Six
For Haydn, the next two days passed in a haze of guilt and remorse. Bethan avoided him, speaking only when it was necessary, barring the door of their chamber at night, forcing him to stay elsewhere. He knew it would not help to brood over what could not be changed, but that did not ease his frustration.
In an odd way, it was almost a relief to finally have the truth revealed. He knew this was coming, had realized soon after he acknowledged to himself the depth of his feelings for Bethan that this was to be his fate.
He would forever love a woman who would never accept him. And what he was, an unnatural creature of darkness and evil as she so bitterly declared, could never be changed. Haydn admitted there was no one to blame but himself. He knew better than to allow himself to feed inside the castle, where there was a chance he might be seen. But he had grown complacent, comfortable within the walls of their bedchamber, and his carelessness had been his undoing.
In one way he hated that he had been caught, that his secret had been revealed in such a crude manner. Yet far worse, his mistake had caused Bethan great pain and for that he was truly sorry. It hurt remembering the agitation in her voice, the fear on her face. He could not change who he was, what he was, but he would have done anything within his power to spare Bethan this agony.
Seeing her pain had cut him in a way he had not thought possible. He had tried to apologize, but her agony was too raw, her sorrow too fresh for her to contemplate forgiveness.
Perhaps in time…? Haydn let out a grunt of laughter at his foolish thoughts. The passage of time would make no difference, would bring no comfort. All he could do now was fulfill his promise to Bethan, to complete the task he had vowed to accomplish by coming to Lampeter.
He must destroy Agnarr de Bellemare. It was the least he owed his wife.
The sleepy guards at the town gates gave Haydn a passing nod as he rode out. The loneliness he felt at his estrangement from Bethan was especially acute tonight. Perhaps the solitude of the darkness would ease his pain, the thrill of the hunt in the thick woods beyond the castle walls would focus his restless energy on something besides his torment.
Securing his mount to a thick tree at the edge of the forest, Haydn continued on foot, sprinting through the dense foliage, his senses attuned to the life pulsing around him.
The hunt would serve two purposes, to occupy his mind and nourish his body. Fresh blood was necessary for him to build his strength, to keep his senses on alert for the coming confrontation with de Bellemare. And after being discovered by Bethan, Haydn had vowed never to feed again within the castle walls.
He slowed his pace, listened, sniffed, and caught the scent of a deer. Pleased with the discovery, he began to track his prey. A scurrying noise drew his attention to a dense thicket of bramble off to his left. A twig snapped and Haydn drew his bow, making ready to let an arrow fly. He would strike the deer in the leg, preventing it from swift flight. Once it was captured, he could feast at leisure on the nutritious blood, slowly, painlessly, draining it, yet stopping while the animal still clung to life.
He peered around the trunk of a large oak, poised to shoot, yet Haydn saw not a deer, but a young boy of eight or nine, a brace of rabbits clutched in his hand. Haydn shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then heard a sharp intake of breath as the lad discovered him.
With a frightened shriek, the boy turned and ran but after a handful of steps was forced to stop. The area was thick with underbrush on all sides, making it impossible to flee with any speed. Haydn stepped from behind the tree trunk, and the lad’s eyes opened wide, darting nervously from him to the vast stretch of forest that surrounded them on all sides.
“You cannot outrun me,” Haydn cautioned in a low voice. “’Twould be foolish to try.”
The boy trembled with indecision. It was illegal to poach in the lord’s woods, an offense punishable by death. At least if he ran, he might have a chance of escape.
Haydn could feel his tension, smell his fear. He quickly, too, became aware of the isolation of their predicament. It was within his power to dispense justice however he saw fit. No one would be the wiser and he doubted the lad would ever breathe a word of what had happened, fearing for his life.
But there was something else to consider. The tender blood of a human victim would bring Haydn added strength. The lad was young, his flesh, though dirty, would be sweet and pure. The additional strength of drinking human blood could make the difference in defeating de Bellemare.
Haydn lunged forward, then stopped, his hand on the trunk of the large tree. He took a long, deep breath. Control. He needed control, he needed the strength to discipline his urges.
“For…forgive me, my lord,” the lad whispered, and then he burst into frightened tears.
The bloodlust inside him quickly faded as he mastered his urges. Haydn’s lips twitched. “If I turn my back, then I cannot be a witness to one who steals from his master,” he said casually.
