Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor, Vampire Slayer

by Lucy Weston

  I bear it so long as I can before my mind reels away to find surcease in blessed darkness. Dee and Cecil together catch me as I slump unconscious to the chapel floor.

  Drifting over the city, following the pewter ribbon of the river, I, Mordred, king of the dark realm, came to the ancient hill where once Gog and Magog were worshipped by wiser folk than are to be found there now. The temples of the old ones are buried under the timber of the Saxons, interred in turn beneath the stones the Normans raised, foundation for the abode of kings, the place of execution for queens. I smelled the earth, well sated with blood. It warmed me.

  She was sitting at a tower window behind a curtain of frost that ran like a web of frozen ferns across the leaded panes. Fire-haired, pale-skinned Elizabeth, child of Anne, the one for whom I have waited so long. I confess to a certain excitement upon seeing her finally.

  She was not conventionally beautiful, being both too slender and too tightly strung like a fine thoroughbred mare that resists mounting. No matter; she was everything I desired, everything I needed. Or she might be. The coming hours would tell the tale.

  Little men with little minds would do their utmost to make her my enemy. I, who would give her immortality if only she had the wit to take it! I remember being human, if only barely, as a dream that dissolves upon waking. It is a mayfly’s existence, here today, gone today. Surely, she would recognize better when it is offered to her. If not—

  Her throat was white and slim. I could just make out the thin blue tracing of her life’s blood coursing beneath her skin. Could feel on my tongue the hint of how she would taste. Hunger stirred in me but I could wait, if only for a little while.

  Separated by mere inches but invisible to her, I observed Elizabeth at my leisure, watching the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath breasts round and ripe as young apples. She appeared absorbed in her own thoughts, with no sense of me, not then, nor any awareness that she sat not on the edge of a throne but perched on the hinge of fate. Swing one way and I would open the eternal vistas of the night to her and place her by my side in golden halls where death can never rule. Swing the other … I would drain her to the final carmine drop and throw regret away along with her hollowed husk.

  Surely it would not come to that.

  A flicker of motion on the Tower Green drew my eye. Bustling in their importance, the men of the hour hurried along with their cloaks clutched close against winter’s chill and their own fear. No doubt they had a plan to manage Elizabeth if she balked, but they looked anxious all the same, as well they should for they involved themselves in matters vastly beyond their ken. Balanced on the air, hovering over my ancient and eternal kingdom, I watched them come. They paused at the foot of the stairs leading to the royal apartment to exchange a final, anxious glance.

  And up they went.

  I followed when they emerged again with her in tow. I watched them enter the chapel that holds so much pain. I witnessed all that transpired from my perch on the far side of the high window above the altar.

  That light … the roses—oh, yes, I smelled them. Dear, dead Anne still couldn’t resist meddling, scant good it would do her.

  It was too much for my poor Elizabeth, of course. When it was done, she lay on the slate floor, hovered over by her fretful gentlemen, so pale and still, scarcely breathing. I could restore her with a touch, but this was not the time. She had chosen her path; now she had to follow it to me.

  It was as well that the centuries had taught me patience for I swear, were that not the case, I would have claimed her there and then. How tempting to do so beside her mother’s grave. How exquisitely just.

  They lifted her, only just managing between them despite her being wand slim. Her head fell back against the magus’s arm, her face turned up to the altar windows through which I gazed. A strange yet hauntingly familiar sensation overtook me, and for a moment I saw another face, so similar, so implacably different. Morgaine, my love. My betrayer.

  Away then, from memory and shadow into night made bright by the certainty that victory, so long awaited, would not now be long denied.

  Before dawn, 15 January 1559

  I return to my senses with no thought but to remove myself from the chapel at once. With Cecil and Dee on my heels, I flee across the moon-washed sward, past several startled guards, and up the stairs to my privy chamber.

  “What magic do you conjure?” I demand of the magus the moment the door closes behind us. My heart beats so fiercely that I fear it will spring from my chest, my breath is labored, and dizziness threatens to overcome me. I sag into my chair, gripping the carved arms, and glare at Dee.

  “You know I forbid sorcery in my realm! Do not imagine that because you have been of use to me I will make an exception for you.”

  For a man just accused of engaging in the black arts—an offense for which he can burn—the good doctor seems oddly unconcerned. Indeed, he appears to be in the grip of a strange elation that similarly afflicts Cecil. My Spirit’s cheeks are flushed, and for once the gouty pain in his legs does not seem to trouble him at all.

  “It worked!” the magus exclaims. He clasps his hands in glee, looking at me as a parent might gaze upon a child who has performed vastly beyond expectation.

  “It may have worked,” Cecil corrects, precise even in his excitement. “We cannot know for sure until—”

  “But you saw!” Dee protests. “The mist, the light, there can be no question. Her Majesty has awakened!”

  I am tempted to regard all this as gibberish, for so it surely sounds. Yet in the manner of both men is a seriousness that I cannot dismiss. Beyond that, the word Dee used—awakened—fits too perfectly with what I have only just begun to notice.

