His Vampyrrhic Bride (7 page)

Tom nodded, listening politely. He wanted to please Nicola rather than the mother. He knew that seemed such a calculating action. But he found himself calculating how long it would be before he could plant his first kiss on Nicola’s soft lips.

Mrs Bekk talked in a low, rhythmic voice. Despite him pretending to be polite at first, he found himself drawn into the family legend of Viking gods and warriors.

If anything, this reminded him of lessons when he learned about the history of the Vikings, or the Norse people as they were sometimes described. He knew that the Vikings had terrorized England over a thousand years ago. That they’d stormed ashore from their longships. Legends also revealed them to be bloodthirsty pagans that plundered the monasteries and gruesomely slaughtered the monks, often inflicting something called the Blood Eagle; this involved hacking apart the ribcage so the ribs could then be pulled back to resemble blood-soaked wings. Not all the invaders returned to their homelands in Norway, Sweden and Denmark. Huge numbers settled in England. Plenty married local girls. ‘So proving that love is the most formidable conqueror of all,’ proclaimed the history teacher. Then she’d pointed out children with blonde hair and blue eyes, and made this surprising claim: ‘What you probably didn’t know is that there are still plenty of Vikings in England, or at least their descendants are here. As likely as not, you’ll find Scandinavian DNA in these children.’

Meanwhile, Mrs Bekk plaited her fingers together as she continued her tale. ‘Guthrum Bekk sailed with his wife, brothers, sisters, and their children to England. They weren’t an invading army. They were a family intending to peacefully settle in this valley. When Guthrum arrived he was scorned by the Christians who lived in Danby-Mask. They sent their best fighters to challenge Guthrum to a duel. Guthrum had fought many battles in the past. He was a brave warrior, but now he dreamt only about living peacefully. So he made a bargain with the Christians. He explained he could dam one of the valley streams to make a deep pool that would never dry up in even the worst of droughts. He promised the villagers that they could take fish from the pool and use the water to irrigate their crops when the rains didn’t come. The villagers agreed. But they were scheming behind my ancestor’s back. They pretended to become friendly, and all the time they were planning to attack Guthrum Bekk’s farm, steal his cattle, and murder his family.’ She held up her finger. ‘And every Bekk mother tells their children this blood history. It is so important that every generation of our family knows. Our survival depends on the secret of what happened next.’

‘Mother. I’m not sure that Tom is interested in all the gory details.’

‘That’s OK, Nicola. I’d be interested to hear it.’ Again he said this to please Nicola
. Yes, it’s manipulative; yes, it’s calculating. But my motives are good. In fact, my motives are romantic.
He tried to suppress the words LUST and SEX that were hotly circling his mind.

‘On Midsummer’s day Guthrum went to pick strawberries. He planned to take baskets of fruit to the village as a gift. He’d make a gesture of friendship to his neighbours. Guthrum’s five daughters went with him to help with the harvest. While he was away, the villagers struck. They killed everyone in the farm. Then they set fire to Skanderberg.’ She pointed to the walls. ‘You can still see the burn marks on those stones. Even if you paint over them they’ll come through the new paint within the day. They’re the black tear-stains of the house as it witnessed the death of Guthrum’s wife and sons.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Tom said. ‘That sounds like a terrible massacre.’

Mrs Bekk’s voice rose, growing clearer. Harder. ‘Guthrum swore revenge. Even as he dug the graves, Thor whispered into his ear. Thor told Guthrum not to bury the dead but to gather them up and heap them into a pile in the ruins of the house. Guthrum did so. And that night Thor breathed life into the bodies. Then he wove their limbs together to make a single living creature.’

‘The dragon?’ Tom made the deduction. ‘Thor turned the bodies into Helsvir.’

Mrs Bekk fired out the words: ‘Yes, the corpses of my ancestors became Helsvir. The dragon isn’t like the fairy-tale dragons that blow fire out of their mouths. Helsvir is the Viking war-snake! A sacred weapon of vengeance!’

‘Mother.’ Nicola’s voice held a warning note. ‘Don’t get yourself worked up.’

Mrs Bekk rose to her feet. ‘Helsvir struck Danby-Mask. A whirlwind of vengeance. He smashed down the doors, and he tore the murderers apart. Helsvir killed the betrayers. Then he became our protector. We tell our children these facts so they can sleep knowing that a dragon stands guard at this house.’

‘That’s an amazing story,’ Tom said.

