Blood Harvest

Part I: Exsanguination

Chapter 1

London, England 1528

Count Alphonso Diemo pushed his long white hair out of his eyes as he watched the patient in his barber chair begin to nod off as if falling asleep. This, he knew, was not as a result of fatigue; it was as a result of the patient having been bled an amount where maintaining consciousness was difficult. Alphonso recognized this syncope as an indication that the proper amount of blood had been drained from the body, so he removed the glass suction cup from the lacerations that his Phleam, the main tool of the barber’s bloodletting craft, had produced. Alphonso folded a clean linen towel into a square and applied direct pressure to the wounds as he called one of his assistants over to monitor the stabilization of his patient.

“Make sure that when she wakes she begins to drink both water and wine constantly to replenish what she loses in the perspiration.”

The assistant nodded as Alphonso lifted the collection bowl and carried the blood-filled vessel carefully into a back room of his majestic home/office. Due to his large frame and unusual height he had to duck under the top of the six foot doorway to keep from hitting his head and shoulders on the molding. There he transferred the blood he had just drawn, approximately three pints worth, into a five-gallon ceramic jug via a wide-mouthed funnel and replaced the cork in the top.

Returning to the great hall, Alphonso looked out over the rows of cots that had made his London home into a makeshift hospital, reflecting on the difficulty the recent times had brought upon him. The plague, known as the English Sweate, was again ravishing all of England; however, the current manifestation of the disease displayed a severity and lethality that had increased exponentially from its previous manifestations. Alphonso had taken in as many sufferers of the disease as he could manage and performed his bloodletting service to the victims with variable results but, on the whole, London was being devastated. King Henry VIII had fled London in fear of the disease and, for the first time, the illness had spread outside the borders of England and was extending into Europe.

Furthermore, the conflict between King Henry VIII and the Catholic Church was reaching a fevered pitch after Pope Clement VII refused to grant King Henry a divorce from Catherine of Aragon. The Catholic faithful were at odds with the new Church of England, which in turn put Alphonso and all of the other barbers in England in the middle of the conflict as their practice of bloodletting was highly frowned upon by the Vatican.

Still, Alphonso did what he could. He had met the disease head on with a small degree of success in healing some of its sufferers during the previous outbreaks, which was more than any of the other barbers or physicians could claim. There was also the added benefit of collecting large quantities of the drawn blood, and given the needs of both his people and himself, this made every extended effort invaluable.

Alphonso stood in the entryway and pulled his snow-white hair off of his face and tucked it behind his ears. Looking down to his hands he noticed that some of the blood he had just drawn and stored in the cellar had stained his alabaster skin. Being an albino, his pale flesh made for a sharp contrast with the crimson that he worked with on a day-to-day basis. It was also somewhat disconcerting to his patients when they first came to see him; after all, who wouldn’t be a bit ill at ease when the barber of choice looked as though he, himself, had been drained of blood. It took years for Alphonso and his staff to earn the trust, respect and admiration of the community. He had persevered and succeeded, despite the occasional rabble-rouser, and had even become a personal advisor for King Richard, King Henry, VII and the current King Henry, VIII.

Now Alphonso watched as his staff moved among the mass of patients he had taken in, all of whom were in various stages of suffering from the English Sweate, until his eyes fell upon a woman lying in one of the cots who looked to be suffering from a dramatically different malady. The woman was strapped down to the cot as her body convulsed in the throes of a violent tremor; she also appeared to have lesions which covered all areas of exposed skin. Recognition of the woman’s condition shocked Alphonso into action.

Running to the closest of his assistants he asked, “Where did this one come from?”

The assistant was a small woman named Abigail who had worked with Alphonso since he had taken her in over twenty years ago. A former prostitute, she had a toughness that living on the streets had given her. This toughness served her well as a senior member of his staff. Abigail was also exceedingly beautiful in a way that neither her former profession nor her age could strip away. Her hair was so blonde it was almost yellow and her eyes were the color of blue ice. She wore her white dress in a loose fitting fashion but it couldn’t completely disguise a near flawless figure underneath. She was a sight indeed and she was also one of his most trusted and senior members of his staff.

