderhearted female who knows nothing of the ways of the world, understands nothing of the business of men. We all know ’tis you who keep us safe, you who provide us with all that we need, and we are all most grateful.”
“Your daughter’s opinion is of no consequence to me,” de Bellemare proclaimed, yet Bethan believed her barb had stung him more than he wanted to credit. “But her insolence is something I will not tolerate. If you know what is good for you both, keep her from my sight.”
His eyes burned into Bethan and she felt her knees begin to tremble. In anger, de Bellemare was a menacing expanse of muscle and ruthless power. Her breath quickened as she struggled to stay calm and expressionless, knowing her stepfather would take great amusement in her fear.
“You are needed on the practice field, my lord,” the captain of the guard interrupted.
Lord Bellemare grunted his acknowledgment of the message. Throwing her a final dark scowl, the knight turned and stormed away.
“Whoreson,” Bethan cursed under her breath, the moment he was beyond her hearing.
“Bethan!” Lady Caryn pulled frantically at her daughter’s arm, fearful her words might have carried on the wind. “Saints preserve us, would you anger him further? You put us all at grave risk with your wicked tongue.”
Bethan’s answer was an embarrassed silence. Her mother was right; ’twas sheer madness to provoke her stepfather, especially when his ire had already been pricked.
Hanging her head, Bethan meekly followed her mother. The rain had steadily increased, so it was no surprise Lady Caryn elected to go indoors. They retired to her mother’s solar, where Bethan diligently plied her needle to the small garments her mother was crafting in anticipation of the baby’s birth.
She later accompanied her mother uncomplainingly to evening Mass, where she prayed sincerely for forgiveness and guidance. She spoke not a word during the evening meal, taking her customary place on the dais beside Father William, the manor’s resident priest.
She tried all day to push the incident from her mind, yet as she lay in her bed that night, sleep would not come, for her mind would not rest. The fate of the condemned men weighed heavily on her conscience and as each hour passed the need to take some sort of action pressed against Bethan’s heart.
A few hours before dawn she made a decision. Dressing quickly in her warmest wool gown, Bethan stepped over the elderly maid who slept on the pallet in front of her bedchamber door and crept from the room. She met no one as she moved through the dark corridors, arriving quickly at her destination. Isolated from the rest of the castle, the small room where her father had gone over the estate accounts was no longer used, but the cupboard where he had stored a second set of keys remained.
Snatching what she needed, Bethan retraced her path, but instead of returning to her chamber she went down to the great hall. Moonlight crept in through the high windows and she blinked several times to adjust her eyes to the dimness.
Sleeping servants were stretched on pallets against the far wall, their even breaths telling her they were deep in slumber. After a careful scan of the room, Bethan was relieved to find no dogs among the prone forms, knowing they would never have allowed her to enter the room unchallenged.
With great care, she crept slowly along the outer edges of the great hall, her steps muffled by the clean, herb-scented rushes on the floor. Luck was on her side when she saw the young soldier guarding the door was dozing, his head lolling against the wall. Moving with as much stealth as she could muster, Bethan maneuvered around him and then slowly, carefully opened the heavy wooden door that led to the lower depths of the castle. Being a slender girl, she needed but a few inches of space to squeeze herself through.
After three attempts she was able to light the torch she had brought. Taking a deep breath, she quickly recited a simple prayer before descending into the castle depths.
Though she had hoped to do more, Bethan was well aware that it would be true folly indeed to attempt to release a great number of the condemned prisoners. Which was why she had chosen this path. It led to a small, isolated cell carved deeper underground that was sectioned off from the other dungeon.
Given the vast numbers of prisoners her stepfather had taken and now housed, it seemed likely this cell would be occupied. As she moved forward, the stench of unwashed bodies and damp earth suddenly filled her nose, letting her know her assumptions had been correct.
Heartened, Bethan pressed on, one hand holding the wall of solid earth on her left to keep her steady on her feet, the other hand raising her lit torch higher, illuminating the way. Thin snakes of smoke curled up from the flame gathering on the arched corridor of the shrinking ceiling, and she soon realized she would have to bow her head if it got any lower.
After a few minutes, she reached the bottom. Ten steps forward and she found what she had been seeking. A single cell with long iron bars stood in the damp corner of the small, nearly airless space. Inside the cell were six, perhaps eight men. The light from her torch caught their attention and slowly they turned to investigate.
