VROLOK (24 page)

One of the attackers shoved him back down to the ground. The battered young man wiped more blood out of his own eyes and continued speaking. “I realise all evidence points to the contrary.” He was still trying to struggle up on to his feet and when he finally regained his footing he wiped a spot of blood off one of his attacker’s cheeks. “Now let us resume sirs, as you may have guessed I have been holding back.” In response to this, he was again kicked back on to the ground. This young man would not be satisfied until these two men had killed him.

“I think you should stop,” Isabella stated.

“I think they should stop, too, before I really lose my temper,” the young man stated, half laughing, half drunk.

“I think you should be silent,” Isabella warned. He was only angering these two men and his beating was getting more and more severe.

“What has it got to do with you?” one attacker asked.

“Absolutely nothing. I am just making a request. What could he have possibly done to deserve this?” Isabella asked.

“He is an Atheist,” a different attacker responded.

“And who are you to punish him, if he is an Atheist? God will punish him.” Isabella lifted her hand to recoil the fog and made herself visible to the assemblage.

The attacker continued, “What is a woman like you doing wandering the streets, alone at this time of night?”

“Would you like to find out?” Isabella learned forward and grabbed the man closest to her by the hair, pulling his neck to her mouth. She slowly drained the man’s life’s blood. He writhed around trying to pry himself free, but Isabella’s grip was too strong. Isabella made sure this deathly sight was obscured from the other two men. She summoned up a shroud of fog to engulf her.

“What is happening?” the remaining attacker yelled out. Isabella now moved beside him so swiftly that all he could feel was a rush of air whispering through his hair.

“Let him go,” Isabella whispered in his ear. The man was terrified. This ungodly creature was now so close to him.

“Who are you?”

“An angel of death, and I have come for you,” Isabella said, and she grabbed his neck and drank the life from him.

The young man who was so badly beaten was somewhat disoriented and totally oblivious to the events going on around him, until Isabella helped him up.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You fought them off,” Isabella answered.

“I knew I would, when I found my stride,” the young man quipped. Isabella could not help herself. She smiled even though her smile was accompanied by a sigh of exasperation.

“Come on,” she said. “Since you have found your stride, surely you are able to walk.”

The man struggled to his feet again. “Alas, I think my stride has left me again, but with your help I could try to walk home.” He couldn’t even manage a step before he swiftly passed out. Isabella caught him before he fell and dragged him to the nearest inn. She again procured a room for him. He woke up the next morning and Isabella was still sitting opposite him.

“This is beginning to become a habit,” Isabella began.

The young man smiled and replied, “It is becoming a habit, a good habit I would like to continue.”

“I’m sure. How do you get yourself into such messes? They could have killed you last night,” Isabella lectured.

“Ah, but they didn’t, and that is what really matters,” the young man replied.

“Why did you deserve such enmity?” Isabella inquired.

He adamantly replied, “Because I refused to take holy orders. They think I am guilty of treason against the Queen.”

“And why did you refuse to take holy orders?” The young man became uncharacteristically serious for a moment and said.

“I can’t swear allegiance to something that I do not believe in.”

“And why do you not believe?” asked Isabella.

The young man matter-of-factly replied, “Show me evidence of God’s existence and I will believe in him,”

“Show me evidence to the contrary…?” Isabella quipped. “Why is it so important for you to take holy orders anyway?”

“They won’t grant me my degree otherwise,”

“If your degree is that important to you, why don’t you just take the holy orders?” she continued.

“It’s the principle,” he firmly stated.

“Obstinate principles get men killed. You are being foolish. I think I was right in my original assessment of your character; you are just a spoiled child,” Isabella said as she stood to leave.

“Don’t leave without promising me that I will see you again.”

“You might,” Isabella said.

“Sweet Helen…” The young man called out, trying to stop Isabella from leaving.

“No, just Helen,” interrupted Isabella, turning back to look at him.

“My name is Kit,” he volunteered.

Isabella answered “I don’t believe I asked you for your name.”

“You are quite right, you didn’t, but I knew you wanted to know what it was,” Isabella sighed and said, “Kit, you have to grow up some day go and do something to make yourself into a man. Your flippant attitude to life will get you nowhere, or worse, it will get you killed.”

Isabella left. She liked this man. He was charming, but not unique enough to keep her interest for long. The following evening she overheard a conversation discussing the young man in a nearby alehouse.

“But we cannot award him a degree. He refuses to take holy orders.”

“But he is genuinely gifted. He will be famous some day and we will be the ones that will be criticised for not giving him his degree.”

“I think, personally, I will be famous on my own merit.”

The other man laughed at this man’s absurdity.

“No sir. If we are famous, it will only be because of our association with him,” said another.

“We’ll see.” The man who spoke these words got up and left.

