The First Book of the Pure (10 page)

The first lieutenant was one upon whom he
placed great trust. He couldn’t argue with his Duke, nor could he
believe William would be all right soon, if ever. Yet Torrence
LeBeau, his first lieutenant and probably the closest thing William
had to a friend, stayed kneeling there on the battlefield as his
troops all around dropped from the devastating rain of arrows from
the English longbows. A circle of soldiers surrounded them, shields
held edge to edge to protect their leader. Amazingly William felt
more stable in just minutes, then steady, and finally strong, or at
least strong enough.

His army had been terrified he was dying. The
opposing army had been looking at fairly certain defeat until one
of their long-bowmen had dropped him. Now those closest to him saw
him improving. Emotions were high on the field, and were
ricocheting back and forth.

William acted on his resolve to become the
King of England. “Break the arrow and remove it!” He gritted his
teeth from the pain.

“My lord, you’ll bleed to death if I do.”

“Do it. Now!” There was no quarter in an
argument with a man such as William, so LeBeau snapped the head off
the arrow and pulled it from his leader’s chest. Blood ran and
soaked William’s jacket, ran down his chest and pooled on his legs
and thighs. Yet he slowly levered himself up, took up his ax and
waved his rapidly shrinking force onward. They were truly inspired
by this, and charged with renewed strength and determination. Some
ran before him with shields, knowing he mustn’t fall again. Though
many died, William led his troops to victory that day.

“I decree that my first English castle will
be built on this very spot to commemorate this great victory!” He
was ecstatic. This was his finest hour. He pushed on to become
England’s King, though knowing he was already being called King
William the Bastard did his mood no favors. He built that castle
later, and became very fond of castles, mostly because he’d lived
in the woods and on the road most of his life. So castle building
was what he was known for during his reign, that, and having to
constantly try to keep his throne.

He married and had three sons. The eldest was
a trial to him and the youngest was a blessing. The third, his
middle son, was average and uninteresting to William, so he was
pretty well ignored. Robert was his eldest son, and William
appointed him to remain in Normandy most of the time and rule in
his stead. William’s youngest son stayed with him, and was more
English than Norman. The middle son fell in one of the many
engagements they had as they attempted to bring a united rule to
the country they had conquered. William, or Karl, was fairly
ambivalent about his son’s death. The announcement of it barely
received a grunt and a nod from him when it was reported. He did
pause for a long while, as everyone around him remained silent,
concerned about his reaction to this news. He was actually thinking
about his own longevity and that apparently this son did not share
it.
Too bad
,
but I‘ve two others
.

He shipped his youngest off to be raised by a
noble family, far from him. He never gave the boy another thought
until they sent him back three years later.

But his oldest boy, Robert, though a rogue in
many ways, had real potential.

No one, not even his sons, knew that William,
or Karl as he still thought of himself on occasion, was his own
great-great grandfather. He’d been part of the army of Rollo in 911
as his fourth identity, and when he had again lived longer than a
man should live, he arranged his “death” and took a new identity,
staying close to the throne. Over the next one hundred fifty years
and three more identities, he became William the Bastard. For
reasons not obvious then but obvious to us, the bastard part of it
was hard to deny. His parentage was so far in the distant past he
could hardly prove his birth and lineage. So he did what he did so
well: he lied about it.

His eldest son, Robert, destined to be ruler
of Normandy as its Duke, was a trial to his father. He hit an
impasse in his physical maturation process as he left his teen
years. After he hit his early twenties he continued to look the
same. He recognized that his father had great vitality for his age,
and really didn’t look his age, so he assumed he came by this
honestly. Later he found out that he did actually come by it
naturally.

