Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (32 page)

“This is most extraordinary,” exclaimed the English Crown. “I have never witnessed finer.”

“Nor have I,” replied the Ambassador of Portugal, his accent thick yet unmuddied. He handed the
Missale Romanum
to a short, stocky man with dark features, in a lavish green and blue houppelande and a gold circlet holding back his silver streaked hair. The man opened the book, allowing a woman in equally elaborate dress to see the work of art. She was short, with her dark hair in an ornamental fillet. Her gasp of surprise was accompanied by the man’s huge smile through thick neatly trimmed beard. A little girl jumped to try and get a better look.

“This truly is a magnificent gift. Thank you,” beamed the Ambassador in delight. Suddenly his brown eyes went wide and jaw slacked. His body trembled while his breath came in quick gasps. King Richard, wondering at his guest’s plight, looked up and directly at the Angel.

Suddenly uncomfortable with the royal attention, he tried to take a step back but Lady Bolingbroke held him fast. He watched as the royal eyes filled with fear and then childlike curiosity.

Notus glanced nervously between his Chosen and the King and wondered what would happen next. It seemed that a hush had fallen upon the guests as they too waited apprehensively.

Time halted for what seemed like hours, only to be abruptly broken by the crash of the double doors flung open. He turned with the rest of the crowd to find an average sized young man swaying in a state of disarray. Soaked head to toe, and toe it was for he wore only one shoe, his ripped green doublet sported stains of unknown origins and his white hose were splattered with mud. The young man opened his mouth to say something and then shut it as if thinking better of it. When he opened his mouth again a deep resinous belch cut through the silence.

“Christ that was good.” His accent, slurred as it was, was the same as King Richard’s royal guests. Sniffing loudly, the drunken young man half staggered, half fell down the handful of steps, causing a few of the less sober guests to snicker at the plight of the youth as he haphazardly made his stumbling way through the crowd. Those he passed, especially the women, emitted short exclamations as his hands touched inappropriate places.

The Angel watched this spectacle, wondering why no one was dealing with this impudent party crasher, and turned back to the monarchs. Richard and his Queen stared in dumbfounded surprise while the Ambassador seemed ready to order an execution.

What caught the Angel’s attention was the man holding Notus’ gift was turning a lovely shade of dark purple and how the woman beside the Noble now clutched her rosary, fervently praying. The little girl between them was unsuccessfully trying not to break into fits of giggling.

It did not take long before the drunken young man broke from the crowd to stand, teetering on rubbery legs, before the monarchs.
 
Unsuccessfully attempting a deep bow, he caught himself to the laughter of some guests. Straightening, he smiled wickedly at his soon to be queen and blew her a kiss.

Phillipa stared in horror.

“
Fernando,”
bellowed the infuriated man behind the royal couple.

Fernando appeared shocked, gazing through glassy eyes. A few unsure steps brought him in front of the royals, a smile warping his handsome face. He said something in a language the Angel did not understand that was met with gasps of horror to those who understood. Richard glanced around for a translation from the English man standing behind him. Utter rage swept over his features.

“I beg pardon,” slurred the young man, cutting off Richard’s chance to call the guards and attempted another bow. This one seemed more balanced and when he lifted his head the Angel noticed that the drunkard had turned slightly green.

“I – I being sick,” stammered Fernando.

The Angel was beside the young man in an instant, forcing the mortal to his knees before he could vomit on the royals. He held the man’s feverish neck, disgusted as a night’s worth of drinking splashed to the stone floor. Murmurs of revulsion reverberated through the hall as well as orders to get the mess cleaned up. Not surprisingly, the body beneath his hand went limp and he had to catch Fernando by the collar to halt him from falling into the mess. The drunkard dangled in his grasp.

“Where do you want him?” he asked the Crown.

King Richard stared in fury at the hanging bundle. “So it seems that the Angel is not predisposed to help only the poor.”

He stiffened at the acknowledgement.

“Take him to his quarters,” ordered the Ambassador.

He glanced at the man at the end of his fist and wondered who the hell this idiot was so as not to warrant being tossed directly into the dungeon. He gave a little shake and was rewarded with a moan. When he looked up he found the woman behind the throne standing before him clutching her rosary. She seemed very tiny, as if she consciously tried to contract herself into something unnoticeable. She reminded him of a mouse in the den of lions.

“Please, you come.” Her Portuguese accent was very thick and it was obvious that her English was hampered by the fear she felt.

He nodded in reply, sympathetic to her plight, and glanced over to his Chooser.
I will be back momentarily.

Notus nodded,
I will see what I can do here.

Hoisting the dead weight easily over his shoulder, he stood and followed the Lady out of the crowd into a hallway lit with interspersed flaming braziers. The little girl, obviously the Lady’s daughter, followed gleefully, and by her tones he knew her to be berating and poking fun at the unconscious young man. The mother reabsorbed herself into her prayers, the rosary clicking as she walked, ignoring the little girl.

They walked along the poorly lit corridors, shoes and gown making soft scraping sounds against stone. Occasionally they passed guards who stood in place and servants who scurried out of the way. Deeper they went and soon he had lost his bearings. He would need someone to show him the way back. Up a flight of uneven stone steps and a turn brought them to a heavy wooden door that opened on well oiled hinges.