Hoping the boy possessed the wits to understand, Haydn leisurely pivoted on his heel. There was a rustle of underbrush, followed by the snapping of several twigs. Haydn slowly counted to ten, then turned back. The boy was gone, the only hint of his presence the brace of rabbits set on the forest floor.
With a grim smile, Haydn retrieved the animals. They were still warm. Placing them near his mouth, he feasted on the blood, feeling the strength return to his body with each swallow. When he had drained them both, he walked to his horse and left the protection of the deep woods.
Riding back through the village, he dropped the now bloodless hares on the doorstep of the first cottage, knowing the inhabitants would be too grateful for the unexpected bounty to question their odd state. Then with a heavy sigh he returned to the castle and his lonely sleeping spot in front of the fireplace in the great hall.
The following morning Haydn arose with a new sense of purpose. After breaking his fast with a small piece of hard cheese and a tankard of ale, he went in search of his wife. She was quickly found, rushing from their chamber, her brow creased with worry.
At the sight of her, the air boiled with tension. Yet as he drew closer something inside him cracked and melted. She looked tired and sad. He wanted to reach out, to touch her hair, to soothe her hurts. Instead, he straightened, leaving his arms hanging by his side.
“I have spent this night pondering my next move,” he told her. “’Tis past time that I confronted de Bellemare. The longer I wait, the harder it will be. I must destroy him, before he destroys us.”
Bethan nodded her head. “That is what I have come to tell you. I think I have found the entrance to his secret lair.”
“Show me.”
“We must act quickly. Sir Colwyn told me de Bellemare left the castle less than an hour ago. He is not expected back until later.”
“He has probably gone outside to hunt for fresh prey,” Haydn speculated aloud.
He saw her shudder and cursed his unguarded tongue, knowing his words were a stark reminder to his beloved exactly what sort of perverted creature her stepfather was—the same demon vampire breed as himself.
She stiffened her spine, but said nothing. Quietly he followed her, fully expecting to be taken on a strange, twisting route down long, winding corridors, but instead Bethan went through the great hall, then turned down a short side corridor. To the left was an unassuming door.
Surprised, he turned to Bethan. “Are you sure this is it?”
“Yes. ’Twas most clever of him to keep it in plain sight. I’m sure the door is hardly noticed by anyone, including me. The servants are so fearful of de Bellemare they would never dare to venture anywhere unless given specific permission.”
“An element of surprise should give me the advantage.” He reached for the latch.
“Wait!” she cried, covering his hand with her own. “What if we are wrong? What if de Bellemare is down there now?”
“If he is down there, he is alone, especially if he has brought a victim to feast upon. If not, I will lie in wait for him. Either way, I will have the element of surprise and the opportunity to confront him without his guards.”
“And if you are wrong?”
Haydn’s mouth twisted into a grim line of determination. “I cannot afford to be wrong.”
He tried the door, not entirely surprised to find it open without protest, for he suspected it was well used by de Bellemare. Haydn took a step forward, then turned, sensing Bethan close behind.
“I am coming, too,” she announced before he had a chance to question her.
“No!” he exclaimed, his heart jolting in his chest. “’Tis far too dangerous.”
“I can help.”
“You will distract me.”
“I know I can help,” she insisted.
“Bethan, I have never doubted your courage or your wisdom, but this is something I must do on my own.” He reached out to smooth away a tendril of golden hair that hung across her brow. “Stay here.”
Giving her no chance to protest, he walked through the door and closed it behind him. Worried that she might follow, Haydn waited for several minutes to ensure that she obeyed him. When he was certain she remained on the other side, he turned. Directly in front of him was a set of stone stairs.
He descended quietly, embracing the darkness, his sharp eyes focusing through the inky blackness. As he moved, he kept his attention on his surroundings, watching, listening. The warning signs that prickled his keen sense of danger grew stronger with each step. He took a deep breath and slowly drew his sword.
After several minutes, he entered a dank, musty, vaulted stone crypt and knew he was getting close. He could feel de Bellemare’s presence, could sense that his enemy was near. He let his gaze roam the room, not liking the stillness of the place. Closing his eyes, Haydn trained his senses to search the darkness for his quarry.
