Blood Life (2 page)

They trotted up to the tavern. Roman whistled for the stable boy to tend to his horse who was foaming with sweat. “Rinse her down, will you?” He gave her a loving pat to which she knickered.

The stable boy nodded, taking his horse gently by the bit and leading her into the barn. Roman removed his hat and made his way through the drunken loiterers into The All-Nighter. A waitress nearly ran him over trying to get away from a grasping hand that aimed for her buttocks. She giggled an apology to which Roman grinned.

“Oooooohhhhhhh!!!!” sang a voice from across the room. He turned his head to find four-feet-eleven-inches of love rushing toward him. “Hello, darling!” she called, pulling him tight against her enormous bosom for a hug. “How are you? I haven’t seen you for days. Bleu isn’t good enough for you anymore?” she teased.

Roman had known Violette since his parents were killed by an infectious outbreak 20 years earlier; he was only nine at the time and completely untouched by the illness. She had taken him in and raised him as her own. Locals knew her as a witch and a healer. Her skills kept her, and many others willing to listen, safe from the fatal disease. Those who contracted the illness, but would not open their minds to her magic, died. Very few, by some other miracle or Fate, lived through it on their own.

He smiled down at Violette lovingly. She was top-heavy and round, but not fat, and fair-haired with a splash of freckles across her nose. Her ice-blue eyes shone at him in the soft light of the tavern. “I just saw you yesterday, Violette.”

She frowned, jutting her lip out in a pout, “See! A whole day without you!”

He chuckled, putting his arm around her shoulders and leading her to the bar.

“The usual?”

Roman nodded, taking a seat.

Violette moved to her position behind the bar and eyeballed him. “What’s wrong?”

“Me?” he asked, innocently, looking away. It was hard to lie looking into her sweet round eyes.

She just stared at him, raising her brows. Her mouth became a straight line.

“Ahh, it’s nothing,” he said, picking at the wood of the bar.

“ ‘Nothing’ is why you’re chipping my fine woodwork?”

He looked up at her and stopped picking. She turned around to get his ale and set it down in front of him. He took a long swallow, closing his eyes to enjoy the fizzle it made going down his throat.

“Yeah, well,” he said, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, “I just made an idiot of myself in front of Morgan.”

“You what?”

He didn’t repeat himself. Instead, he gulped down the rest of his ale and asked for another.

She hesitated. “So you planned to come here and drink it all away?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I planned to do. Can you give me another one, please?”

She did, and then watched him sip at it, slower than the last, as he delved deep into his thoughts. “All right, Roman, I won’t push the subject. Just come to me if and when you’re ready to talk,” she said gently before leaving him to tend to her other customers.

Later that afternoon, while Roman sat alone in his cottage, torturing himself mentally, a messenger came to his door with an urgent note from the Royal Estate. It read:

“Though you have not proven yourself worthy to me, I expect you to look over this script.”

The messenger, without making eye contact with Roman, handed him a stack of papers.

“Take to memory the part of Henry and be in front of my gates at dusk.”

Roman read the message three times over, then looked up slowly. The messenger had vanished. He reached over and closed the door in complete disbelief, moving over to the cot that stood in the corner of his cottage. He flipped and shuffled through the pages, dumbstruck at the sudden acceptance from Morgan. Reading through the pages, accurately memorizing his lines, Roman felt part of a world he never fully believed would land, quite literally, on his doorstep. At last, he would be able to show them his talents; he would be allowed the right to his dreams of acting on the Grand Stage.

With only an hour before dusk, Roman rushed around his cottage, frantically collecting his necessities. His clothes were wrinkled and spotted; he had no time to wash and iron them. Lacking any sort of appetite as a result of intense nervousness, he made his way outside to an anxious mare. The contrast of the silvery, dappled skin against her jet black mane always intrigued him. Often, the sight of her beauty calmed him. “Guess where we’re going, gorgeous!” He smiled at his horse. She pawed at the ground and arched her neck proudly.

