What Manner of Man: Chapter 33 🦇

All Lovers war, and Cupid hath his tent / Atticus, all lovers are to warfare sent.

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Today on Patreon I’m sharing some exclusive concept sketches relevant to the events of this chapter. 🤫

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following unsigned and unlabeled papers are unlike any of the other documents in my possession. They were found clipped to the page following Father Ardelian’s last entry. It is my belief that — like the letter which makes up chapter 26 — it was placed there by the anonymous person who is responsible for the preservation of these papers. The author seems to have written it to fill what would otherwise be a gap in the narrative of these events left by the journals and letters. 

UNSIGNED DOCUMENT

Undated.

This is what occurred following Father Ardelian’s last entry, to the best of my recollection.

I’m not likely to forget the events of that night. Hell reigned, pure pandaemonium. I had no suspicion that the men and women of St Silvan’s Head were capable of such violence. It was as if a fire had lain in them like dormant coals, hungry for the first touch of tinder.

The view from the courtyard of the manor was one of the worst imaginable chaos and confusion. I’d only just made it out of the manor by the skin of my teeth before the villagers began to put flame to the kindling which was piled high enough in places to cover many of the first-story windows. The sky had begun to lighten with the gray light of early morning, but as the fire grew smoke rose up and stamped out the dawn. Red tongues of flame began to lick up the walls, and all was as black as pitch.

A disagreeable cheer went up as a portion of the roof commenced to crackle and blaze. All around the manor the silhouettes of men and women were visible against the flames, dancing in celebration. All except for Sylvia, who stood on the far side of the courtyard, watching uneasily and handling a dangerous-looking blade. It all seemed to me a grim sort of bonfire night.

A portion of the roof collapsed, sending up a shower of shining red ash as an ominous tremour wracked the earth below. Soon it blackened, and in turn blackened the air. Ash rained down, and for a time all was quiet, as if smothered by it. Then, with a meteoric suddenness — what I can only describe as a great beast, terrible to behold, shot up over the manor. I couldn’t see where it came from — somewhere on the north side of the cliff.

It shone like a beacon through the obscuring cloud of smoke and ash — the thing was white as a ghost, in shape like a monstrous bat. Those nearest drew back, emitting cries of alarm, for the sight of it was accompanied by a kind of overwhelming, primal dread — a sheer animal panic — in the breasts of all that beheld him.

The courtyard of Whithern Hall was formed by the crumbling facade and two walls of a great old church that must have stood on that cliff hundreds of years ago. All but the outer walls had been torn down and the materials used to make up the foundations of the manor, so the most in-tact part of the church still standing was the two towers either side of the entrance. I remember thinking that arched portal — now the sole entryway to the courtyard — seemed a worryingly inadequate egress for such a volume of people.

The creature wheeled overhead and came to ground with a heavy thud a few yards from the southern tower. Its claws bit deep into the soft earth. The villagers fled in terror and confusion. I fought back the urge to follow suit, however, and stood my ground. I had recognized the small, black-clad figure the beast held in its arms.

Rising from its low, bestial crouch, it then seemed to assume more or less the shape and proportions of a man. Was it a monster after all? It seemed now more a man in white robes. The appearance of the thing — man or beast — was damnably changeable. I’ve seen a thing or two when a little worse for drink in my time but nothing that compared to the ghastly, ever-shifting shape of it.

Ardelian climbed down from from the beast’s grasp, but instead of running he just stood at the creature’s side, little more than a shadow next to it. I couldn’t make out what the fool was after, but I was pleased to see him still alive.

As I was trying to decide what had best be done I heard a cry almost as frightful as the beast himself. I swung round, to see Sylvia calling the villagers back, marshaling them to surround the beast. It was hard to imagine such a blood-curdling sound could have come from her, yet as I stood there she emitted a second cry that I felt like a bolt of electricity in my spine.

Drawn out from whatever hole in which he had hid by the smoke and the blaze, she at last had her quarry. She said as much to them, urging them not to give up. Ardelian clung to the thing and I wracked my brains thinking what to do. I’d come to feel responsible for the man and couldn’t bear to see him killed like this.

