Pro Luce Habere (To Have Before the Light) Volume I

By Krisi Keley

For eight hundred years, Valéry Castellane has known only one kind of light - the light in those human beings he's had to kill so he might live. The last of these has been the most brilliant light of all, the light of the one sent to tell him that heaven was never really lost to him. But did he destroy all hope for it in attempting to make this angel a human love he could hold forever on earth, or is the mystery of this vampire's salvation yet to be fully revealed? Sometimes the key which unlocks the secret of what's to come is hidden in the past. Take another journey with a vampire, through eight centuries of dark human history which have, all along, been leading him to the light.

Volume I: Descent
"You continue to see the lie before you, no matter how often it speaks the truth!" Valéry warned Angelina in On the Soul of a Vampire, when she refused once again to see in him the monster he saw in himself. But did the tragic end of their relationship truly indicate he had the clearer sight? Relive the memory of Valéry's descent into darkness before deciding who was really right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Krisi Keley
• Release date: Sep 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781617520792

Krisi Keley

Krisi Keley was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and now lives in Chester County with her family and seven dogs. "On the Soul of a Vampire" is her first novel and is Book One in a planned series. A writer and artist with a degree in Theology and education in foreign and classical languages, she has always been intrigued with supernatural, paranormal and horror fiction and how these myths try to answer humankind's questions about the spiritual, good vs. evil and the nature of man. Pro Luce Habere Volume I, Book II in the On the Soul series was released in July 2011 and the author is presently working on Pro Luce Habere Volume II and Book III of the series, in which she hopes to share more new theories about both vampires and the human soul.

Book preview

Part One

The Holy Crusade

Chapter One

Noël came to me as I sat by the widest section of the creek that ran alongside the southern road - a dusty, wide path that separated the cleared planting lands from the village. I had been sitting there on the stony slope to the water’s edge, picking the newly-blooming buds of bellflowers that grew up between the rocks, when I heard his soft footsteps approaching. They were stealthy as he navigated the outcroppings of rock and high grasses behind me, and knowing that he attempted to sneak up on me, I did not turn, playing along.

With a sudden wild yelp, he pounced, knocking me over and precipitously close to into the water as well, as he jumped on me from behind. We wrestled fiercely on the ground for a while before recomposing ourselves, and I had no doubt that if our antics had been witnessed, we would have been chided. At fourteen and fifteen, our game was decidedly childish, but great fun, nevertheless.

So, what have you to say of the news, my lord? he asked, after we’d sat together in comfortable silence for a time.

Lord? I questioned in response, looking about. It had become the standard way to begin things between Noël and I, and I’d begun to suspect he purposely used the title on me because my little act amused him.

Is my father here? I asked, feigning concern and continuing to swivel my head around in great exaggeration.

Noël laughed. So what have you to say of it, Valéry? he inquired, stressing my name. Yet, I could tell once again that he was pleased I preferred he use it and not any title.

There is so much news, I answered with a rather imperious weariness and he smiled ever so slightly. It was quite obvious to me that he knew I had no idea of what he was talking about, but he played my game as I had just played his.

"Then, this Esteve… euh, Estienne of Cloyes is of no interest to you?" he asked, sounding just the tiniest bit amused.