But it was elusive. Perhaps de Bellemare was not here now, perhaps it was the essence of his evil spirit that clung to every stone that was causing these sensations. Frustrated, Haydn slowly opened his eyes and strained his gaze forward. He saw only shadows, until suddenly there was a slight shift of movement.
Too late, he realized his mistake. A wall of darkness rose before him a mere second before he felt the stunning blow of a heavy sword hilt smash into the side of his skull. He went down on one knee, struggling to remain conscious, trying to shake off the burst of pain and light that exploded inside his head, but to no avail.
His eyes opened one final time at the sound of chilling laughter and the last thing he saw was a gleam of satisfaction coupled with evil, black intent blazing in Agnarr de Bellemare’s eyes.
And then, nothing.
Bethan knew that Haydn was right. ’Twas best for her, safer for her to stay behind. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. She crossed her arms, uncrossed them, crossed them again. Tapped her foot, then began pacing, her strides quickening with each step. Stopping suddenly, she pressed her ear flat against the wooden door, but heard nothing. Perhaps if she opened it a mere crack…
Once the door was open, the floodgates of her anxious curiosity were breached. With small cautious steps, she went through, following the same path as Haydn.
It was dark as pitch. Bethan ran her hand along the wall as a guide, taking each step slowly, carefully. Gradually her eyes adjusted to the gloom, though she could see very little.
Finally she spied something promising, an open area that held a large stone crypt. Its perimeter was lined with thick pillars of stone, like some ancient pagan temple. Hovering in the shadows behind one of them, Bethan leaned forward, her eyes straining in the darkness.
It was then she noticed a prone figure lying in the center of the room. She whispered an earnest prayer, waiting to see if there was any movement, any sign of life.
“Haydn?”
She moved forward, then stumbled to her knees as something grasped her ankle.
“Ah, ’tis little Bethan. I was hoping you would come.”
Stark terror seized her as she heard de Bellemare’s voice and realized it was his hand that held her like an iron cuff. She shook her leg violently, wrenching against that biting hold, fighting to free herself, but was no match for his unnatural strength. He pulled her forward, the wretched sound of his laughter ringing in her ears.
Terrified, she renewed her struggles, her fingers scraping vainly at the hard stone floor, the nails breaking, the tips bleeding.
“Mother Mary, save me,” she prayed tearfully.
“How quaint. You pray to your weak God to deliver you from evil.”
He took her by the wrist and hauled her to her feet, his strong fingers gripping her so tightly they left bruises. She jolted back, but could barely move away. De Bellemare’s eyes glowed with bloodlust, cruel in their intensity.
“What have you done to Haydn?” she asked.
“He is merely stunned. For now.” He dragged his attention away from Haydn’s limp body. “He fooled me at first, but not for long. I know what he is, who he is, and I know he must be destroyed.”
“He is younger and stronger,” Bethan cried. “’Tis you who will be defeated.”
“Youth is hardly an advantage among vampires. Those with greater powers are the more experienced of our kind.”
“His powers are far greater than you can ever imagine.”
“Such lies, Bethan. I always did admire your spirit, however misguided your motivation. For a time I even considered turning you, so you could be my mate. Yet in the end I knew I would never be able to fully trust you. Pity, you, too, must be destroyed.” He lifted his hand to touch her face and she flinched away. Her defiance seemed to amuse him. He gave her a wicked, leering grin, full of arrogance and malicious satisfaction.
Bethan’s heart was racing, her breathing erratic and shallow. Yet she struggled to keep de Bellemare talking, knowing it was their only chance, knowing she needed to buy some time for Haydn to recover and come to her aid. Then miraculously, as if he’d heard her silent plea, Haydn’s deep voice came from behind a pillar on the opposite side of the chamber.
“Leave her alone, de Bellemare! This fight is between you and me.”
Bethan turned her head toward the sound, relieved to hear him, yet terrified of what would come next. The Lord of Lampeter laughed as he took a small step toward the center of the chamber. With a harsh shove, he pushed Bethan away from him and then quickly drew his sword.
He charged Haydn with a roar. In the space of mere moments, de Bellemare delivered five strong blows. Metal clashed on metal as Haydn caught de Bellemare’s blade upon his, the hideous noise echoing through the cavernous chamber.