I needn’t have worried. As they rushed the beast, he swung savagely around. A few among them were brave enough to lunge forwards nevertheless, though most of the crowd began to falter at the mere sight of him. The ground rumbled beneath their feet as the wind picked up, blowing smoke and hot ash into their eyes.

After a moment of confusion, the stalemate broke. The creature tore through his assailants like a terrible storm. I could see the dark shape of the priest fall to the ground as the beast pulled free of his grasp. Several men and women were thrown like rag-dolls by the inhuman strength of the blow. Everyone scattered, nearly trampling one another in a desperation to get away, and though I tensed to flee as well I caught sight of Sylvia collapsed, clutching one shoulder.

I ran to her and helped her to her feet. She gripped my arm and held me firm, bracing herself. She’d be alright so long as she did nothing reckless, though her arm was cut up badly and she’d dropped her heavy blade. She told me the thing was Lord Vane. Now I suppose it was so, but I didn’t know what to believe at the time. The idea was so grotesque.

He was just starting after the fleeing villagers when a fair-sized rock hit him between the shoulders. He turned, baring his teeth at his assailant. Danny came at him alone, fencing sabre drawn.

“Hey, Nosferatu, don’t tell me you forgot about fencing practice again!”

Like St George to Lord Vane’s dragon, Danny stood undaunted before the shifting, wraith-like creature. There was something mocking in the beast’s gaze; something intelligent. Somehow this chilled me more than the brute fury of his rampage. He picked up Sylvia’s fallen weapon.

When Danny lunged, Lord Vane did not simply dash her to the ground as I half expected. Instead he leapt back, and, carried by his great wings, landed with his claws gripping the wall of the ruined bell tower. There was something in his eye, a cruel glint, that put me in mind of a cat that deliberately prolongs the suffering of its prey.

“Danny, get away from him!” Sylvia cried, but Danny was deaf to all save her enemy. She made to run to her and I had to struggle to hold her back.

“You won’t be able to stop her,” I said.

She fought me. “He’ll kill her!”

I knew all too well what Danny was to Sylvia, but with her injury I also knew it would be little better than suicide for her to pursue them. She couldn’t possibly get between the pair, enraged as they were.

“You’ll only get yourself killed as well.” I took in the grim set of her mouth, her clenched fist. “What about the villagers? They need you.”

I felt the fight leave her, though she cried out again, “Leave him, Danny! He’s too strong!”

It was no good. Her words hardly carried over the wind and the roaring inferno of the manor. Danny rushed the open door at the base of the tower, and vanished within.

Abandoned by the beast, Ardelian crossed the courtyard towards where we stood by the shelter of the wall. He stumbled a little as the earth jolted beneath his feet. He looked pretty shaken up within himself, too — hardly able to break his gaze from the sinister shape climbing up the stone tower.

“This is my doing, all of it.” He sounded near to tears. “I begged him to take me back to the stone circle beneath the manor, to finish it. He didn’t hear me, or he was beyond reason — I don’t know.”

Sylvia shook her head. “From the moment the fire was lit, it was going to end like this. There was nothing you could do, Victor.”

The distant pair fought through the long-shattered stained glass windows, Danny lashing out with her sword and Lord Vane always ascending, coaxing her higher. Then uttering shrieking howls when she struck true, flinching back, hissing and clutching at his outstretched arm.

“Even now she can hold her own against him.” Sylvia sounded distant, as if part of her was up there with Danny.

“Please, Sylvia, isn’t there anything you can do? You said before —”

She only shook her head, her voice firm. “It’s too late.”

A look crossed the poor man’s face, utter despair. Without another word he turned and followed Danny into the black entrance of the tower.

I’m fashionably late to this party as it was released all the way back in May, but I’ve finally I’ve gotten around to reading One Night in Hartswood. I’ve heard many good things about this novel, and I’m delighted to report they’re all true. It’s an extremely fun, rather Shakespearean romance featuring secret identities in a medieval setting. I have found it both heart-wrenching and incredibly sweet. Go read it immediately!

-St John

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