I tilted my head in seeming consideration, but in truth, I really did have no idea of what Noël spoke. Such was all too frequently the case when it came to the matter of things not pertaining specifically to my father’s domain. I was made aware of all that my family considered important in the county of Forcalquier and in the Kingdom of Arles, in which both my cousin and my father’s lands resided. Sometimes, if it affected these lands, I also heard news of neighboring counties and duchies, including, occasionally, word of King Philippe II Auguste of France, cousin to our own highest ruler - or at least so in name, as I’d once heard my cousin say - Raymond of Toulouse, the marquis of Provence. And of course, there was always talk of the Empire and of the Church’s most recent attempts to quash a heretical doctrine spreading vigorously through our nearby lands. But, as were my parents, my family in Digne and in Brindisi, and nearly all those I knew but for the Abbot who sometimes visited our castle, I was uneducated. I spoke the language of the region at that time, the langue d’Oc, and I could understand with some proficiency various dialects of the Kingdom of France, my mother’s Italiot tongue, the common Latin and even some of the spoken word from Aragon. However, I could not read the written word, but for some of the Scriptures and a very few other writings of the Church. And I could not write at all. My father read little more than I, and though some of the higher nobility were more educated than my family, in 1212, stories and news, poetry and political matters… all were predominantly passed on by word of mouth. If news was not passed on to me this way, sung to me by passing troubadours or taught to me at Mass, then I did not know of it. Unless Noël or one of the other villagers came upon it and told it to me, that is. And in fact, they always seemed to learn of the truly exciting news long before my parents were aware of it.

"Tell me what you think of this Estienne," I finally answered him, though I still managed to hold to my superior air. Both he and I were quite aware of the lie in my pretense of knowledge, but it was not spoken of. It was a harmless lie, after all, and I was the lord’s son. Noël wasn’t about to question me, as much as I may have deserved to be put in my place. Ironically, he thought my place to be as superior as I had been taught it was. A paradox well worth appreciating, especially for someone like me, who normally could not make himself care a whit about station or any of the rules that accompanied it. Nonetheless, by fourteen one did learn when to use such ridiculous things to his advantage and I had no qualms with being as foolishly cocky as any boy that age tried to be.

I think I should like to meet this boy who has spoken to God, replied Noël, employing exactly the words he knew would most capture my attention.

Spoken to God. Oh, but how the words intrigued me. Were there any words that could have possibly moved me more? I spent nearly as much time questioning the vicar of our parsonage as I spent with Noël. I was fascinated by stories of the saints and martyrs. Awed that there were those who had known the Almighty so intimately, even to the point of willingly facing the most terrifying fate of all for Him, of making the supreme sacrifice. Faith. It was something that tortured me, in that I couldn’t explain to myself why it made perfect sense to me. It frightened me and it inflamed me and there were never enough answers to all my questions.

Will you go all the way to Vendôme to demand an answer of this boy, as you do so regularly with Father Basile? Noël asked me, but though there was a teasing quality to his tone, I could see the serious curiosity in his eyes. He expected me capable of such a thing, of course. There was not a single villager who did not talk of the young lord’s strangeness or the grief it gave to his well-respected and even well-loved father.

Who is this Estienne of Cloyes, that he has had discourse with the highest Lord? I demanded. I made my inquiry one of doubtful suspicion, but in fact I was almost uncontrollably excited by my friend’s news. Once again, I was the last to know the truly important events in the land. Still, that mattered little to me at the moment. Though I had no sense of portent, I could barely conceal my emotion over Noël’s revelation.

But a shepherd’s son, he responded. Yet, he has taken his word to the King of France.

King Philippe of France had had audience with this shepherd’s son, and so my parents must know of it then! Why had I not been told?

It is said that he has been instructed by the Lord Himself to lead the new pilgrimage, Valéry. And that he gathers soldiers in Vendôme, Noël said quietly, understanding already why I had not been given the news. Knowing before he’d even come to tell me of it that my father would never give such news to a son he thought had his head in the heavenly clouds far too often. And now that I understood as well why I hadn’t been informed, a great anger at my father made the blood fire inside my veins. His fear that his only living child would become a lowly priest instead of a mighty lord, no doubt, but that he would keep such a monumental thing as this from me!

But he swears that God has proclaimed it is the children who will win the battle for Him. Not with the sword, but with a child’s hope and faith, Noël continued while I stewed. His words managed to take my thoughts from my father momentarily, however.

A pilgrimage of children? I mused aloud. But that was perfect sense, was it not? Who better to fight for God than we? Had not Father Basile preached many times that the Holy Land would always remain out of the reach of impure hands? And what better way for me to follow the path of the saints before me? I could embody the faith, so ephemeral. Truly it was a sign, I knew.

