Chapter 15

Ten years had passed since I’d seen her. I was ashamed to realise that I had barely thought of Ysabelle, the simple scullery maid at Madame Fontenot’s brothel. She scurried along, a bundle clasped to her breast. She looked aged, worn, but yes, it was definitely her. She passed by me on the other side of the canal, crossed over a bridge farther up, and I was on my feet following her before I could think.

She hurried along the dark streets, her eyes darting left and right as though she expected one of the grotesque gargoyles to spring to life and reach out for her. Sweat beaded her brow and she licked her chapped lips; she was clearly agitated but I didn’t understand why. Maybe it was only that she travelled home in the dead of night, a woman alone. The more I followed the more I began to believe that she had just cause. She weaved in and out of the streets with the familiarity of a resident, and I noticed for the first time that she wore the uniform of kitchen maid of a local countess whose house I had often frequented and performed in.

I had been unaware of the servants. I could not even visualise the manservant who had repeatedly let me in, taken my cloak then lead me through to the salon; yet I still recognised the countess’s colours.

Ysabelle reached her destination and the tenseness left her shoulders as she unlocked the small door of an old hovel and hurried inside. Through the glass of a window pane the flame of a candle sparked and filled the hallway and I mapped the pathway of the lamp into the front room, where the frail light peeked through the faded, ill fitting drapes. Candle light illuminated the room above and I stepped back trying to see inside, but to no avail. I searched the outside of the house, not sure why, but driven to investigate this woman’s life. Some belated sense of guilt made me wonder how she had ended up here in this wreck of a house in the poorest part of the town and how, after all these years, she too was living in Venice, having also left her home town of Florence. I saw the candle extinguished and the house settled back into silence and I was left in the dark to ponder this new event.

As the night paled and dawn blossomed I slunk away. Back to my house on the Grand Canal where I hoped to find safety and normality in the silk sheets covering my brocade bed. Then maybe the oddness of the evening would dim and become a colourless memory and I would be able to continue my life as though nothing had ever happened. However, more than one thing had changed that evening - and strangely I wanted to learn more about Ysabelle, gain knowledge of why she, like me, had chosen exile from Florence and sought refuge in the last defendable fort, the city built on water: Venice.

The next day, I commissioned my steward to seek information on Ysabelle. With the right amount of coinage, information was available on anyone in the city. I left my house in the morning and set off on my usual visits to the surrounding nobility. After all, my livelihood relied on these people paying me to sing at their functions. As I stepped towards the water on my landing dock I suffered the weirdest sensation. It was as if the city shifted. I was momentarily dizzy. The ground pitched up at me. My footman quickly reached out and caught me as I almost stumbled into the canal.

‘My lord!’

‘It’s fine,’ I said, shaking my head to clear it. ‘Just a small dizziness.’

My head ached. I felt weak and hungry, yet I had eaten a large breakfast. Even so, the indulgence in bread, cheese and ham still did not leave me feeling full. I returned to my house and took to my bed. Laying flat without moving my head was the only cure.

‘Should we fetch the surgeon?’ the servant asked.

‘No. It’s nothing.’

Though I knew nothing of the power I had, I understood I was changed and feared the scrutiny of a medical man. So I lay in the darkening room hoping that this hideous vertigo would leave, while every time I turned over nausea threatened to overwhelm me.

As the night approached I revived and was able to stand and walk again. I felt almost normal. I looked out of my window and saw the moon still in it full glory and its beams fed me. I basked in it; absorbing the energy that poured down from it into my body.

‘She lives in Fondamento Nouve,’ my Steward told me as I dressed for dinner. ‘A servant girl in Countess Umberto’s household.’

‘I know that ...’

‘Her name is Ysabelle Lafont. French father, Italian mother. She arrived nine years ago. She tells everyone she is a widow. And a woman alone with two children, well why not?’

‘She has children?’

‘Twins. A boy and girl aged around nine.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, sir. No one knows the name of the father, but the children are Gabi and Marguerite. The boy’s full name is Gabriele ... sir.’

The floor unwrapped beneath me and I found myself sitting on the corner of my bed, my head in my hands.

‘My Lord?’ The steward’s worried face peered at me.

‘Leave me.’

As the door closed behind him, the steward flicked me a curious glance and I realised I would have to mask my reactions much better. It was clear by my reaction that the boy, Gabriele - Gabi, was not named so by coincidence.