Bethan’s nerves coiled into springs as she watched the two battle. De Bellemare fought with the frenzied strength of a demon, but Haydn steadily deflected the attack. They seemed evenly matched in skill and strength, though de Bellemare’s larger, more muscular frame seemed to give him an advantage.
Haydn’s face wore a strange, remote look, but his silver eyes glittered with fierce determination and resolve. Their grunts and heavy breathing soon filled the chamber as they sought to bring each other down. With a lightning move, Haydn leapt forward, striking a heavy blow that drove de Bellemare into the shadows.
Grunting and groaning, de Bellemare managed to parry the attack, and then suddenly he turned, twirled, and struck from below. The tip of his sword caught Haydn’s sleeve, tearing it from elbow to shoulder.
The red stain quickly appeared. Bethan’s nostril’s tingled with the coppery scent of blood. Seemingly unconcerned, Haydn flexed his shoulder, rubbed it, then wiped his bloody palm across his tunic.
“I have drawn first blood,” de Bellemare taunted. “Next I will plunge my steel through your heart, and then I will delight in feasting upon it before I burn the paltry remains of your flesh.”
“I suppose you can try,” Haydn answered grittily.
He lifted his broadsword with both hands and swung it was such speed that de Bellemare barely caught it with his sword. Enraged, de Bellemare lunged forward with a piercing battle cry, raining blows that Haydn struggled to deflect.
Time and again, they engaged and retreated and Bethan could see they were beginning to tire. Sweat poured from their foreheads and dripped onto the floor and their breath came in heavy bellows. As Haydn angled his blade to deflect the next blow, de Bellemare suddenly whirled around and drove a knee into his groin. Haydn doubled over, then dropped to the floor with a leaden thud. The sword fell from his grip, clattering ominously on the floor.
“You see, I am the superior being,” de Bellemare taunted as he slashed his sword over Haydn’s thigh, cutting deeply into the flesh. Then he moved in for the kill, his teeth showing in a satisfied smile.
Her heart hammering with terror, Bethan saw Haydn twist on his side and reach for his fallen sword. Surging up to his knees, he grasped the handle and somehow positioned the weapon. As his enemy lunged forward, Haydn uttered a hoarse cry and thrust his blade upward, deep into de Bellemare’s chest, directly piercing his heart. His evil face registered surprise as he twitched, then toppled over, landing on his back.
Bethan screamed. Running across the floor, she fell to her knees beside her husband. She was shaking so badly her teeth were chattering. Haydn might be the victor in this brutal fight, but he was badly wounded and bleeding profusely. She lifted her gown and ripped away the undertunic, using the material to stanch the blood that oozed out of his shoulder and onto the floor.
“My leg,” he croaked.
“What?” He sounded as if he were being strangled. She leaned closer to hear him. “The wound on my leg is more serious.”
Bethan glanced down and saw there was blood soaking his hose. She ripped the skirt of her overgown for a second bandage and attended to the wound. He grunted, groaned, but he did not jerk away from her.
It was painful to look at his face, to see his anguish and suffering. Tears sprang to her eyes. She dashed them away and continued. “There. I think I have stopped the bleeding. But we must get to our bedchamber so I may clean and dress the wounds properly. Can you stand?”
“Not yet.”
She risked another glance at him. He was pale, sweaty, smeared with blood. She worried that there might be other injuries, ones that she could not see, ones that were even more serious. A helpless feeling of despair stole over her and the tears continued to fall.
“What should we do?” she whispered in anguish.
A muscle twitched in Haydn’s jaw and it took a moment for him to reply. “You must act quickly and dispose of de Bellemare’s body.”
“How?”
“Bury him. In the deepest grave that can be dug. Find Sir Colwyn and give him the order yourself. It must be done before nightfall.”
“Must we remove…remove his head?” she asked, her voice quivering.
“’Tis unnecessary. A blow struck with a blade directly in his heart has effectively ended de Bellemare’s existence. However, you must not allow anyone to remove my sword. It shall be buried with him, with the silver thrust into his heart, or else he may rise again. Do you understand?”
Bethan nodded and struggled to force down the rush of panic that threatened to overtake her. “What of his guard? Will they try to stop us?”
Haydn shook his head. “No. His power over them ended when the fatal blow was struck.”
“And my mother? Will she always remain weak and sickly?”