We will go to Vendôme, Noël. We will offer our lives to this cause. We will fight this battle and win.

He shook his head slightly, though there was admiration in his eyes, all over his face. Your father will not allow us. Not me. Certainly not you…

Oh, but even a lord cannot forbid what God has commanded, I answered, and he was further impressed by my unshakeable conviction. I was too caught up in my excitement to be impressed with myself, however. I could think on nothing else but how Noël and I were to get to Vendôme, a town hundreds of miles away. I knew almost nothing of distance or geography; I only knew that it seemed impossibly far. And I also knew that that would not stop me.

I sat at the long wooden table in the dining hall that night, my appetite nonexistent as I searched for the words that might sway my father. The words that might stop any argument before it could begin. Of course, I knew there were no such words. I may command great respect and deference when I was in the village, but here I was my father’s fourteen year old son, and he was lord of this castle and this land. A segnour who, in truth, had very little power but within his own small domain, but still my master as surely as he was master of those he protected.

I pushed my spoon through the stew in my bowl, trying to remain invisible at my end of the table, until I could come up with just the right words to state my cause. My father sat at the head of the table, the candelabra streaking shadowy stripes across his serious brow as he concentrated on the meal in front of him. My mother sat at the side of the table to his right, daintily pecking at her own food. Neither seemed aware of me while my eyes rested on the plate in front of me and my mind on the fight ahead.

Are you unwell, Valérien? my mother asked at last, startling me, and I immediately focused guiltily on the untouched food before me.

You haven’t spoken a single word all evening, she continued.

I looked up to see if she was making fun of me, but I needn’t really have checked. I knew it was little likely my mother might be trying to be comical; she had no sense of humor that I was aware of and furthermore, it was very probable that I would give up food and drink, possibly even breath itself, before I would give up talking. Honestly, it would be quite fair to say that I was one person who had never had occasion to claim himself at a loss for words.

I must go to Vendôme, I answered, deciding in that instant that there was no other course, but to get directly to the point. My father would have to admire me that, if nothing else. And I was certain that nothing else said this evening would inspire his admiration.

Vendôme? Whatever for? my mother asked, as my father put down his utensil and responded simultaneously, "What you must do is speak no more on such foolishness." He did not look at me as he spoke, but his tone was firm and his voice frightfully cold.

It is not foolishness and I must speak until you see the truth of it, I answered. I did not intentionally disrespect him but, as was all too frequently the case, my good sense was overruled by my passion and the words were out before I had time to consider the consequences.

Valérien, my mother began, but my father raised his hand to silence her.

Katerini, leave us, he said quietly, without even a glance in her direction.

She hesitated only momentarily, her expression concerned. But she rose from the table to take her leave and she did not look at me, as my father’s tone commanded she did not.

Oh yes, but I was apparently in deep trouble already. And so, why not risk more?

Why not let my mother stay and hear what you have kept from me… and why? I questioned him, keeping my voice much calmer than I actually felt. Because, despite my fear of what punishment my terrible brashness might bring about, I was as angry as my father was, and it supplied a control I rarely exhibited. Perhaps he would kill me for this, but I would die fighting for God, even this night, if it were so. Or so I told myself, ignoring any sense I might be being a bit overdramatic.

My mother halted abruptly at those words, in any case, though I’m certain she didn’t mean to do so; she was only just completely shocked by me again. Although, why she experienced every of my thousands of stunning displays like it was the first, I couldn’t figure out. But she stood there this night, as she did each time, immobile, and incapable of looking at either me or my father.

My bold son. Do you think your fearlessness impresses me? asked my father, his tone not changing in the slightest. But he motioned for my mother to sit back down.

She sat nervously, her eyes downcast.