William’s youngest son, Artur, had come home
to him after three years living with a noble family many hours ride
away, and rode with his father on every outing. He was a vibrant
youth, and full of life. He was with William when they were
ambushed by a fair sized group of malcontents from Normandy.
William kept scanning them to see if Robert was among them, but he
was not. Fighting down to just a few men left on each side of this
vicious conflict, William and his men were on the ground, while a
few of their assailants were still horsed. One came at William with
a pike set to skewer him, and in an act of self preservation that
carried a high price, William did the only thing that would keep
the pike from destroying his heart: he moved Artur into its path,
using the boy’s body as a shield. All of this took just a moment, a
heartbeat. But in that moment his continued heartbeat was assured,
and Artur’s was stopped. The death of his son gave William a clear
shot at the lancer, knocking him from his horse with his sword.
After dispatching him, William realized what he’d done. He grieved
the death of this son, perhaps more because he caused the death in
a shameful act of cowardice.

Upon returning to his castle, William
determined to know about Robert, his last surviving son. Was he a
Pure, or was he just very healthy, as all of William’s children had
been? He hadn’t known a son who was a Pure. He didn’t even know
that he wanted that; it was a thing he’d given up on, and one that
could jeopardize his own long life. Robert had given him more than
a fair share of trouble, and for that Karl decided he had to test
his son and know for certain. One day as the two of them argued
again over some stupid thing, Karl ordered his men at arms out. The
great hall’s massive door was closed, and Robert began to seriously
wonder about his future. His father came back to him and spoke to
him quietly and evenly. “Son,” with an attempted smile, “let’s you
and me figure some things out.” He placed his left hand on Robert’s
shoulder. Thinking it was a sign of affection, the affection he’d
always desired from his father but never received, Robert put his
own hand on his father’s hand, there on his shoulder.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately for
Robert, he didn’t know his father as well as he thought. With the
speed of inhuman reflexes and many, many years of practice, with
one smooth motion William whipped out his knife and slashed Robert,
cutting deeply into his arm as the blade passed through, removing
his dagger as quickly. As Robert stumbled in horror, staring at his
father, then at his arm, William deftly took his son’s dagger from
its sheath and tossed it across the room. If Robert could manage
anything at this point, which was doubtful, William saw no point in
getting stabbed himself. Robert continued to stare at his sword arm
as blood spurted from it, hanging uselessly at his side.

His father said, “Robert, it will pass. Be my
son, and let your body prove it
is
what I think it is.”

“Are you mad? You’ve crippled me. Go ahead
old man, kill me now. Don’t make me live like this. If I don’t die
from blood loss I’ll die slowly from the silent death. If you ever
cared for me at all father, kill me swiftly!”

William just growled at him. “Shut up, stupid
boy. You know not of what you speak. Your brother died today while
saving my life. You need to know if you have my abilities. Do you
have any idea how old I am? Well?” At this point he slapped Robert
hard enough to lay him the rest of the way down, “Do you?”

“Of course I do, you bastard. You’re no
father of mine. You’re in your forties, older than most men, and
too wicked to die. I pray you don’t get to fifty!” he cried in
bitterness for the crippling of his arm, and perhaps in the hope
that his father would become angrier with him and finish him.

“Again, shut up Robert.” William sighed and
sat by his son. “I’m older than you could possibly know. I was part
of the army that received Normandy one hundred and fifty years ago,
and not a young man then. I’ve held several names, and lived as
many lives. People live so brief a time that after a while I don’t
fit in, because I never seem to get any older, so I have to move on
and establish a new identity. It’s been convenient of late to take
an identity connected to the family I’ve entered, so as to keep
some continuity. Now I’m William the Bastard, King of England.
While I’m not thrilled about the bastard part, I quite like being
the king, and fully intend to keep the crown, and to enjoy it. And
you’re my son. Which means you
may
have the means of living
as I have lived. As far as I’m aware, my sons haven’t had my
ability, but your body acts as though it may. We must see if you
can heal. If you do, we’ll share long life and great power. Do you
understand me?”

Robert hissed at him. “Fool! Your madness has
made you a monster.” Then the blackness hovering at the edge of his
senses took him, and he fell limply back on the bed.

