Blood and Gold - Anne Rice [197]
What I remember was that a powerful bond existed between me and Bianca that seemed absolutely unshakable. As the years passed, she was as much my companion in silence as she had ever been in conversation.
We moved as one, without argument or consultation.
She was a proud and merciless hunter, dedicated to the majesty of Those Who Must Be Kept, and always drank from more than one human victim whenever possible. Indeed, there seemed no limit to the blood she could imbibe. She wanted strength, both from me and the Evil Doer whom she took with righteous coldness.
Riding the winds in my arms, she turned her eyes to the stars fearlessly. And often she spoke to me softly and easily of her mortal life in Florence, telling me the stories of her youth, and of how she had loved her brothers who had so admired Lorenzo the Magnificent. Yes, she had seen my beloved Botticelli many a time and told me in detail of paintings which I had not seen. She sang songs to me now and then which she composed herself. She spoke in sadness of the death of her brothers and how she had fallen into the power of her evil kinsmen.
I loved listening to her as much as I loved talking to her. Indeed, it was so fluid between us that I still wonder at it.
And though on many a morn, she combed out her lovely hair and replaited it with her ropes of tiny pearls, she never complained of our lot, and wore the cast-off tunics and cloaks of the men we slew as I did.
Now and then, slipping discreetly behind the King and Queen, she took from her precious bundle a gorgeous gown of silk and clothed herself with care in it, this to sleep in my arms, after I had covered her with warm compliments and kisses.
Never had I known such peace with Pandora. Never had I known such warm simplicity.
Yet it was Pandora who filled my mind—Pandora traveling the cities of the North, Pandora with her Asian companion.
At last there came an evening when, after a furious hunt, in exhaustion and satiation, Bianca asked to be returned early to the shrine, and I found myself in possession of a priceless three hours before dawn.
I also found myself in possession of a new measure of strength which I had perhaps unwittingly concealed from her.
To a distant Alpine monastery I went, one which had suffered much due to the recent rise of what scholars call the Protestant Reformation. Here I knew I would find frightened monks who would take my gold and assist me in sending a letter to England.
Entering the empty chapel first, I gathered up every good beeswax candle in the place, these to replenish those of the shrine, and I put all of the candles into a sack which I had brought with me.
I then went to the scriptorium where I found an old monk who was writing very fast by his single candle.
He looked up as soon as he found me standing in his presence.
“Yes,” I said at once, speaking his German dialect. “I am a strange man come to you in a strange way, but believe me when I say that I am not evil.”
He was gray-haired, tonsured, and wore brown robes, and he was a bit cold in the empty scriptorium. He was utterly fearless as he gazed at me.
But I told myself that I had never looked more human. My skin was as black as that of a Moor and I wore the rather drab gray garments which I had taken from some doomed miscreant.
Now as he continued to stare, quite obviously not in any mood to sound a general alarm, I did my old trick of placing before him a purse of gold coins for the good of the monastery which needed it badly.
“I must write a letter,” I said, “and see that it reaches a place in England.”
“A Catholic place?” he asked as he looked at me, his gray eyebrows thick and arched as he raised them.
“I should think so,” I said with a shrug. Of course I couldn’t describe to him the secular nature of the Talamasca.
“Then think again,” he said. “For England is no longer Catholic.”
“What on earth do you mean?” I asked. “Surely the Reformation has not reached such a place as England.”
He laughed. “No, not the Reformation