I felt a twinge of guilt, sorry that I had so involved her in this fight. For even at just fourteen, I understood enough about both my mother’s sentiments and her position to know it was not for lack of love that she could not support me in this battle of wills.

Katerini of Brindisi, the youngest daughter born to a well-off though untitled family of the Apulia region, she had been, more or less, given to my father for marriage as a gift from a comrade in arms, before she was even old enough to know what marriage was. In this year of 1212, when I was fourteen, my mother was just thirty-two to my father’s forty-nine years and she had birthed six children before me. I was Katerini’s only living child, as three had been lost to illness and three to miscarriage, and my own birth had been so difficult as to leave her unable to bear more children. But though I was the only left to her and so, in effect, her saving grace, I knew she found me nearly impossible to handle. An enfant terrible whose passion and intensity would challenge even the most laissez-faire of parents, and one who was all but a complete mystery to a temperament as calm and passive as my mother’s. Worse, already at this young age, I was recognized by all who knew me as one whose oft-mentioned angelic visage was only matched by his unusual interest in all things celestial. Not a combination any hard-working rural family could much appreciate, peasant or noble, and certainly not when that child was the only remaining heir of a man bequeathed his lordly commission for the sole purpose of keeping the land defended against dangerous invaders. Maybe most important of all, it is hard to speak for one you don’t truly understand to begin with, and all the more so when the person you’d be opposing to do so was one who would have every right, according to the standards of the time, to replace you with a stronger vessel who could provide him with more than a sole whelp of a son who seemed far more interested in the heavenly Kingdom than the one here on earth. I could expect no support from my mother therefore, unless perhaps it was silently transmitted to me.

Speak then, my rash and only child. And do not think your status as such will save you, my father bid me, and I dared not smile at his words, though I did find them rather humorous. Yet, even still, my anger did not abate. An uncomfortable state, that, such utterly conflicting sentiment.

I will fight this battle, Father, as it is the one battle I was meant to fight, I finally answered the amusing statement I’d dared not laugh at, after a tense silence on everyone’s part.

You are meant to be lord of this domain when I am no longer here to fulfill that duty, he answered resolutely.

I can be no one’s lord until I know that for which one is truly meant to fight, I countered, thinking it to be a reasonable and rather inspired argument.

You fight for your name, your family, your land and for all the defenseless ones who depend on you, my father responded, his anger growing that he must tell me this.

And what of God? Has He no place in this order of things?

Valérien, you wear on my patience, he warned. God is not in Vendôme simply because some shepherd boy declares it so.

My mother made a slight sound and I was given relief from my father’s angry glare when he turned his eyes to her. My gaze followed his in some surprise. Surely my mother was not about to speak on my behalf!

Katerini, will you too stand against me in defense of such folly? my father asked, his voice less cold perhaps, but no less stern.

No, my lord, she responded immediately, and my heart sank. None too far, however, as I hadn’t truly expected much of her.

My father turned back to me, and then my mother spoke up again.

But Raphaël, perhaps… She faltered for a moment and then recovered herself, while both my father and I stared at her in some amazement.

Perhaps the boy needs to find his way before he can become a lord of wisdom and merit, as is his father, she finished softly.

Ah, flattery. And why hadn’t I thought of it? Doubtful it would persuade him, but I admired her craftiness. She had never shown even a hint of such an enviable quality before.

From you, wife, I will accept that on surface value. He looked to me once more. But I might suspect that you have spent too much time under the influence of your son… My answer to you both is no. I will not have my only son involved in some false campaign. This child is a liar or he is feeble and has been misled. No good God would send children into the hands of the enemy. I forbid your participation.