Morgan spotted him immediately, motioning to him. “This way!” He pointed towards the furthest tower of the Estate. “Don’t fail me, peasant, I warn you,” he said with strong eye contact. Clutching Roman’s wrist firmly, he added, “It was not your performance, rather, my dire need of a replacement. Don’t forget that.”

Roman did not respond, instead he headed toward the tower. Glancing upward, he noticed someone staring at him, carefully, through a narrow window. He strained for a moment, trying to get a better look, then felt Morgan’s booming, hysterical voice urging him on.

Inside the enormous double doors he found the greatest Players of the Spectrum, in a neat, single-file line, waiting to greet the newcomer. As he nodded and shook hands with each one, he got a clearer image of the person in the window, as if a forgotten memory were returning to him in great detail.

Who was she?

She stood innocently in the window, studying him keenly; her peering eyes outlined by the edges of the lace curtain. Calling to him without words.

Distracting his thoughts, Roman was ushered by a tailor and fitted for his costume, while the others around him rehearsed their lines intently. Roman felt intimidated suddenly by their eloquence and the fluent ease with which they recited their dialogue. He closed his eyes and thanked the Gods for granting him the gift of a perfect, photographic memory. Entranced by the dynamic talents that surrounded him, he could do nothing but forfeit to his greatest fear: failure in the eyes of the audience. Fully aware of the reputation of the Players, Roman risked more than his desire to act; he risked his life. Would Morgan throw him in the depths of his ravenous dungeons, or would Roman become the next subject of the infamous guillotine?

He cupped his right hand over his neck, picturing the separation of head from torso; imagined the shining blade, blinding the crowd as it cut through the air, racing for him, mocking his fear as it sped with gravity to meet the tender flesh just below the baby hairs at the nape of his fragile neck. The blood would be everywhere, spilling and squirting out at the executioners, drenching them with his last bit of life. He wondered if he would be capable of thought between the times the blade committed its deed and his head fell neatly into that morbid little basket? Would there be other heads in the basket, eyes of other poor, dead society staring up at him, lips frozen in protest and absolute fear?

A sharp voice broke his concentration, “Take your places everyone. Take your places!” The tailor clapped briskly as he spoke.

Roman was motionless, a prisoner of his own apprehension. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hands.

Robert, the finest of the Players, took Roman’s arm gently and led him past the line into the east wing of the stage. “The gentleman who was to play Henry tonight fell quite ill. You were the only actor within reach,” he muttered, looking out at the crowd. Before Roman could open his mouth to respond, a dim silence swept over the theater and candles were snuffed, calling on the performance to begin.

Hovering in the east wing, Roman searched ambitiously among the many faces in the crowd until he was captured by that same devouring glimmer. The one from the window looked back at him. With one voracious glance, she reinvented his entire existence, torturing his senses with intense desire. His hungry glare did not go unnoticed and was returned with a soft smile before she looked onto the others.

With coy, child-like glances over to the east wing, Alexandria watched closely, waiting for Roman’s entrance. When Roman went out to perform, she followed him with piercing eyes, seeing through his nervousness, studying every word and gesture. Roman couldn’t help but glance back whenever given the possibility. She was breathtaking.

Alexandria waited patiently by her father’s side, hoping that after the play ended, Roman might approach. Just as she was ready to leave, there he was. Dazzling in his velvet costume worn elegantly, his focus was on her. He carefully stepped down from the stage and walked over to her, noticing Morgan had stood up with his back turned away from them.

Still sitting in her throne, Alexandria gazed with deep emerald eyes into Roman, yearning for his reach. He knelt down in front of her, bowed his head, then took her hand and kissed it gently. He stood up straight again and she acknowledged, her heart pounding in her ears.

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance—” he stopped, unaware of her name, “—my lady?”

“Alexandria, sir, and yours?” she asked, tilting her chin downward slightly.

“Roman,” he replied, feeling heat rise in his cheeks.

She smiled, warmly, as Morgan turned around to claim his daughter. “That was a fine job, Ralph.” He took a protective handful of Alexandria’s brilliant red hair in his hands.

“Roman, your Majesty, thank you,” he replied, bowing his head while he spoke.