The room was large and obviously part of a suite. Candles illuminated the rich room, bouncing yellow light off the elaborate tapestries used for decoration and insulation against the cold outside. Across from the big bed, neatly dressed with a large coverlet and down feathered pillows, a large gloaming hearth flickered and danced. Finding no more appropriate a place to dump the body, he let the unconscious man collapse on the mattress, and turned to leave only to find the Lady before him.

“Please, you check?” She nervously asked, swatting the little girl’s hand away from tugging on her gown. It was plain that the girl could not care less for the state of the young man and desperately wanted to go back to the party.

He nodded and sat on the side of the bed in an attempt to alleviate the Lady’s worries and to get out as quickly as possible and without hassle. He guessed Fernando to be in his early to mid twenties, but it was hard to tell for sure because the alcohol made his rumpled features appear drawn and older.

Dark, almost black hair lay strewn across a face slightly darkened with stubble, and he stank with ale and vomit that almost cut out the strong hot smell of blood coursing through his body. The vessel in Fernando’s neck throbbed invitingly. If they were alone, without either the Lady or her daughter, he would not have stopped himself. He would not have killed the mortal, only added to the disagreeable state the young man would find himself come morning. It would be a fitting punishment.

Jostled by his movements to stand, the young mortal opened his dark brown eyes and let out an earth-shattering scream before passing back into oblivion.

Burning red eyes, the Devil’s eyes, infected every alcoholic nightmare, so when the bucket of water was emptied onto his prone form Fernando was at first relieved and then cursed. Lightning bolts lacerated the insides of his eyelids and every beat of his heart pounded painfully through his head. He hoped that he was not dead because if he were then he would be in Hell and the thought of spending eternity in this state was too horrible to bear.

“My Lord, your Lord father demands your presence immediately,” came a voice from the darkness.

Fernando recognized Pedro’s voice but could not respond. Sometime during the night his tongue had grown thick and impotent.

“My Lord, are you awake?”

It took an immense effort to moisten his parched mouth enough to croak out a monosyllabic reply.

“Please, my Lord, you must rise. Your Lord father expects you promptly and if you are late it will not bode well for you.” Worry mixed with panic tinged the servant’s normally non-emotive tones.

Cracking open an encrusted eye, Fernando was met with the bright light of an early afternoon and Pedro’s hovering form. “Go away,” he hoarsely ordered and closed his eye. He did not care about Pedro and the thought of his Lord father made him ill.

“I am sorry, my Lord, but I cannot do that.”

“Yes, you can. No go away!” His head threatened to split at his own raised voice, and he groaned in self-induced agony. “Tell the Fidalgo de Sagres I will attend him once I’ve recovered.”

“I am sorry, my Lord, but I cannot do that,” reiterated Pedro, firmly.

“Stop repeating yourself.” Fernando tried to roll over onto his side but thought could not translate into action. Giving up he sprawled on his back. “I’ll see him when I’m good and ready.”

“You will see me
now
,” boomed a deep resonate voice.

Fernando’s eyes flew open and he froze. His heart throbbed in his hung over sensitive ears. Few things could induce fear in the young noble. In fact he could only recall being afraid twice in his life, and neither of them were when he went to war. The first was when he was six. He had heard his mother screaming in childbed and how her earth wrenching cries were cut short by death. Not even his newly born baby brother escaped death’s clutches. The second time was when he stole his Lord father’s sword to fight a duel, at the age of eleven. His father was so furious that Fernando could not sit for a week. He suddenly felt eleven again and resented it enough to push the feeling away.

With Pedro’s assistance, Fernando managed to sit up and swing his baggy hosen legs over the edge of the bed. Across the room, standing behind a chair, stood Fernando’s father, the Fidalgo Manuel de Sagres, in the splendour of rich dress marred by a face purpled with fury. Fernando sighed, ran a shaky hand through his dark thick locks, and waited. He figured that soon enough his father would start into his usual lecture.

An oppressive silence filled the room, making the servant fidget. If the circumstances were not so severe Fernando would have snickered at Pedro’s discomfort. Instead he had to endure the pain of the door crashing closed as Pedro fled at the order from the Fidalgo and the realization that now father and son were alone together. Not as stocky as his father, Fernando believed he could take him in a fair fight. After all he had youth on his side. He waited patiently as the Fidalgo casually sat down.

“Are you proud of yourself?” Some of the darker purple tones faded into lighter shades of red, yet the anger in the Noble’s voice was barely constrained.

Fernando blinked in uncertainty. This was not expected. A lecture, a sermon, perhaps, but not this.

Without waiting for a verbal reply the Fidalgo de Sagres continued, “Are you proud of how you embarrassed your cousin and his new wife. Not to mention humiliating yourself, your House and me in front of the English crown!” His voice rose to thunderous new levels, making Fernando involuntarily wince in pain. “Answer me, boy.”

Oh how Fernando despised being called that. Grinding his teeth in anger and loathing, he managed a strained reply. “If I have offended I most humbly and respectfully apologize.”

The Fidalgo de Sagres leaned back in his seat, studying his dishevelled son over steepled fingers. “At one time I truly believed you to be sincere and prayed that you would change to become a man that would follow well in my path. I see now that I was wrong.” Fernando blanched at the admission. “Your behaviour last night was the final abomination to this House. I will tolerate this no longer.”