God has chosen that only true innocence will conquer evil! I exclaimed heatedly, my passion now beyond my ability to reign in. Of course, I wasn’t sure what the conquering of evil might entail. I knew little about the Mohammedan Turks who held the Holy Land captive, but for the horrific tales of hideous torture, enslaved Christians and desecrated holy places which were preached by priests or told by passing storytellers. I only was sure that it was both my duty and my right to prove my love for God in this way, as so many had done before me. I didn’t understand my father’s seeming indifference to matters of faith and his immortal soul. He attended Mass and followed the laws and yet, did he not see the importance, the meaning behind the concepts? For me, it was not what we did, so much as why we did it – why it was at all, in fact. But I could not put a voice to my yearning to understand the deeper implications of our faith, to live them, so that I could make my father see what it meant to me. I cared much less about all the examples of truth – about saying the right Catholic words or performing the right Catholic act – what I wanted was the essence of Catholicism itself, the very truth behind everything that existed, for it seemed that there lie unimaginable beauty.

Man has lost because lost innocence has spoiled him for true faith. A child will win because he is open to God’s will, I continued, heedless of my father’s furious expression and my mother’s terrified one. I will escape this place that tries to imprison my soul and you will not stop me!

Valérien, you are mad. You leave me no choice but to treat you as such…

I will do this thing! I all but screamed in his face, having excited myself into a near frenzy. Why could he never see reason in anything but what he himself held in esteem?

I will do this thing, I repeated, with a just as sudden peacefulness. For surely, if God commanded this campaign, His will would ensure that I go, no matter what my father might do to try to stop me.

I forbid it, my father said, repeating his promise as I had repeated mine. Thankfully, I remained sane enough not to laugh in his face. It was there though, that laughter, so horribly close to the surface. A trademark and a terrible personality flaw, some who knew me might say, that inopportune and sometimes inappropriate amusement – a plague of my existence already at the age of fourteen. But truly, how could he have thought it possible to stop me?

When my father left to call on a neighboring county three days later, my mother released me from the cell in which my father had had me incarcerated beneath the castle. He had seemed unable to formulate a just punishment for my outburst, and although beneath my pain and anger I recognized it was because he feared for my safety, as I sat in this dungeon that had punished no one yet but me, I only saw it as the cruelest of his attempts to break my spirit, this keeping me from all the things I most desired – my conversations with Father Basile, my contact with the world by way of my socialization with the villagers, my friendship with Noël who was a brother to me, and worst of all, the little freedom I could taste in simply leaving the castle walls.

Unfortunately for my father, this third day of his journey was an exceptionally warm one for spring and my mother’s worry over my physical well-being overruled her concern for contravening his will. Bringing me my afternoon meal and experiencing for herself the stifling conditions of this up-till-then unused prison under the castle, she bid me to go to the pond to cool off, with the promise that, if I behaved, she would allow me the reacquisition of my bedchambers and my normal daily routine until the day of my father’s return.

Noël was there by the water’s edge, appearing forlorn and immensely bored, and I crept up on him stealthily as he’d a few days before done to me.

And what is your excuse for avoiding work today, since you hadn’t me to pardon you from your duties? I questioned sternly when I stood barely an inch behind his back.

Noël turned around rapidly and stared at me in shock. I realized immediately however, that it wasn’t my words which produced his expression, but rather his surprise over my presence here at all. It was very apparent he hadn’t held much hope for seeing me. Ever again, perhaps. I wondered if he’d thought me dead, and this struck me as deliciously funny, though God knows why.

He shook his head slightly and before he spoke, I thought he was only doing so to clear it – so amazed was he that my father hadn’t thrown away the key to my cell.

"You are insane, are you not, Valéry? he nearly whispered, making it clear that all had heard of my tantrum and of the punishment they no doubt thought I’d rightly received for such disrespect of my father and lord. No surprise in that, that all knew what had transpired. However, in his disbelief of my audacity, Noël made the regrettable mistake of forgetting our game and consequently, to address me as lord."

You disappoint me, my friend, I thought. I believed you knew me too well.

What did you call me? I demanded in a harsh tone, and he paled considerably.

My lord, my lord, he stammered, visibly shaken, and I laughed merrily. Yes, it was horrible, but honestly, Noël should have known me much better than that. He’d be witness to and sometimes recipient of my knavery for almost the whole of both of our lives.