Soon after he left I slipped quietly out of the house and walked through the streets, crossing bridges and curving through narrow alleys to reach Ysabelle’s house. I walked alone and with new confidence. All the way, the moon strengthened and filled me, its revitalising rays soaking into my skin, so that by the time I arrived there was no longer a trace of the sickness and dizziness I’d felt earlier.

It was a mild winter so far. There was no frost and the flood season had barely begun. It was early evening and the windows of the downstairs lodgings were open. As I approached the house I could hear the soft tones of a woman speaking inside. I stepped forward, climbed up easily on the rough brick work and looked inside. Through the open window I saw Ysabelle bathing a young boy as he stood naked in a small round bowl allowing her to slosh tepid water over him.

‘Oh, madre, why must you wash me so much? I stink like a girl and the other boys laugh. I will never get a job as a fisherman if I am not allowed to smell a little of fish ...’

‘Hush, Gabi. You must always be clean of mind and body. Have I taught you nothing? Those boys. Do you think they will one day serve kings? Maybe even become a page? You could be destined for great things if only you forget this foolishness.’

‘But, madre, all I love is the sea.’

She smoothed back his golden blonde curls, kissing his forehead.

‘But the sea does not love little boys, Gabi. It is a hard life you would choose.’

‘No matter how much you wash, you’ll always stink.’

‘Marguerite!’ Ysabelle turned to the tall lithe creature standing in the corner of the room, her arms folded.

She wore a white nightgown and cap and looked every bit her nine years except for the intelligence that seeped out of her mischievous brown eyes and impish face. Despite the gleaming whiteness of her clothes I was mesmerised by the grey line several inches from the bottom, which revealed that it had been altered to fit her.

‘Madre. What is the point? He wants to be a fisherman, let him. I will gladly be a fine lady and dance every night at the Palazzo, with handsome men to beg my hand. And I will fall in love, mamma, just like you did with our father ...’

‘No. Not like I did.’ Ysabelle looked out into space.

I scrutinised the boy and I felt like I was looking at a miniature portrait of myself; so green were his eyes blazing out from his guttersnipe tan and hair so fair even with the slight coating of street dust. The girl reminded me of my mother. She was taller than the boy and had a regal quality which belied her patched and repaired clothes.

‘You are staying away from fine gentleman, Marguerite.’

Ysabelle continued. ‘Until your brother makes his fortune and is able to provide a good dowry for you. Then you can marry well.’

‘I shall marry for love,’ the girl sighed. ‘Not just for wealth.’

Laughter bubbled into my throat and I quickly suppressed it. Her nature was so like mine. So rebellious and yet romantic. My God! These were my children and I might never have known.

Ysabelle had left Florence under a cloud and found herself here in Venice. I felt this must be fate. I could at least do something for her plight. Feed, cloth, educate the children; provide a good dowry to ensure a respectable match for Marguerite. These were the things that their mother strived for and I was sure that she would welcome an anonymous benefactor.

‘Well, what have we ’ere? A fine gent, roughin’ it. Looking for a piece of trench trash are yer?’

I turned slowly and found myself face to face with a gang of five men. The one who spoke was scraping his nails with a seven-inch silver stiletto. The others, four more of similar calibre, all grinned at the first man’s apparent wit. This was obviously their leader.

‘Come on, hand over yer purse and maybe we’ll leave you alive,’ another jeered.

‘And maybe we won’t,’ Stiletto smiled.

‘I’ve heard of you. Braves - that’s what you call yourselves,’ I replied.

‘Yeah. ’Cos we are brave, see? We’d always go down fighting. Wouldn’t we lads?’

Stiletto stood up to his full height. He was a tall man, but I was taller. I’d grown to six feet two - exceptionally tall for an Italian male in the seventeenth century. Stiletto was burly, muscular in the way dock workers were when they acquired sinewy from lifting heavy loads. His companions were more like Gondoliers with upper body strength showing in their sinewy arms.

A strange quiet filled my senses. I wasn’t afraid; my heart beat steadily as I looked at the men with their dead eyes, which showed they’d seen so much that nothing touched them anymore. I turned to face them fully.

‘Looks like we got a “Brave” gent here lads!’ Stiletto laughed.