“She was brought in last night. Apparently, she was out in the streets raving like a mad woman and getting more and more potentially violent until the local constabulary brought her down. They were going to take her to the asylum but decided to try us first since we were so much closer to where they were at the time.”

Alphonso looked down on the woman who had grown very quiet and still as the seizure faded.

Abigail whispered, “Thank God they brought her here.”

Alphonso looked to Abigail and back to the woman on the table. “Take her upstairs and begin a direct transfer.”

Abigail looked shocked, “A direct…?”

“She’s too far gone for the tonic. Let us pray that her system is patent enough to make use of a pure dose.”

“As the Master says.” Abigail bowed her head and hurried off to make the arrangements.

Alphonso turned back to the woman on the table and guessed her age to be around twenty; however, the lesions on her face gave her an appearance of being much older. Her face was sunken and her eyes bulged in their sockets. The poor girl looked terribly emaciated to the point that she was mostly skin and bones. Her skin had a slight bluish tinge to it and to the untrained eye the girl had all of the life in her appearance as would a corpse. Alphonso knew differently. He knew what ailed her all too well. Indeed he, everyone on his staff and in his household suffered the same condition as the young woman on the table. Alphonso had been gathering them all to him as best he could and he shuddered to think how everyone he was close to could end up in a similar state should they ever be separated from the blessed tonic that he had created and been stockpiling all these years. Gently he placed a hand on the girl’s forehead as she moaned softly and swayed back and forth on the cot as much as her restraints would allow.

Whispering, Alphonso said, “I pray that your mind is still capable my dear.”

A voice from behind made Alphonso jump: “The Master did not give up on me when I was in far worse a state. The girl will survive.”

Alphonso turned to see William, the most senior member of his staff and dearest friend, looking down on the woman in a state of contemplation similar to his.

“You always give me a start when you do that silent entrance and exit of yours.”

“Sorry sir. Old habits and all.”

Alphonso chuckled. William was such an enormous man that he might have been the only person in England who could make Alphonso look like a small child. How such an entity could move so swiftly and silently despite his size was one of the great mysteries Alphonso could never fathom.

“Well, it is also somewhat comforting to know you could always be close at hand.”

“That would be because I always am.”

“I know old friend. I know. So, was there a reason for you revealing yourself just now or did you simply want to see the latest addition to our family?” Alphonso gestured to the woman on the table.

“Assuming she survives intact you mean?”

“Didn’t you just say that I brought you back from far worse a state?”

“Indeed I did. Then again, that was me.”

Nodding, Alphonso knew that every time a new case like this was found the results of the tonic were different. Sometimes the mildest cases turned out to be incurable; while others, as was the case with William, seemed to be lost causes that instead became strong survivors.

“Actually sir, there is a gentleman awaiting you in the parlor. He says his visit is of the utmost urgency.”



“Is he in need of treatment?”

“No sir. This has the feel of a more ‘official’ visit.” William emphasized the word “official” heavily enough for Alphonso to get the point.

“Official? Has Henry returned to London?”

After a pause William replied, “No sir, I believe this gentleman is here on business of the Church.”


Alphonso grew very serious, “England or the Vatican?”

“He is wearing Ferdinand’s standards.”

Now Alphonso’s breath caught in his throat and, once the initial shock wore off, he had to struggle to keep his voice down.

“Are you telling me there’s a damned Inquisitor in my receiving room?”

“Actually M’Lord,” William began without a hint of alarm in his voice, “there’s a damned Inquisitor and at least four of his guard in your receiving room.”

Alphonso moved to a washbasin and quickly dipped his hands in the clean water.

“Have you checked the grounds?”

William nodded. “I took a quick look around and it seems as though they came alone.” William was quick to add “but you never know with the Inquisition.”

Alphonso lowered his head as he dried his hands on a torn piece of bed linen that had been set aside for use as a towel.