CHAPTER 11
Lloyd woke under a bridge at sunrise.
“Like a troll,” he muttered to himself.
The rocks he lay on dug into his back. Everything around him was cold and damp. His skin was burnt from exposure to the sun. His once fine clothes were tattered and dirty. He hadn’t eaten properly in days.
How many days? He did not know how long he had been wondering the French countryside for. Roaming the night, sleeping under barns, trees and bridges. Slipping in and out of madness and delirium, drifting between times, places and personas.
Now that he was rested, the pain and hunger sharpened his mind.
How had he let this happen to himself? Sir Lloyd, The Hero of the Siege of Herfleur, who had killed twenty three Frenchmen at Agincourt. Captain Lloyd, who had taken an Eagle from Napoleon in Spain and fought The Old Guard at Waterloo.
It was not on at all.
He moved over to the river and washed his face and hands, then took a drink of the water to clear his throat.
He looked for a cigar, but they were all gone.
He had to get out of France. To do that he needed a passport or to smuggle onto a ship- or steal a ship. Baron could get him a fake passport, but that meant going back to Paris. He did not wish to go back to Paris, and he suspected that Baron was no longer his friend. He needed a ship, so he had to go to Calais.
In addition, he needed to acquire some earplugs.
And cigars.
Before everything else, however, he needed to eat and drink.
There had to be a milkmaid around somewhere…
John strolled down stairs for diner.
Being well prepared at all times, he had packed a diner suit and a black cravat, which he wore. His shoes were shined to military perfection.
The tables in the bar had been rearranged so that Molly, Charlotte and the other archaeologists were sat together, whilst a table for two stood empty. For the first time since he had been in the tavern, there were candles on every table and the lights were turned down low. Charlotte had been at work.
He greeted Molly and Charlotte, ordered a glass of red wine and a glass of rosé, then sat down at the empty table.
He found it odd to be waiting for someone other that Charlotte and Molly, who had been punctual on this holiday. He reasoned that it was because Charlotte had been up all day.
A few minutes later, Victoria appeared. She wore another conservative black dress, eloquent boots, full length black lace gloves, and had a white lily in her hair instead of her bonnet.
He stood, pulled back her chair and took her hand.
“Good evening lady,” he greeted her. “You look marvellous.”
“Thank you sir, good evening to you too,” she replied shyly.
They took their seats and looked at the menu.
“I’m telling you, it’s a shrine to Mithras!” Doctor Stan declared.
“We found no human remains, no traces of an Alter, and no ritual implements,” Charlotte replied.
“Who’s Mithras?” Molly asked.
“War God, adopted by Roman Soldiers. Bull shaped fellow. Blood sacrifices. Cult so secret it may not have existed,” Holly said.
“I found a bull’s skull!” Stan insisted.
“It was no where near the site, and not very old,” protested Charlotte, before turning to the bar. “Bar wench! More ale if you don’t mind!”
“Are all archaeologists insane?” John asked Victoria.
“No, only the good ones. What do you do these days?”
“I have a pub. A bit like this one but full of bikers instead of farmers.”
“That must be… interesting. Do you miss the army?”
“Not too much. If I ever want to fight, I try to control my customers, if I want to hear deafening roars, cries of agony and the clash of metal on metal I get a band to play, and I never want to march for days in the rain.”
She laughed daintily.
“I think that I may wish to visit your pub, John Harvey. What is it called?”
“The Black Boar. It would be wonderful if you could visit.”
“Maybe I shall.”
At the end of the night, John walked her to her car.
“Good bye Victoria,” John said as he took her hand.
“Good bye, John Harvey, It has been a pleasure to meet you.”
“My pleasure, lady. Take care.
“I shall call you soon. Good bye.”
She kissed him briefly on the neck then got in her car and drove away, her headlights faded into the night.
John Harvey walked to work. The sky was dark and clear and the pavement was thick with the last of autumn’s leaves. Street lights threw shadows which slid across the ground as they strode past them, his mind full of thoughts of work and Victoria.
An airplane flew low overhead, one of the military aeroplanes which practiced manoeuvres frequently in the area.
As he heard the thunder of its engine he was transported to another time and another place.
He stood ankle deep in mud. Barbed wire stretched out ahead of him. A tattered green uniform clung to his half starved frame, a tin helmet rested heavily on his head and he held a rifle, the streak of blood on the bayonet glistening in the sun. A biplane flew close overhead- the first he had ever seen. A man made monster which terrified him; the product of a world were he had no place. A machine gun rattled out death.
It lasted only a moment, and then he felt only slightly dazed.
He knew then that he had lived for longer than he had previously known. Victoria had been right. After a moment’s recovery, he felt closer to her than before.
A minute later and he was at his pub.
Olly, one of the other barmen, stood outside smoking with one of the groups of bikers who seemed to live in The Black Boar.
“Alright John,” Olly greeted him at the door “There is a gentleman here to see you.”
Olly’s face was bright and confident, but the tone of his voice told him that something was wrong.
A tall man in a white suit stood at the bar. When John entered, he stalked over to him and offered a pale, cold hand.
“Good evening, Mr Harvey,” the man said as they shuck hands firmly. “I represent the Count de Saint Germaine.”
John looked hard into the man’s pale eyes before he replied.
“I met the Count de Saint Germaine two hundred years ago. We have both died several times since then. Times have changed. I wish to have nothing to do with him.”
“You are wrong,” the man said with a cruel smile. “The Count de Saint Germaine has never died. Only we, who are weak, must die. The Count de Saint Germaine cares nothing for your wishes. The Count de Saint Germaine sends me as his humble messenger.”
“That is impossible. You speak lies.”
“It is true. Listen to me, John Harvey. The Count de Saint Germaine lays claim to this land, as repayment for past debts. You are to hand it to him before the new moon.”
