Hell's Angel

Hell's Angel

Prologue

No one would guess, on first approaching her bed, that she was in fact not a Sleeping Beauty, but a recently deceased corpse. A soft zephyr coming through the open casement gently stirred the dark blonde tresses, like a breeze ruffling a field of wheat. The bloom on her cheek was still rose-tinged and translucent, a sign of youth and vigour. Long lashes rested as if in momentary repose, seemingly ready to flutter open at the slightest disturbance. The pale slim hands which lay by her side seemed temporarily still, only resting awhile before picking up the threads of the intricate tapestry which lay nearby.

It was only on closer inspection that Death appeared to have claimed his prize. There was no movement in her chest, no rise and fall which signified the breath of life. And further up from the narrow bodice were the tell-tale signs upon her delicate neck. The livid bruises, already deepening and becoming darker still, which showed how she had met a cruel end. The human tableau which at once contained so much peace, yet so much violence, lay like a hellish vision before him.

The boy had stopped crying now. With the remnants of tears still damp on his face, he continued to kneel by the bed, his whole body supplicant in prayer. He had been praying for God knew how long, his mind, heart and soul intent on one purpose. He knew that if he prayed long and hard enough that the lifeless body beside him would draw a breath, and God would answer him. He knew that Jesus would perform the same miracle that revived Lazarus, and restore an innocent life that had been destroyed. Two lives. He knew that if he was ardent and faithful enough, as it said in the Bible, that God would defeat evil and triumph over Death.

When he finally opened his eyes, he knew that he was wrong. That his mother and the Church and all the priests were liars. There was no mercy, no pity, no God. For she was still dead. And he was still alone.

Distant voices brought him back to the moment. Soon they would be here he realised, and then he would be done for. His proximity to her body, the jealous rages leading up to her death, the oath he had sworn before others.

"If she has betrayed me I will kill her. And myself along with her!"

But he hadn't meant it. It was anger and fear which had led to his outbursts. Fear of losing his beloved. Fear that the whispered, insidious rumours were true. Fear of living without the one person who had ever truly loved him. There was no life without her. They both might as well be dead - entombed in a crypt, buried deep below the damp earth. He sobbed quietly now as he recognised the kernel of truth at the heart of those feverish rages.

The sound of cries and shouts and the fast tramping of many feet broke the silence. There was little time left, but he knew what he had to do and, God willing, it would be quick. His knees almost gave way as he stood, then rushed to the stout oak door, drawing a large iron bar across it. That would hold them. For long enough. Returning to her bedside, he pulled the dagger from its sheath. It was sharp enough. Only yesterday he had stood in the warmth and laughter of the great kitchen, whetting the blade on the ancient stone. There were other weapons there, ready for hunting. It had only been yesterday. Today was the end, there would be no tomorrow.

He lay down on the bed beside her, for the last time clutching her already cold body to him. She was so beautiful, even in death. The priests would say that her soul was already in Heaven. For a moment he paused, a white-hot fear suddenly piercing his grief. Of course it would be Hell for him. Those who took their own lives went straight to Hell, for they had committed a mortal sin. Hell, damnation, eternal torment.

But that would be his life anyway, without her. Whether he lived or died, it was all the same.

The banging on the door told him there was no time left. The shouts increased in anger. He clasped the dagger. He was not quite sure, but up and under the rib-cage must be the surest way. Poised there, he thought of his father, whose dagger it had been, and a thousand sweet childhood memories flooded his mind.