“I’ll be sure to send for you when I am in desperate need of an understudy,” Morgan said coolly, then cleared his throat.

“Again, I thank you for your support,” Roman replied. Alexandria’s eyes remained locked on his until Morgan escorted her away. He watched her until she was completely out of sight. He was left in love with the unbelievable creature. So full of love and beauty that it intrigued him and tormented him at the same time.

Finally, after a long moment of collection, he let out his breath for the first time that evening. He had done well.

His ride home was filled with retrospect. He reviewed every detail of the night’s events. The honor and gratitude of being accepted on the Grand Stage paled when compared to his brief memory of Alexandria.

The haunting thought of bearing any separation from her was horrifying, stifling his every attempt at peace. She was all he wanted. She had to be Morgan’s daughter, no doubt, making it even more difficult to get close to her. She would never be allowed to return his love, being a peasant. His lifestyle once again condemned him, this time almost maddening him to the point of lunacy, but he swore to follow her, beyond all constraints of time or geography.

That night, insomnia was Roman’s uninvited guest. Aimlessly, he rose from bed and dressed. With the beckoning power of attraction, he was lured from further attempts at sleep. He needed to return to the Royal Estate, to her.

His mare waited in front of his cottage, wild and vocal; her eyes flashed red in the moonlight. Roman shied away from her at first, but she stomped around in a circle, then approached him more calmly. He mechanically mounted her, bareback, and she instinctively led the way. They galloped through the trees; thundering hoof beats echoing along their path. Roman, for an instant, felt as though the mare spoke to him, telling him she would get him there as fast as she could because Alexandria needed him. Fate summoned their union; he must make the connection with her.

The mare’s gait increased, causing Roman to feel at loss with control.

“Whoa, Devendra. Easy girl.”

Devendra responded to his command, but kept her pace at a steady canter. As they reached the gates, she carefully slowed to a trot, then halted, bowing her head for him to dismount.

He stood before the gates for a moment, building confidence. When he turned to tend to Devendra, she wasn’t there; yet, he heard a faint whinny in the distance and knew she was close by.

His grasp froze on the bars leading to the courtyard. Wondering about his surge of passion for this strange woman, he began to doubt himself. He suddenly felt foolish for letting his heart ache for a woman who would never be allowed to return his love, let alone be his bride or bear his children.

Loosening his grip on the bars, his concentration was ruptured by a familiar, resonating voice. “It’s you,” she said. She was showered in moonlight; her ivory skin clashing against dark eyes.

Her image stood before him, once again radiating awe to his senses. “Good evening, my lady.” He studied her delicate, high cheekbones which cast soft shadows onto her face.

“Good evening,” she replied with a gracious nod. “What might you be doing here at this time of night?” She eyed him bashfully.

“Yes, I mean . . . I was just out for a ride on my mare.”

“Oh, you have a horse?” She brightened, looking around for the animal. “Where is she?”

He turned around to point, but recalled Devendra’s disappearance. “She is out grazing near those trees over there,” he said pointing blindly in the direction of the forest. “And what might a lady of your blood be doing out here alone at night?”

Ignoring his question, she turned away from him saying, “Your performance was exquisite.” She turned herself around to face him again, studying his features. His sharp, meaningful nose connected wonderfully with his cheeks, leading down to his strong, hard-edged jaw line. His eyes were set deep in his face, protected by the longest eyelashes she had ever seen on a man. His dark hair was worn long, just past his shoulders, thick and straight.

Carefully, she moved her eyes down to his chest. He cleared his throat. She looked up into his face again, realizing he was avoiding her eyes. She brushed her hair away from her face; the furious, red-orange curls cascaded over her shoulders, spilling down her back.

He bowed. “Thank you, my lady. It was an honor to perform for you.”

He fixed his gaze on her mouth, wanting to kiss her smooth, pouting lips. He imagined they would taste sweet like honey. Moving slowly up, his eyes traced the contour of her high cheekbones again, then over to the tip of her elegant nose.

“If it was an honor to perform for me, Roman, why won’t you look into my eyes when you speak to me?”