The stillness in the air changed to something tense and dangerous. Bethan instinctively took a step back.
“My, my, what do we have here? Have you come to poke at the animals in the cage, little miss?” one of the men asked.
“Get close enough and I’ll give you a right proper poke,” another mocked, and several men grunted with lecherous amusement. “One you won’t soon forget.”
Bethan’s feet faltered. Her stepfather’s dire predictions of rape and murder echoed through her head as the nagging flaw in her plan crystalized in her mind. Freeing these men could very well place her own safety, her own life, in grave danger. She closed her eyes, fighting back the sickening queasiness in her stomach as the jeering grew louder, the comments cruder.
“Be quiet. All of you.”
The sound of a commanding voice from the shadows instantly silenced the jeers. When it was quiet, the speaker stepped to the forefront, into the circle of firelight cast by her torch.
To her surprise, Bethan saw a man far younger than the rest of the prisoners, a lad probably only a few years older than herself. A handsome lad, with short dark hair, gray eyes, a jutting nose, and a strong jaw. It seemed impossible that he was their leader and yet he exuded an air of power and command that far exceeded his years.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I have come to help you escape,” Bethan proclaimed breathlessly.
Instead of the surprised excitement she expected, the men hooted with laughter. All except the younger one, the one who had posed the question. He was silent, watching her with studied interest, his gray eyes hooded, revealing nothing of his emotions.
“Why would you do such a thing, demoiselle?”
Bethan swallowed. As much as she wanted to reveal the truth, she worried at the men’s reaction if she told them they were to be executed in the morning. “Do you wish for your freedom, sir? Or shall I journey to the dungeons on the north side and find others who would be grateful for my assistance?”
“Is that what you seek? Gratitude?”
“No. I seek justice.”
“A strange quest for the daughter of de Bellemare,” the lad retorted.
“He is not my father!” Bethan’s face flushed with emotion.
“Aye, the lass speaks the truth,” one of the men concurred. “I heard the guards speak of how de Bellemare took this place a few years past without any bloodshed. He married the widowed Lady Caryn. The girl is too old to be his get.”
Those piercing gray eyes grew thoughtful. “So this is an act of revenge against your stepfather?”
Bethan shook her head vehemently, denying the charge, though inwardly she admitted there was some measure of truth in the question. She did want to strike back at de Bellemare, but she also felt a great need to try and prevent some of the senseless violence he seemed so intent on inflicting.
“Lampeter was a joyful place before Agnarr de Bellemare arrived. Releasing you is but a small attempt on my part to restore some of the dignity and honor my stepfather has stripped from us.”
The leader was silent, his face pensive. But the others were most vocal with their doubts and suspicions.
“’Tis a trap, I say! A trap! We shall all be gutted the moment we climb those stairs.” The prisoner who spoke, a large brute of a man with thickly muscled forearms, wiped his mouth, then gave Bethan an amused smirk. “We’d be fools to trust her.”
“Or fools to so easily scoff at her offer.” The leader looked at each of the men in turn, then returned his gaze to Bethan. “Agnarr de Bellemare does not need the excuse of escaping prisoners to kill us. He can order our deaths at any time.”
Bethan inwardly flinched, amazed at how he had correctly deciphered the truth. Though she willed herself to remain expressionless, she must have done something that revealed her true emotions. The leader’s expression changed, his voice grew urgent. He stood up, drew closer, his expression alert.
“Is that it, lass? Is he planning to kill us?”
“Aye. You and nearly a hundred others.”
The cell became very quiet. A few of the men seemed angry, others concerned, while one gave her a skeptical look. Yet to a man, they turned to the lad for guidance.
“What is your name, demoiselle?”
“I am Bethan of Lampeter.”
“And I am Haydn of Gwynedd.” He inclined his head in a gesture of courtly gallantry. “How can you aid us?”
Bethan’s fingers curled around the heavy iron key she had hidden in her pocket. Slowly she withdrew it, holding it out so the light spilling from her torch would illuminate it. “I have the key that will unlock your cell.”
There was a hiss of an indrawn breath, along with a whistle of excitement. The men began to press forward against the iron bars. Choking back the cry that lodged in her throat, Bethan dug her heels into the hard-packed dirt floor and stood her ground.