‘
Story? Story! That is the sacred blood history of our family!
’

‘Mother, please—’

‘Without Helsvir those bastards from Danby-Mask would have destroyed our family years ago. The villagers are always plotting against us. They want us dead!’

‘
Mother, stop this.’
Nicola took hold of her mother’s arm. Once again she tried to calm her. By now, though, the woman’s face had turned a fiery red with anger. Her eyes blazed.

‘Tom Westonby. It’s important you hear this. I’ll tell you the rest of our history.’

‘Mother, please!’

‘Guthrum lived. So did his five daughters. They were all grown women when Danby-Mask butchered our family. Thor went into their beds at night. The god fathered their children.’

‘That’s
enough
, Mother.’ Nicola’s voice rose. ‘You’ve got to stop saying these things.’

‘But Mr Westonby hasn’t heard the best part! The most vital, significant truth!’ Her tone was gleeful; she laughed as she shouted the words: ‘Do you know who Nicola’s father is, Tom?’

Tom stared at her, not knowing what to say.

‘Twenty-four years ago, Thor came into my bed, too. He made me pregnant with Nicola. That’s why you will never get her into
your
bed, Tom Westonby. Yes! I’ve seen that hungry look in your eye.’ Her laugh became a roar of pure joy. ‘That’s right, Tom! Nicola is the daughter of a living god! It’s her destiny to wipe that Christian village from the face of the earth. Then Nicola will destroy you!
She’ll feed you to the dragon, Tom Westonby. She’ll feed you to his many heads!
’

‘G
et them dirty bones out of that pit!’ The voice pierced Tom’s dreams. One moment he lay fast asleep, dreaming he chased Nicola through a midnight forest – trees growing denser and denser until branches were clutching at his head – the next: ‘Open the door or we’ll break it down!’

Tom stumbled out of bed, half-awake. For a second he imagined that the Bekk family dragon – the wonderfully named Helsvir – had come to smash down the door. He looked out of the window. The figure making all the noise was ten years old, had a wild splash of black hair, and was hammering on the woodwork with his fists.

‘Tom, you lazy chuff!’ shouted the boy.

Tom pushed open the bedroom window. ‘Owen, stop trying to murder the door. I’ll be right down.’

He rubbed his eyes. His mother and father were lifting luggage out of the car. There came one of those mental blanks when he watched them hauling a coffee table from the back seat.

‘They can’t be moving in,’ he grunted. ‘I haven’t got the house ready yet.’ The bright sunlight made him squint. ‘They’re not even supposed to be here until next week.’

‘Tom! You lousy, lazy basket,’ Owen shouted good-naturedly. ‘Open the freaking, wrenching door.’

‘Hey, watch that freaking language,’ Tom called down. ‘Or I’ll chuck you in the pond.’

Owen grinned up at Tom, and Tom found himself grinning down at the ten-year-old. The last time he’d seen his cousin the boy had been so withdrawn and so quiet; understandably, his mother’s death had hit him hard. Now Owen seemed indestructibly cheerful – just as a ten-year-old should be.

‘I’ll put some clothes on,’ Tom said.

‘Gross.’ Owen pantomimed a look of disgust and called back to Tom’s mother, ‘Hey, Auntie, Tom’s strutting round the house naked.’

Tom’s parents laughed. After an awkward start to the new living arrangements, when Owen moved in, they’d obviously grown fond of him. In fact, Tom realized the kid was rapidly becoming their new son. He wasn’t resentful. Tom knew that his mother and father didn’t love him any less because Owen had become part of the family. Owen’s mother was dead. The boy had never known his own father – the Gibsons had divorced when he was a baby – and Owen was still a child: he needed Mr and Mrs Westonby to be his new parents.

An accumulation of T-shirts had formed a mountain on a chair. Somehow the need to put them in the washing machine had repeatedly slipped Tom’s mind. He tipped the clothes on to the floor and kicked them under the bed out of sight. Stuff like that could be taken care of later. Besides, he felt his spirits rising. He wanted to see his parents and Owen. He and the boy could have fun mucking around with the air compressor he’d bought for the dive school. With one of those machines you could blow up a domestic rubber glove to something larger than a fridge. Then the rubber glove would explode with a tremendous bang. Boys loved that kind of thing. Heck, Tom Westonby loved that kind of thing.

Tom dragged on jeans and his last clean shirt then bounded downstairs. As soon as he opened the door Owen playfully punched his stomach.

