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“But the stronger had promised, and he knew his brother would die if he didn’t. So, when the moon was full, the falcon presented his neck, and the brother sliced it open, catching the ruby blood in a pewter cup. He gave the drink to his brother. He drank it down. The two brothers mourned the bird, buried it, and slept. In the morning, the weak brother was strong.
“He bowed to his brother. ‘I have long wanted a human body to live in. Thank you.’ And the stronger brother saw that his brother’s eyes now glowed red. And he realized his brother had spoken in the falcon’s strange tongue.
“?‘What do you mean? What evil is this, to possess the body of a bird, and now of my brother?’
“?‘A priest banished me into the body of a falcon many years ago. I did not sleep, and blood was my only succor. Ah, it feels good to walk again.’ He left the castle but returned a few hours later. He showed the brother a sheaf of strange pages. ‘Now, I need your help.’
“The stronger brother had no choice but to comply, for he still loved his brother, though he knew this was unnatural and wrong.
“?‘You must bring me a virgin before nightfall. I must drink her blood. Only then will I have the strength to live through the night.’
“He brought his brother a virgin from the village, and the next night another, until the village was emptied. He grew strong, and soon, the two were feared throughout the land. They fled to a dark castle, deep in a forest. It is said they experimented with many things, with blood and herbs and silver, to find a way to make themselves live forever. Did they succeed? I do not know.”
Napoléon rose to his feet. “Bah. Blood drinking and talking crows. Ridiculous. Off with you.”
The old bard cackled a laugh, then leaned in and whispered to Napoléon, “It was a falcon, sire, not a crow. One truth I do know: the brothers brought the magic pages they used to divine this spell back here to Gradara. This is where a sainted ancestor found them, many years ago. They are mine now, though I do not understand them. But as I said, the brothers understood them very well.”
“I don’t believe you. Show me these pages.”
The old man pulled the pages from inside his shirt. Napoléon grabbed them, but he couldn’t read the pages—all he saw were strange symbols and writing, and puzzling drawings that baffled him, the red and green ink still vibrant. What did it mean? And then he knew. The pages were magic. They would give him the power to defeat the Russian czar. It mattered not he couldn’t read them.
Napoléon said to the old bard, “These pages were ripped from a book. Where is the book?”
“I know not, sire.”
“Then I will keep these pages. This legend you told me—I know now it is a portent of the blood I will spill in accursed Russia. Mayhap I will show them to the czar as he bows before me.”
The mighty army marched away in the morning and into disaster. Nearly half a million soldiers were lost to a bitter winter, to starvation, to people who would rather die than accept Napoléon’s boot on their neck.
Months later, Napoléon looked at the pages and realized the portent he’d believed to be his mighty victory and the blood of the Russians was his own soldiers’ blood and bitter defeat. But he could not destroy the pages, for fear of their curse staying with him.
And so it was that somewhere near Smolensk, a tinker found a saddlebag lying in a pile of bushes. There were only loose pages within. He had no idea what they were but kept them. Perhaps they had value, perhaps someone would pay him for them.
THE THIRD DAY
THURSDAY
Cabal: a private organization or party engaged in secret intrigues; also, the intrigues themselves.
In England the word was used during the 17th century to describe any secret or extralegal council of the king, especially the foreign committee of the Privy Council. The term took on its present invidious meaning from a group of five ministers chosen in 1667 by King Charles II (Clifford, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley Cooper [later earl of Shaftesbury], and Lauderdale), whose initial letters coincidentally spelled cabal. This cabal, never very unified in its members’ aims and sympathies, fell apart by 1672; Shaftesbury even became one of Charles II’s fiercest opponents.
—ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Falconers are a fortunate breed. Not only do we have the pleasure of our current hawk, but also, increasingly over the years, the memory of former hawks, which were dear to us and individual flights, which are etched in the memory forever.
—Emma Ford, Falconry: Art and Practice
The Old Garden
Twickenham
Richmond upon Thames, London
Isabella woke in darkness. She didn’t know where she was or what had happened. She touched her fingers to her throbbing face. He’d struck her. Why? She stilled. Something was terribly wrong.
Fear swamped her, she was inside a tomb, something black—she was dying.
