Crispin the Vampire: The Cross of Blood

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Once after my narrow escape from Aycliffe and my night in the Forest of Hiding, it was the sound of the toiling bell that woke me. Dawn had come, and with it the news of my ever-increasing hunger for blood. The church was announcing Prime, early morning prayers.

In haste, I made the sign of the cross, and offered up my early morning prayers to He Who is Most High. I listened closely, wishing to catch everything. I only heard the bell, and muted forest babble. The villagers were just waking up.

Once awake, I could not, no matter what I did, push the image of John Aycliffe's sword descending on me out of my head. I had nightmares about it. Nor could I forget the meeting I had witnessed with the stranger and the steward. I could not fathom why they would be there, or what was happening.

Even so, I attempted to convince myself that nothing was too out of the ordinary, except the death of my mother. I knew that it was hopeless. But Aycliffe had treated me horribly in the past, and I had lived to tell the tale. Why should he want to kill me now? I was a nobody, a foolish poor boy with no mother or father. I did not even have any friend nor family! He had no need to concern himself with me, even if I had witnessed his midnight meeting. But that was no reason to kill me!

It seemed that the best course of action was to return to my home, and act as if nothing had happened, save my mother's death.

With the coming of dawn, the morning light was returning. It took little to determine where I was, and make my way the the village, without stumbling.

Because my mother was a cottar- one who held no land in her own right- she and I lived in a small rented one-room dwelling that stood at the far edge of our village. It was close by the northern boundary cross. A thin thatched roof was for appearances only. An earth floor had always greeted our feet. And since it was far from the rest of the village, I was able to remain hidden from those already at their daily labor.

I was almost out of woods and about to run to our cottage when I caught sight of Benni Kinsworthy, the bailiff, and Wilson Jackson, the reeve. Armed with pikes and axes, they headed toward my hut.

Disturbed, I drew back quickly and concealed myself in some bushes to observe their progress as they entered the tiny hut. As they entered, they must have thought I was in there, because Benni said, "Figs. Me was hoping he'd be in there." Wilson laughed. "We still get some fun, Ben." And they exited, took out their weapons, and prepared to strike the structure. I closed my eyes, not wanting to witness this horrid moment of night mares.

I heard the small cottage of mean construction, fall down. It could withstand the elements of God, but not their assault. I had to see it now. The place I had once called home was now a heap of thatch, wattle, and clay. A pile of rubbish. Yet Benni was not content. He produced a flint from his wallet, struck sparks, and set ablaze the only place I had ever called home.

Deeply shaken, I desperately tried to flee to the forest. But I could not. For I had hidden in rose bushes with the thorniest of thorns. I could not escape. But I struggled with my life, the thorns tearing apart my clothes, my skin, my very soul. Blood covered my tunic and leggings.

I do not know how long I struggled there, helplessly, too frightened to plea for help. I did not see a soul. After what seemed like hours, I was still not able to maneuver my way out of the hideous roses. To this day, I can not ever see roses in the same way again.

I must do it. "Help!" I cried. "Help a poor soul!" Not a voice answered. Oh, Most Holy One, please save me, although I do not deserve it! I bowed my head, and prepared to die.

"Hallo!" A voice called. I did not believe it. I was hearing voices. A ghost, mayhap, was calling to me. "Hallo!" It persisted. "Leave me to my misery alone! Do not torment me so!" I cried