I looked around wildly. Is my father here? I asked with trepidation, and Noël’s expression remained bewildered and wary for quite some time before he finally relaxed.

I fear I will not be able to supply us with the proper attire for our mission, as it would befit my station to do, I continued on blithely, as if I hadn’t just frightened him nearly to death. Do you think you might be in a position to overcome my failing?

Then… he paused, appearing both awed and a bit skeptical that, despite the punishment I’d received for my disrespect, I’d still somehow succeeded in the impossible and actually convinced our lord of this endeavor. Then, your father has given consent for our journey?

My father has forbidden me this journey, I responded. "But there is a higher Lord who commands I go. And as my father has not forbidden you, I, as your lord, command that you accompany me."

Valéry, you cannot…

Oh, but I can and I will, as will you, I interrupted him. Find all you are able on a route to Vendôme, as that I most likely cannot do without my mother hearing of it… I paused thoughtfully. I expect we have little time before this Estienne leaves on his pilgrimage, yes? So you must find what you can quickly.

But how will we…?

My father returns in no more than four or five days, I think, so we have only that little time. My mother has promised not to keep me prisoner in the fortress, if I am a model son, but it must be quickly, Noël.

He will find us and he will kill us, he protested flatly.

Probably an exaggeration, but indeed, the punishment for such a great disobedience would not be pleasant.

Where is your faith? I asked him.

This question was enough to convince Noël. Or at least enough to shame him into doing as I instructed. And he went off under my direction that we meet here again the next day to go over our strategy.

Dressed identically in uniforms hastily sewn together by his sister – consisting of close-fitting leggings and a dark blue thigh-length tunic bearing on its shoulder a red cross bordered in gold – Noël and I parted on my exuberant inquiry, Shall we go to God now? in the dark of night two days later.

My friend’s trusting reply that Where you lead, I will follow, my lord, seemed to indicate more faith in me than I deserved four sunrises later, when we two at last made it to Valence, the first of our intended destinations.

As it turned out, the adjectival designation quite close with which his cousin had bequeathed the town was quite the misnomer, and travel on foot, through the precipitous mountains surrounding the Verdon River, where my father’s castle resided, to this town nearly a hundred miles away, was not the quick and easy journey Noël and I had so naively envisioned. We had been ridiculously confident we could reach the place within a day and so, by the time we did arrive, we’d already gone through a third of the food and half the ale we’d parted with.

We dropped down by the Rhône just outside the town at sunset, unable to find those we’d be told to locate inside the town. Our feet ached from hours on rocky mountain roads and the uneven ground by the overgrown banks of the river, and our backs groaned from carrying our sacks. Our stomachs complained the food we’d supplied them was much too little for such strenuous activity, and I was sure Noël had visions of a bed dancing in his head every bit as much as I did. And neither of us mentioned the several heart-stopping frights we’d had over the last four nights when golden-green eyes had gleamed too close from within the forests around us.

Yes, it had been a tiring and terrifying four days, and yet Noël and I were so exhilarated still, sleep wouldn’t come. We laughed over our adventures, forgetting our fear already, and remembering only the bawdy tales and silly romantic songs we’d sung, recollected from fairs we’d attended over the years. We discussed the route to the next town we strove to reach and fantasized silently on our own and yet, together, of what might happen when we reached the place. Maybe most of all, we breathed a sigh of relief. For it seemed my father, all the castle and village, surely must know of our disobedience by now, must realize where we were and where we were going, yet no one had found us thus far. Those we had met in our travels didn’t even question why two young men, barley more than children, were out roaming the countryside unattended by any adult, and we felt free.

So it was in this state of joyfully blind freedom, convinced we were invincible and certainly guarded and guided by God at every turn, that we came into Lyon. And there we met a group of fellow pilgrims, ranging in age from twelve to twenty, who joined us on our journey to Vendôme.