I went cold. My muscles turned to marble. I knew instinctively that they couldn’t hurt me. Nothing could. The man with the stiletto rushed me and I knew the second before he moved, because his thoughts drifted into the air where I could pick them up like speech. Before it could pierce me the knife was knocked from his hand and he yelled in pain as his wrist snapped under my fingers. The other four rushed in and I slapped at them all. They fell before me, their blows no worse than the weakest splashes of rain. I was hungry for more. Stiletto got to his feet nursing his wrist, but still came at me, the knife now in his good hand. I grabbed his broken wrist, snapping it back, he screamed and it filled the empty alley like a cry from the pits of hell. Blood spurted from the wound as jagged bits of bone stuck out through the skin, and an overwhelming hunger consumed me. Before I could stop myself I pressed it to my lips and drank.

The warm liquid filled me and my muscles rippled and hardened, contouring themselves beneath my clothes as I sucked on the wound like a man drinking from a watering hole in the desert. Stiletto’s bowed back snapped under the pressure I exerted but still I held that wound to my lips and drank. It was the sweetest nectar I’d ever tasted. My appetite pushed against my jaws. My teeth ached. Through the ecstasy of drinking the hot liquid I felt the first awareness of pain. All four men had recovered and surrounded me. They buried their blades deep into my flesh. The pain was needles; little more than a small annoyance. I shrugged them off, turning and snarling.

‘Demon!’ one yelled. Falling back, he stumbled and pitched into the canal.

The others froze, their weapons gleaming with my blood, reflecting the moon. I licked my lips, still enjoying the taste of the now cold blood. My jaw throbbed and in my mouth I discovered new modifications. My canines were extended, long and sharp; I had my own stilettos. Yes - I remembered - Lucrezia had used hers on me.

The men ran; their footsteps echoed by the clang of knives falling on the cobbled canal bank; the body of their one time leader, the man I thought of as Stiletto, quickly forgotten. I picked him up, shook him, and roaring in anger I threw him into the canal.

I gave chase to the others but they had dispersed into the corners of the Gehenna they had first come from and I was not experienced in tracking. The realisation calmed me. There was nothing more I could do. Perhaps these villains would think twice before accosting another at night. I turned, looking around me.

I knew that the noise would draw some attention, but I hadn’t expected to come face to face with Ysabelle. She had come out of her house, followed me some way and I knew then that to think I could still remain anonymous would be naïve. She stared at me. Recognition, fear, horror, all these things furrowed across her face.

‘Come inside,’ she said, wide eyes blinking rapidly. ‘You are wounded. I can help.’

‘But ...’

Her face! Sadness and longing reflected in the image of the salty water that shone in her eyes. I followed her, though baffled because she knew what I could do. I was certain of it. She knew I was no longer human.

The children huddled in the corner of the tiny threadbare room. She led me to a roughly carved wooden stool and tugged me down until, dazed, I sat. My powerful limbs felt limp and I am sure that I was in some state of shock over the evening’s events.

Ysabelle picked up the bowl and tipped the contents out of the open window, then poured fresh water in from a clay jug. Beside her I noticed a bag of rags; she pulled out a strip, dipped it in the water and began washing the blood from my blank face.

‘Children, go to bed. Everything is alright now. The signor saw off those villains.’

Gabi nodded, but Marguerite looked dubiously at me.

‘I will not hurt your mother,’ I promised.

My voice sounded pitiful and weak and Marguerite weighed me up a while longer. Eventually she took her brother’s hand and led him from the room to a little alcove that was only covered by a tattered, grey curtain. Pushing it aside they went in while Ysabelle rinsed the rag, squeezing out the excess water into the bowl. I heard the soft scratching of their small bare feet as they climbed onto their straw pallet and wrapped a rough blanket around their cold frightened bodies.

‘They did not see anything, signor,’ Ysabelle told me, and I realised that she was afraid I might hurt them.

I stared at her while she took my hands, submerging them in the blood stained water. I rubbed my fingers and palms, washing away the signs of murder while I considered how right she had been to fear for her children. I was a stranger and a dangerous one.

‘Let me take off your coat and shirt - they stabbed you.’

‘No ... I am unhurt.’

‘Nonsense.’

She tugged at my torn velvet coat, removed the ruined silk waistcoat, lifted the frilled white shirt over my head and turned away. I allowed her to help me though I knew deep down what would be revealed underneath. While she began to carefully fold my clothes into a neat pile I looked down at the wounds and gasped. The small gashes were healing before my eyes and my body had changed. The strange hardening I’d experienced after taking the first mouthful of blood had been the result of my body restructuring itself. Muscles rippled across my stomach, my arms bulged with the strength and power of supernatural flesh and bone.