“How many guards are there aboveground?”
“There is but one soldier standing guard at the entrance to this passage.”
“One!” a man exclaimed. “We can easily overtake him.”
Bethan shook her head. “No. Once outside that door, you must pass through the great hall in order to exit the castle. ’Twas difficult enough for me to manage the task. With your numbers, you will never slip through undetected.”
“Then we will have to fight our way out. Can you get us some weapons, lass?” the largest man asked.
Bethan’s eyes widened in alarm, but before she could answer another of the men spoke. “Don’t be daft, man. Eight men against a garrison of de Bellemare’s soldiers? We’d be cut down before we reach the castle walls.”
A murmur of agreement went through the men. Bethan waited a moment, then spoke. “I know of another way out.”
Once again, her words produced an instant silence.
“Another way?” Haydn asked.
“There is another passage, one that leads to a trapdoor in the stables.”
“Then that is our route of escape,” Haydn declared. “Will you lead the way, Lady Bethan?”
She nodded. Bethan fumbled with the key, her hand shaking noticeably as she tried to fit it into the lock. Behind the bars, the men were pacing in the cell like beasts on a leash. With freedom so near, their agitation was palpable.
But palpable also was Bethan’s fear. Faced with the reality of the reckless act she was about to commit, she trembled with doubt. The men could easily attack or kill her once they were free.
As if sensing the warring thoughts within her mind, the leader reached through the bars, closing his hand over hers. She gasped and looked up. His eyes gleamed in the frail light.
“You have nothing to fear from us,” he assured her. “I give you my word that you will be safe.”
A sad smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “My fate is in God’s hands now.”
Once unlocked, the cell door swung open easily. The men pushed forward, eager to be free. Bethan felt a hand at her elbow and was relieved to see it was Haydn. He had placed himself protectively between her and the other men. Slowly, she exhaled.
“Which way?” he asked.
She lifted her chin to indicate the direction. “The passage is very low and narrow. We must form a single line and be very, very quiet.”
With a confidence she was far from feeling, Bethan led them along the shadowy corridor. Mice and rats scurried over their feet, cobwebs caught on their hair and faces, but no one uttered a sound.
Finally they reached the base of a narrow, wooden staircase. Regretfully, Bethan extinguished her torch, plunging them into total darkness. Biting her lip, she started the slow climb up the stairs, but was quickly pulled back.
“Let me go first,” Haydn commanded. “You do not know what you will find above us.”
It took two tries to dislodge the trapdoor. Once it was pushed aside, Haydn easily pulled himself through. After he had successfully cleared the opening, Bethan followed, poking her head out. The smells of straw, horses, and manure let her know they had reached the stables. Blinking hard, she reached up and allowed Haydn to help her out. The rest followed quickly behind her.
“We would be harder to catch on horseback,” one of the men suggested as he stroked the back of a sleek mare who stood contentedly in her stall.
“No!” Haydn ordered. “If we try to ride out we will alert the guards and be pursued. Our best chance is to escape on foot.”
“He is right,” Bethan agreed. “You can slip over the wall on the south end. From there it is but a short run to the forest, and freedom.”
They left the stable under Bethan’s guidance, avoiding the watchtower, keeping to the darkest shadows of the buildings. The ground, wet from the recent rain, was soft beneath their feet. They came to the south section of the wall and Bethan halted. The moon, low in the sky, cast a few weak rays through the primeval forest that loomed just beyond, the tops of the dark, thick trees lashing in the wind.
Silently, the men hoisted themselves over the wall, until only young Haydn was left. He turned to face her and Bethan felt her breath catch.
“I owe you a debt I fear I can never repay. But have a care, Bethan of Lampeter. If de Bellemare ever learns of your part in all this…” His voice trailed off.
Bethan swallowed hard as she acknowledged his warning. She saw the sincerity in his eyes, heard the genuine note of concern, and felt vindicated in her actions. This young man did not deserve the cruel death her stepfather had decreed and she was pleased she had been able to save him.
“I will be careful,” she replied. The rain began, a steady drizzle that quickly soaked her gown. “Godspeed, Haydn of Gwynedd. I shall pray for your safe deliverance from this place of evil and I shall pray even harder for the rain to cease and bright sunshine to greet the day.”