“She will improve over time. But she was a host for many, many years. She will never fully recover.”
For one long minute, Bethan kept her gaze trained on Haydn. His eyes kept drifting closed, slower each time. She was terrified to leave him, yet knew she had to follow his instructions, had to finish what he had started and bury the body.
“I need to get Sir Colwyn,” she said. “Will you be all right if I leave you for a few minutes?”
His eyes fluttered open. He cursed, then gave her a rueful smile. “If I did not know any better, I would think you were concerned about me, dear wife.”
Bethan let out a choked laugh. Now was hardly the time to examine her feelings for Haydn. “I shall return,” she said softly.
He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. Knowing there was no more time to waste, Bethan gave him a final, reassuring touch. Then she stood and ran from the chamber.
Haydn recovered slowly. His wounds healed far more quickly than any mortal man’s, yet they were deep and severe and it took over a week before he was able to rise from his bed.
Bethan was a constant presence. She tended his wounds, brought him food, even procured the fresh animal blood he needed to survive and properly heal. She was polite and gentle, yet there was a distance in her eyes, a guarded, reserved edge to her manner.
He did not doubt that she cared for him, perhaps even loved him. But she also did not forgive him, nor did she understand what he had done and why he had done it.
Lying in his bed, with nothing to do but think, Haydn contemplated his future as he revisited his past. His victory over de Bellemare closed a chapter of his life, yet opened a new one. Would he now move forward with Bethan at his side?
He suffered no doubts that she was the most suitable female to be his mate. He respected her more than any other individual he had ever known. She was intelligent and kind, with an unmatched inner strength and courage. He admired her fortitude and resolve, he delighted in her beauty and grace.
She was his. Deep inside he knew it, though he also acknowledged staying together might be impossible.
As a misty gray light heralded the dawn, Haydn rose slowly from his bed, restless from spending too much time lying on his back. He dressed himself in a loose-fitting tunic and hose, then donned a pair of boots, securing a knife inside.
Silently, he walked the castle hallways, committing it all to memory. There were few servants about, yet the atmosphere was markedly changed. The dark, oppressive presence of Agnarr de Bellemare was gone, replaced with a palpable feeling of lightness and hope. Haydn experienced a sense of pride and accomplishment, knowing he was in part responsible.
There was more activity in the great hall, as the fires in the enormous fireplace were banked and the trestle tables were being arranged for the morning meal. He saw several women clustered together. Even with her back toward him, one in particular was most familiar.
Bethan.
Haydn waited for her to finish giving her orders. When she came toward him, he stepped from the shadows, until they stood toe-to-toe, with barely an inch between them.
“Haydn! Goodness, you startled me.” She lifted her brow. “Is something wrong?”
“No. I wanted to speak with you. I have healed well, thanks to your devoted care. I shall be leaving in a few days.”
“Are you certain?”
“’Tis time, Bethan.”
She frowned. “We will miss you.”
“Perhaps. But mostly I think you will be glad this is all over.”
She was silent. He gazed into the pain and doubt in her lovely eyes, and finally admitted to himself that gratitude, devotion, and respect were not enough. Love was not enough. He could spend a lifetime trying to regain her trust, only to fail at the endeavor. And without trust, their relationship was doomed.
“I never once deliberately deceived you, Bethan,” he said, compelled to make some kind of explanation.
She heaved an emotional sigh. “You omitted a most important fact, Haydn. One I still find difficult to comprehend.”
“I cannot change who I am, what I am.”
“I know.” Her eyes were fathomless pools, yet he could read the sadness in them. Frustrated, he glanced away. It tore at his heart to witness her pain.
He felt her move and knew she was turning to walk away. Unable to stop himself, Haydn reached for her, pulling her into his arms. He dipped his head and kissed her as he had never done before, with a desperate, fierce, possessive wildness.
Aggressively he parted her lips and plundered her mouth, one hand tangled in her hair to prevent her escape. He could taste the passion on her lips, the desire, could feel the yielding of her body. But not the acceptance of her spirit.
Slowly, regretfully, he let her go. Bethan bit her lower lip as she pulled back from him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Haydn’s heart stilled. His eyes burned into hers.
“Whatever else you believe, Bethan, know this and know it well. I love you. I love you now, and will continue to love you for all eternity.”
Then he turned and limped away.