I looked up to find Ysabelle staring at my healing wounds, her eyes wide.

‘I ... don’t know what is happening.’

‘You are a miracle, signor!’

‘No. I’m a monster.’

I put my head in my hands and tears mingled with the remaining traces of blood to run in rivulets down my bare wrists. While I heaved and sighed with fear and remorse, the girl I once used for my own experience and personal gratification came silently to me with a cup of warm wine. She patted my bare shoulder with the loving kindness of a mother. I took the wine, drinking sloppily. Its contents soothed my insides, calmed me, not so much for its intoxicating properties but by the kindness with which it was bestowed.

Ysabelle sat down quietly on her own pallet, thread a needle patiently, and carefully began sewing my ripped coat while I finished washing.

‘I want to help you.’

‘Why would you want to do that, signor?’

‘They are my children!’

‘No. They are mine.’

‘You surely cannot deny that I am ... ?’

‘Their father ... ?’

We both fell silent and I could hear the tide as it lapped against the side of the canal like a cat licking its paws. I forced the sound back into the recesses of normal hearing, returning my attention to Ysabelle’s pinched and frightened face.

‘Si. You are their father. But I bring them up, while you happily dance and sing with beautiful ladies.’

‘I did not know ...’

‘And what would you have done if you did, Gabriele? You were a mere boy and I an innocent girl.’

‘I would have helped ...’

‘Madam Fontenot told your uncle, but he did not believe.’

‘He never told me.’

She bit the tiny thread with small yellowed teeth and lifted my coat up for inspection.

‘There. Almost as new. It is fortunate it is black, the blood will not show.’

‘Stop it! Stop it damn you! I have as much right ...’ My voice echoed around the small room.

‘Madre!’ A small voice cried from behind the curtain. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘Si, Gabi. Go back to sleep.’ She turned to me. ‘You have no right!’ she said in hushed tones. ‘You come here, and frighten my children!’

‘You are right. This was not what I intended. I came to see them. I was going to help you secretly. Unfortunately those ...’ I indicated the window and the street outside. I felt hopeless, dejected, and I didn’t know what to do for the first time in my spoilt life. ‘I never expected you to find me outside ... My uncle should have told me ...’

‘He was right not to.’

‘No. He was not,’ I insisted, then paused before saying, ‘What do you want for them? For their future?’

She looked up at me, her eyes glittered with tears of anger and something else that I couldn’t understand.

‘Everything.’

‘Then let me help.’

She stared at me; her large black eyes piercing into my soul as though she could see everything inside that I hid even from myself.

‘You have changed, signor.’

‘I am a man ...’

‘No, I think you are something more ... but I shall not dwell on this if your intentions are as you say.’

‘Let me get a better house for you; a governess to educate Gabriele and Marguerite. Money - I live well, you need not work in a scullery or elsewhere again, Ysabelle.’

‘You ... remembered my name?’

‘Yes, of course I do!’

Silver lines furrowed down her cheeks and I realised that Ysabelle regarded me with far more fondness than I had suspected.

‘There’ll be a dowry for Marguerite, and as for Gabriele ... may I call him Gabi?’ She nodded. ‘I can get him a commission in court, if that is what you want. Do either of them ... have a voice?’

Ysabelle regarded me.

‘I heard you many times in the Countess’ salon. Your voice carried right down into the kitchens. The other maids used to say how beautiful ... but you know that, signor.’ She smiled sadly.

‘Marguerite? Perhaps, but I do not really know about these things.’

‘But I do. I want to be part of their lives. I want to be their father.’

‘No!’

She leapt from her seat on the pallet and paced the room, a faded shadow of her former self.

‘I told them ... their father was dead.’

‘I see.’ Sick sadness pulled at my insides.

‘But ... an uncle would be acceptable, signor.’ Ysabelle’s timid eyes rose to meet mine.

I nodded. What else could I do? I was a father! And this brought with it new responsibilities. It took the horror of my changed condition away from me, and I even wondered briefly if society could accept this new enhanced being I had become when Ysabelle accepted it so easily.

It took so little for me to arrange more tolerable accommodation because I brought them back to my own home after organizing a governess to teach the children.

I soon learnt that Marguerite was extremely bright, the governess heaped praise on her. She had a voice with wonderful lyrical purity which I was determined to train. Gabi proved lazy and naughty for the most part; but wonderfully amusing. In the next few months my children grew to know me as their uncle and benefactor and I was happier then than I had ever been in my whole life.