‘What kept you, lazybones!’ Then Owen dashed upstairs. This was his first trip back to the house since his mother’s sudden death.

‘Let me help you with that.’ Tom took the coffee table from his mother. Meanwhile, his father dragged two wheelie cases.

‘The gravel’s getting stuck in the wheels. Hello, Tom, great to see you.’

‘Kiss for Mother.’ His mother turned her face.

Tom kissed her cheek. ‘You weren’t coming until next week, were you?’

‘So we’re not welcome?’

‘No . . . I mean yes, but the house isn’t ready. Did you know there are seventy-seven straight-backed chairs in that place?’

‘Have you got a girl in the house?’

‘No.’

‘If you have, we can get back in the car, drive round for ten minutes, then pretend we’ve just arrived.’ His mother grinned. She was easy-going about him having girlfriends to stay. She didn’t mind in the least.

‘There’s no girl.’

‘Oh?’

‘No.’

‘When you look out of the corner of your eye like that I know you’re fibbing. You’ve done it since you were five years old and used to hide cake in your socks.’

Tom laughed as he carried the table indoors. ‘There’s no girl. At least, not in the house.’

‘Ah, so who is she?’ Tom’s mother could read her son as easily as text on a page.

What can I say that won’t sound too strange? She’s the girl I chased at midnight. Or: the mother believes they have a guardian dragon. No . . . best leave those unusual facts for later.

Instead, he shrugged like the girl didn’t matter (she really did) and said, ‘Oh, just someone I met locally. We’re . . . you know . . .’

‘Just friends?’

To avoid his mother scrutinizing his face to check where his eyes were headed when he answered her precisely targeted question, he asked, ‘Where do you want the table?’

‘By the wall’s fine for now.’

‘So, how come you’re here today?’

‘We’re not welcome, Tom?’ His father dragged in the wheelies.

‘I’ve already asked that question, Russell. Apparently, there’s some girl.’

‘Ah-ha, the formidable Westonby males strike again.’

‘This formidable Westonby male –’ she playfully tweaked her husband’s ear – ‘can bring that frozen food in from the car before it melts.’

Tom knew his parents were only teasing him about not being welcome, but he repeated his answer: ‘Of course I’m glad to see you, it’s just that you weren’t supposed to be coming until next week.’

‘We’ve decided to bring the moving-in date forwards.’ With that, his father hurried off to save the frozen food from thawing.

Tom’s mother filled in the details. ‘We’re giving up the lease on our house a month early. So we’ve brought the coffee table today. It was the first present your father bought me. I don’t want it getting broken when we do the big move.’

‘There’s still the painting to be done,’ Tom explained. ‘I haven’t even begun to sand the floors.’

‘What’s this? Tom Westonby, king of the messy bedroom, being suddenly house-proud?’

‘I just wanted to get the place ready.’

She smiled. His mother was touched by what he’d meant. ‘You wanted everything right for us, didn’t you? To make it homely?’

He nodded – once more her razor-sharp intuition saw the real meaning behind his words.

‘That’s why you’re a lovely son. You’re just like your dad; he always wants the best for other people.’ She gave a sigh. ‘Just don’t let being a good person take over your life. Remember to live for yourself, too.’

‘The ice cream’s turned to milk.’ His father strode in with bags crammed full of groceries. ‘It’s dripped through the bag into my shoe. I can feel it squelching.’

All of a sudden, Mull-Rigg Hall sprang into life. His dad rinsed vanilla ice cream from his shoes in the kitchen. Owen bounced a tennis ball on the patio. His mother started making BLTs for breakfast. Tom finished collecting luggage from the car.

As he lugged suitcases upstairs, he found himself thinking about the extraordinary visit to Nicola’s house in the forest. He suspected they lived a solitary life there. Yet
solitary
didn’t seem a strong enough word to describe their isolation in that remote part of the valley. Clearly, Nicola took care of her mother, who suffered from some mental condition. Mrs Bekk was obsessed with her family’s Viking ancestry. She also believed that the Bekks had been at war with the villagers of Danby-Mask for generations. Then there was all this about the dragon guarding their home. Topping it all: Mrs Bekk’s claim that the Viking god Thor had impregnated her with Nicola. Wasn’t Thor the warrior god? Tom remembered seeing pictures in history books of a towering, powerful man with ferocious eyes, red hair, and a flaming red beard, brandishing a huge hammer that he used to shatter his enemies’ skulls.