“This is madness. You offend me. Leave my land at once.”
The two men stared at each other.
The bikers had come inside to watch, and they stood with broad arms crossed over leather clad chests, or with empty bottles in hand. In the far corner of the room a Goth couple stopped holding each other’s hands and staring into space, and started staring at the confrontation instead.
The man smiled, baring his teeth, and John bared his teeth back. He knew he could take the man; he could kill the messenger.
“The Count de Saint Germaine will receive his debt on the eve of the black moon,” the man said with a curt nod, and was gone.
“What was that about mate?” Olly asked.
“That man is barred from my pub,” John replied. “Either he is insane, or my enemy is back.”
Olly knew better than to ask any questions.
John went to work, hanging up his jacket and standing behind the bar. Tony, a short, powerfully built man in his sixties with a shaved head, who seemed to be the leader and spokesman of the bikers, waited for him on the other side of the bar.
“Didn’t like the look of that, son,” Tony said.
“Forget about it Tony,” John replied.
“That lad was a creepy bastard, John. He said he’ll be back, and he looks the type to bring all his mates with him. Just want you to know that me and my lads have got your back.”
“Thanks Tony. Pint?”
“Cheers son.”
A few minutes later Molly came in a relieved Olly. Molly went behind the bar and Olly got himself a pint and went to talk to Tony.
“Evening Molly,” John greeted her.
“Evening, I see the old place hasn’t fallen apart without us.”
“No, “he said looking around as though for problems. “It hasn’t.”
“You should go on holiday more often.”
“Maybe.”
“To see Victoria?”
“Maybe.”
“And maybe I could have a few days off next week to see Charlotte?”
“Maybe…”
A group of young men with longhair and baggy cloths came in, and they were busy for a few minutes serving them. When the bar was quite again, John took Molly to one side.
“We had some trouble earlier,” he told her.
“What type of trouble?”
“A man, one of us, came in looking for a bribe, or to set up a protection racked, or just to stir up trouble. Not sure. He said he would be back at the new moon.”
“What did he look like?” Molly’s eyes were sharp and alert. “I keep an eye out for him.”
“Middle aged, tall, very pale. Was wearing a white suit, would stand out a mile in here.”
“Okay. When is the new moon anyway?”
“Over a week, I think, I’ll find out.”
“What did he want?”
“The pub, Molly. He said that his master wanted our pub.”
“Fuck that. This is our pub. Whose his bloody master then?”
“He said that his master is The Count de Saint Germaine.”
Molly stood silently for a moment as the name worked its way into her memory. She frowned darkly.
“That’s impossible. The Count de Saint Germaine has been dead for over a hundred years. Even if he really was a vampire, he isn’t still really the same man now. Maybe someone’s taking the piss… or maybe there is a different Count, it’s just a title after all.”
“The messenger knew my name, Molly, and about my past.”
“What do you think?”
“I think my enemy is back… somehow. On the new moon we’ll have extra staff on all night, and be on our guard. Tony says the regulars will help, but I don’t want everyone getting involved, or it could be messy. I wish Lloyd was here.”
“Lloyd? I thought you didn’t want it to get messy.”
“Lloyd would know what to do, possibly…”
“I’ll talk to Charlotte, see if she’s heard anything.”
“Thanks, Molly. It’ll be alright. Now we had best get back to work”
John looked up at the sky as he walked home. A few small clouds drifted across the stars, and the moon was a bright, shining scythe blade of light into the night. He did not know if it was waxing or waning, and reminded himself to find out soon.
As he unlocked his door he heard the telephone ring, so he hurried along the hallway to the front room where the phone stood on an ebony Bureau desk.
“Hello,” he answered cautiously.
“Good evening, John” ladies voice replied. “Victoria here, how goes it?”
“Good, thank you, how are you?”
“Very well, thank you. Been a bit busy with a dead line tonight, but it shall have to wait. Have you been busy?”
“Quite busy,” he did not want to tell her about the problem in his pub. “Just finished work. It is good to hear from you.”
“I shall have a bit of free time once I’ve finished with this article, I was thinking I may come to visit that famous tavern of yours next weekend.”
“That would be excellent. When did you have in mind?”
“Would Friday night be fine with you?”
“Yes, that would be great… I shall be working most of the evening, but I shall ensure that you are entertained, and we could go for a walk when I am finished, there is a charming graveyard by the river which we could go to, or perhaps the ruins of the castle. Should be free on Saturday.”
“Sounds marvellous. I shall be there by midnight. Shall see you then.”
“Shall look forward to it lady.”
“As shall I. Good night, sir.”
“Good night lady.”
He smiled as he put down the phone, then went through to his kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine and put some bread, cheese and olives on a plate. He returned to his front room and sat down at a black leather armchair facing his fire place, which an immaculately polished sword hung over. Not the same sword which he had wielded at Waterloo, but one of identical patent which he had spent years trailing antique shops to find. He ate an olive and took a sip of wine, and then remembered to check the cycle of the moon.
After taking a swig of the wine, he went over to the Bureau and searched amongst his paper work, the endless bills, receipts and forms which he needed for the pub, until be found his diary. He flicked through it until he found a section at the back which listed the phases of the moon.
The next new moon was on Friday- the night of Victoria’s visit.
He sat down heavily in his armchair and finished his wine and then his food. Then he went to the kitchen, refilled his glass, then rummaged in the draw under the sink until he found his tool box, and took a sharpening stone from it. Returning to his front room he put down his glass and sharpening stone, then carefully took down his sword. He sat down with its long, slim blade across his lap and began to sharpen it.
Pausing only for the occasional sip of wine, he ran the stone firmly and smoothly up and down the blade. He did not finish until the first light of dawn shone through the curtains.
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