Isabella decided to follow him. She stirred up the wind and fog so that the street this man was walking down was filled with it. The fog was making it difficult for the man to see and the rustling wind was making it hard for the man to hear. He became frightened and began to run. He sensed he was in danger. Isabella tripped him. He fell, trying desperately to see who had caused him to fall, but he could see nothing. He had begun to think he was about meet his maker, and then Isabella started to speak to him.

“Let the boy have his degree.”

“What?” the man whispered, looking frantically around him to see where the voice was coming from.

She repeated herself, “I said let the boy have his degree.”

“Who are you?” the man asked.

“That’s not important—you must let the boy have his degree,” Isabella repeated more slowly.

“Who are you?”

Isabella was losing patience with him. She stepped on the man’s leg and pushed on it to the point of breaking.

“Let the boy have his degree!” Isabella said through clenched teeth. “I will not say it again,”

“I will…I will!” The man eventually complied.

“Good,” she said.

“But please tell me who you are,” he pleaded.

“I am…” Isabella thought for a moment, “Sweet Helen,” she replied.

The next day the man visited Kit.

“We have decided to award you your degree, whether you take orders or not.”

“That is very kind of you,” Kit said ironically. “What made you change your mind?” he enquired.

“It was always our intention to grant you your degree.”

Kit knew this to be a lie.

The man got up to leave and just before he walked out the door he turned back to Kit and asked, “Do you know of anyone who calls herself sweet Helen?”

Kit looked at the man and smiled, but made no reply.

Three years passed and Vlad and Isabella were still in England. In fact Vlad hinted about permanently moving there. Isabella hated the idea but she went along with it for the moment. She had never seen Vlad so content. She enjoyed seeing him this way. They were fairly happy together, although Isabella was obviously bored with England. She hated being stuck in one place for so long.

They still occupied the same house near London and Isabella would amuse herself by going into London often. The two had even managed to be accepted into Elizabeth’s court at Richmond Palace. They would often go there to see the plays that were performed for the Queen. On a day in June, Isabella and Vlad were at the Palace. Isabella was unexcited by the play that was being performed; she crept out to look around the impressive building she was in.

When Elizabeth took over the reign from her sister, she had put it upon herself to add to the depleted treasury, and restore England to its former greatness. This was evident in every palace she occupied. Palaces by their very nature were opulent, but Richmond far surpassed any that Isabella had ever seen.

It could only be approached by boat on the river Thames. Anyone entering would cross the threshold into the grand hall, which was spectacular. The ceiling of this room was as high as the roof of most people’s homes. A majestic fireplace was the centre point of the hall and it stood well above Isabella’s head. There were great works of art on every wall. Everything from Hilliard’s miniatures to Holbein’s portraits of Henry VIII. Golden candelabras stood on every mantelpiece and every table. The ladies-in-waiting that glided through the hall wore dresses that were made with only the finest of silks and satins, and the diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds woven into the cloth sparkled from their bodices. Everyone looked so exquisite. Isabella had given into temptation and stolen a few for herself. She told herself she had done this only to ensure that she fitted into this society.

On the next floor, in the bedroom chambers that used to contain hard wooden beds in the days of Mary, the Queen’s sister, there were now beds covered with mattresses filled with feathers. The world was changing, becoming more and more luxuriant, and even Isabella had to admit that England was the place where these changes were most evident. After all, Elizabeth had enabled this time to be thought of as the golden age.

Isabella’s exploration of the palace was interrupted by someone whispering in her ear.

“Ah, Sweet Helen.” Isabella was struck by a familiar voice. She turned around to see Kit. She could not help but notice his clothes; he made her Juliet gown look dull and unremarkable. His tunic was a midnight blue with gold threads intertwined all the way through it. It glistened even in the dim lighting of the room. His silken ivory chemise was visible at the collar, and lace ran all around the outer edge. He looked terribly extravagant; she almost laughed at the sight of him.

“Kit,” Isabella said, “have you grown up yet? By your dress I am not sure you have.”

“Why should only the women have the elegant attire?” Kit answered.

“Yes, you are definitely still a child,” Isabella replied.

“Why are you always so critical of me?” Kit asked.

“I suppose you are right; I don’t have the right to criticise anyone. So why are you here? I didn’t think a conspirator like you would be allowed in the Queen’s palace.”

“I have acquired friends in high places.”

“You have”

“I have. You told me to grow up, didn’t you, and I have become a spy.”

Isabella roared with laughter. “A spy! Who would make you a spy? You are hardly discreet.”

“That does seem to be a problem.”

Isabella laughed again, not believing a word Kit was telling her.

“Why are you really here, Kit?”

He hesitated and then renewed his smile and answered her, “I am here to see Edward Alleyn. I am going to write for his Admiral’s Men.”

“More comedies, I suppose.”

“Would you prefer something more tragic?”

“I certainly would. At least it would be a change. You should write about some of these great leaders that are in these pictures; surely they have better stories to tell an audience?”

“You may be right,” Kit answered.