Chapter Two

Somewhere in the Duchy of Burgundy, our band of travelers, grown to forty, became lost. It took us several days to locate water again, and even when we did, we were unsure that it was the Loire we’d been instructed to follow. Too, we were having some severe difficulty in communication and I was one of only a few who seemed able to understand with any proficiency the strange dialects of those who had joined us as we passed out of the Kingdom of Arles.

Despite being all but directionless, understanding one another quite badly, and now forced to beg food from the domains through which we passed, we were, nevertheless, a brigade of the most joyful wanderers one could ever hope to lay eyes on. Not a single member of our party voiced any doubt over reaching Vendôme or the shepherd boy of Cloyes, who had by this time reached a status of sainthood in all our eyes. Estienne had journeyed as we now journeyed, a boy of only twelve, and he had gone all the way to the King of France. To cross such a gulf in station superseded all the miles we had traveled. Or so we saw it, and the name of the already legendary boy entered into all of the religious hymns we’d been taught in Church and sang now as we walked.

In Nevers, Sebastian, one of the elders of the group at age seventeen, informed us we were near our destination. He obtained this information from the daughter of a viscount in whose company he’d spent a considerable portion of our night in the town. In fact, since he’d joined with our band of over fifty just outside of Lyon, he had been the one to garner the most helpful information pertaining to our journey. All of it, seemingly, from the daughters, nieces and cousines of the masters of each domain we passed through. And I was finding myself almost as intrigued by Sebastian and his skill in charming women as I was by the thought that we were near our destination.

As we continued toward Vendôme from Nevers, Sebastian walked with Noël and me at the head of our troop. In my usual quest for answers, I was determined to discover how he was able to procure so easily the information so difficult for the rest of us to obtain.

Ah, the young lord wishes to take instruction from me. Truly an honor, Sebastian exclaimed in response to my query. As he always seemed to, he radiated a warmth and an ebullience in which it was impossible not to be caught up.

Yes, yes, I agreed quickly. Instruct me, Sebastian of Lyonnais. I laughed and elbowed Noël, who was shaking his head beside me. I thought most likely because he believed I was showing too much deference to someone beneath me. Or perhaps that, despite liking Sebastian as much as I – as we all – did, he thought what a peasant would know and say of how he gleaned his information from women was not something meant for nobler ears. But I neither cared about Sebastian’s station nor concerned myself over what he might tell me. I would have never admitted it to either of my friends, but I knew almost nothing of women, and however I could come by some knowledge of them seemed only a beneficial thing to me.

Tell me how you loose the most immobile tongue, I commanded, and he joined me in laughter.

Oh, but this is a skill of which you are already in possession, m’lord, he replied, growing somewhat more serious. Your name is one I have heard on the lips of every of the beauties who travel by our side.

I was excited by this amazing revelation, to be sure. At fourteen, I had begun to experience some of the stirrings of a young man my age, but there had never been one to be the recipient of my untested passions. A young bride-to-be awaited me, a second cousin of my mother’s in Brindisi I was supposed to meet when she turned sixteen. But there was really no one near at hand for adolescent fantasies. Those musings I did have were very vague in nature, as there were few female guests who ever visited my father’s castle to muse about. None of the young peasant women under my father’s rule would have dared approach the lord’s son and with my very submissive mother as my model of feminine standard, I would have been more shocked than aroused if they had.

Lord Valérien, were you forbidden the looking glass? Your beauty is all the skill you need, he proclaimed when my face betrayed as much confusion as excitement, and Noël shook his head again.

I was accustomed to references to my appearance, but usually from overhearing hushed whispers I’d never been completely sure were compliments. Strange beauty, almost preternatural, were not phrases a fourteen year old male knew very well how to take, and as such opinions of me were most times murmured between those who seemed to be saying the words as if they spoke an embarrassing secret, to hear this was considered an admirable thing, especially to the young women who made