William had his son taken to his rooms, and
his own personal physician took charge of his recovery. William
didn’t go to see him for a week, during which time Robert developed
a deep hatred for him, and a terrifying but exhilarating suspicion
that he might have told him the truth, because he was healing at
what seemed a miraculous speed. And when his father did finally
arrive to see him, an amazed Robert waved his arm about, his
wounded right arm, and shouted at him. “You’re crazed, but you may
be right because here’s the proof. My arm has recovered, and I’m
gaining strength enough to lift things. This shouldn’t be
possible.”

“Ahh, you
are
the son of my blood, and
it looks as though you’ll live so long as you don’t get yourself
killed. I’m surprised it took you this long to recover, and as yet
you’ve not fully recovered, but you will. You’ll live, and you
will
inherit Normandy, as I’ve said. There surely must be
more of us in the wide world, but I’ve only rumors to go on, and
none have proven true as yet. Sleep, recover.” On that note he
walked away.

Death

William had found out that having a thing is
not so much fun as wanting a thing, or even winning a thing.
England was not an easy place. The throne was difficult, and the
crown was heavy. As he moved about on the throne later that day, he
thought, “King! And on a throne that numbs my ass. What a lousy
piece of furniture. I wonder if the maker of this instrument of
torture is alive. I would enjoy killing him after he has to sit on
this thing for a week.” William knew that he was petty in some
ways, but then again, he really didn’t care.

There was treachery everywhere, and William
sometimes longed for the days past when he could be the simple
soldier he once had been, fighting other people’s enemies. Even to
be in charge but somehow avoiding all of the troublesome day-to-day
minutiae of the Kingdom would be fine. But this, being visibly in
charge, was more work than it was worth. It felt like he answered
to everyone instead of them answering to him. He thought after he’d
taken London he could just give orders, but now he realized that
ruling here was taking too much of him.

During this time he had his infamous Doomsday
Book compiled, which recorded the lands throughout England and
those who held it. He carefully wove a code into it, recording
information that no one else would likely find without his help. No
one was quite sure why he did it, and he shrouded it in mystery.
Still, it was commissioned, he was the King, and so it was done. A
copy of it he had hidden away, and the official one was kept under
guard. Someday, he was sure it was going to become most useful to
him.

Robert left home shortly after his recovery,
full of himself with the knowledge that he might live far beyond
his anticipated forty or fifty years. He became reckless, believing
he would recover from any and all injuries. He was becoming very
skilled at weaponry, and indeed recovered from every wound so far.
He took up with some other young men who were supported by his
father’s enemies, which was no great surprise to his father. Yet
William, with his hands full of England, ignored it for some
time.

***

Finally angered beyond restraint by the
costly raids Robert and his friends were making into his country,
William took action. He and his troops gave Robert and company a
merry chase, which ended badly for Robert’s friends, most of whom
were killed, and not so well for William; it cost him a bit more of
his soul. He imprisoned Robert for a while, debating how severe he
should be to this one surviving son, and eventually released him
with the hope that he’d learned from the experience. William had
warmed to the idea of seeding the world with others like himself,
and Robert was a start.

Unfortunately, the next year Robert and some
new friends, dissidents like the old ones, caught William unaware,
and during the battle Robert managed to knock his father from his
horse, after which William suffered some severe injuries. Robert
had good cause to truly hate his vindictive, selfish father, even
though he loved the heritage he had apparently gotten from him.

Still tough and resilient, William, or rather
Karl as he had just now started thinking of himself again,
struggled onto a horse and returned to his castle. His wounds were
terrible, and he had his current mistress, Trina, brought to him.
As she came in the tears started to flow. She looked at this
powerful man with blood soaked clothing, great gashes in his
shoulder and arms, so much blood having run across his hair and
face that she wasn’t sure how badly he was actually hurt. Based on
what she saw, he should already be dead. She knelt by him and
cradled his head where he had collapsed.