“Sunshine?”
“Aye, sunshine. I do not know why, but ’tis the one thing that always keeps de Bellemare indoors. If he learns of your escape, he will give chase, leading his men until you are found. He is vengeful, ruthless, and possessing of powers beyond mortal men. He will not return without you. Or your mutilated bodies.” She swallowed hard. “But if there is sunshine tomorrow, he will send his soldiers out alone and if you have run far and covered your tracks, you might yet succeed in eluding them.”
He nodded, though she worried that he did not fully understand the danger her stepfather presented.
“Farewell,” he whispered.
Then to her utter astonishment, he executed an elegant bow, vaulted over the wall, and headed toward the open fields. Bethan scrambled on top of an abandoned oxcart and watched, her heart thumping with fear. She could see the other men had fanned out through the fields, all scurrying in different directions, hoping to increase their chances of survival if they were pursued.
Yet it was so open, so bare. If any were sighted, they would be easily captured. And most likely tortured before they were killed.
Bethan shuddered with revulsion, but knowing there was nothing more she could do, she climbed down from the cart. Carefully, silently, she made her way back to her bedchamber, her mouth moving in prayer with each step she took.
Haydn ran through the clearing toward the thick grove of trees. He pushed himself until the burning in his lungs became a constant, unbearable pain, but he did not slow until the tall trees and dense thickets had swallowed him. Still keeping a steady speed, he glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see no one.
The scent of spicy pine drifted around him, normally a comforting scent but the tension inside him seemed to crackle in the air. Panting, his breath coming in deep gasps, Haydn allowed himself a moment of rest. He strained, listening for the sound of horses’s hooves, the baying of dogs, the thundering rhythm of marching men in hot pursuit. But he heard nothing. Only the groaning of the trees as they fought the wind and in the distance, the hooting of an owl.
He picked up the pace, his leather boots slipping on the wet pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. Rain fell in torrents, splattering Haydn’s face, making it difficult to see. He lowered his head and thrust himself forward, determined to make progress, knowing if he reached the outer edge of the forest it was but a short sprint to the base of the rugged hills.
He ran for hours, until every muscle in his body ached, every bone jarred. Blinking against the pelting drops, he lifted his head. Lightning forked in the sky and thunder boomed through the forest, illuminating the mantle of darkness. And then he saw them. The stark, bare, stone hills.
Freedom.
Rain lashed from the sky, pummeling the ground. But Haydn barely felt it. With renewed strength, he pushed his wet hair from his eyes. For the first time since he had been captured two long months ago, he smiled.
They would not be able to track him once he began to climb, even if de Bellemare led his soldiers on the hunt. He remembered the earnest expression on Bethan’s face as she told him she would pray for sunshine so her stepfather would not pursue him.
As for Haydn, well, he would pray for light rain and a dense fog. Bethan knew only that de Bellemare was reluctant to be in the sunlight, freely admitting she was unaware of the reason.
But Haydn knew. He knew that once bathed in sunlight de Bellemare would burst into flames and burn until he was consumed. He knew de Bellemare was cursed. He was not alive, nor was he dead. He was undead. He could breathe, his heart beat, he ate, drank, slept, but most importantly he could not easily die.
De Bellemare was a vampire. He could live forever, with his amazing strength and cruel, evil countenance, as long as he had blood. Human blood.
Haydn knew that de Bellemare could go mad with bloodlust, killing humans as well as other vampires. Haydn believed that was what had happened to his parents—de Bellemare had gone on a rampage, had broken a taboo held for centuries among his kind and slaughtered every creature that drew breath within Haydn’s family manor.
Haydn knew this, understood this, because he too was a creature of darkness, a vampire. A twist of fate had saved him from sharing the same gruesome end as his family. He had been away from the manor at the time of the attack. He had tracked those responsible for the carnage and been caught and imprisoned.
The need to avenge this evil wrong, to destroy his sworn enemy was the force that drove Haydn. Much as he wanted to, he knew it was madness to challenge de Bellemare now. Haydn was young, his abilities not yet fully developed. Therefore he knew he must wait, he must build his strength, harness his powers, and in due time, gain his revenge.
Thanks to young Bethan of Lampeter’s courage, he would have that chance.