  The world, even wrapped in hushed night, has acquired clarity unlike any I have known before. Every object in my chamber seems to shine with a faint but unmistakable inner light hitherto unseen by me. And there is more. I hear all manner of things with new awareness—the crackle of the fire, the snap of frost outside my window, the surge of the tide against the piers of London Bridge, and beyond an exhalation all around and within, as though the world itself is breathing. I feel beneath my fingers the carving of the chair in which I sit in all its intricate detail. And I smell … smoke, wool, leather, the silk bed hangings imbued with the delicate aroma of lost cocoons, my own skin and the musk perfume adorning me, and beneath it all, the fetid stirrings of the Tower moat and the river, mercifully held in check by the blanket of frost.

  “What is happening to me?” I ask, more to myself than to either of my counselors, yet they endeavor to answer.

  “Your Majesty,” Dee says, “you are experiencing the result of a confluence of heavenly alignments occurring only once in each millennium that in combination with the unique qualities of your own nature and in the presence of your late mother’s mortal remains, from whose bloodline your calling comes, has awakened in you certain hitherto latent powers.”

  This pretty speech leaves me entirely confused. I turn to my Spirit. As always, Cecil strives to provide clarity.

  “Majesty, at your birth, your mother arranged secretly for the casting of your horoscope. It revealed signs sufficient to convince her that you are the one whose coming had been long predicted in certain arcane circles. To shield you until you could come into your own, this information was concealed from all save a small group sworn to your protection. I have the honor to be a member of that group, as does Doctor Dee.”

  This makes only slightly more sense to me than what the magus said. All the same, it has the ring of truth. My father, in his lethal disappointment at my failure to be the male heir he so desired, would never have bothered to have my horoscope cast. But neither would he have allowed anyone else to do so lest it be used for treachery. My mother would have had to act in secret even as she feared for her own life. Had she sought some reassurance that the terrible sacrifice she had made in bearing me might somehow be redeemed?

  “What arcane circles?” I demand. “Damn you
both, speak! I will have no more mystification!”

  The two exchange a glance. Dee clears his throat and, throwing off some of his usual gravity, blurts, “Majesty, our realm is under threat from a dread enemy more terrible than any you can imagine. It can only be defeated by the most extraordinary powers, which, grace to God, we believe you now possess.”

  “Of what enemy do you speak?” I demand.

  Does he mean the Pope, who threatens to excommunicate me if I do not return my realm to the rule of Rome? The Spaniards, who, unless I agree to marry their king, my late sister’s despicable husband, will turn all their might to my destruction? The French, dedicated intriguers and worse? The Irish, intent on outdoing the French in every manner of mischief? The Scots … the Welsh … I can go on and on for truly I am beset by enemies of every stripe. Yet none are more terrible than I can imagine. What else then lurks within my realm?

  Scourge of evil.

  My mother’s words spring into my mind, bringing with them a sudden sensation of cold that sweeps over me despite the warmth of the nearby fire and the fur cloak I still wear.

  “An ancient foe,” Cecil says somberly. “Come to this kingdom in the distant past during the time of Arthur. They were very nearly defeated then but not entirely. A remnant remained, which, grown stronger down through the centuries, now threatens to overwhelm this land. You are our only hope of stopping them.”

  “What enemy?” I ask. “By what name are they called?”

  “They go by several names,” Dee says. “The Babylonians called them demons and sacrificed their children to placate them. The Hebrews warned of them, calling them beings that lived by drinking the blood of innocents. The Greeks worshipped and feared them. The Romans did the same. For centuries, they have been known in this kingdom as revenant, arising out of death. But they are also known by another name, one we believe they use for themselves: vampire.”

  My breath catches. He is speaking of a foe from beyond the mortal realm, creatures of the dark, vile beings capable of making the skin crawl and the mind cringe in horror.

  “How can this be?” I protest. “Surely, God would not allow—”

  “The Almighty in His infinite wisdom sends us challenges we cannot always understand,” Dee says. “But He never leaves us unequipped to meet them. Your existence is proof of that.”

  My existence? I am the child of a despised mother who died because she bore me. I have lived all my life under the shadow of death. Even now, staring out the window into the depths of night, I swear that I can still see the spectral scaffold waiting for me.

  “Arthur fell to them,” Cecil says. “But his kingdom prevailed. Your kingdom now, my lady, yours to protect.”

  My mind reels at the thought and, in so doing, snatches at what passes for reason. “Arthur fell to his bastard son, Mordred, who was a man like any other for all that he was evil—”

  “No, Majesty,” Dee says grimly. “Mordred was born a man but he chose the path of darkness, becoming a vampire in order to gain the power to defeat his royal father. He sought to rule this realm for all eternity, but he was stopped by the first of the great vampire slayers from whom you descend directly.”

  “I know my lineage. There is nothing such as you—”

  “Morgaine Le Fey, called enchantress by those who do not understand what she truly was,” Cecil says implacably. “You are of her blood, as was your mother. A thousand years have passed since Morgaine defeated Mordred, leaving him with only a withered remnant of his kind from which, unfortunately, he has rebuilt his revenant kingdom. Now it falls to you to complete her work.”

  Am I expected to battle beings from the nether reaches of Hell? Creatures who suck the blood of innocents and threaten to destroy my realm? And to do so because of—what? An alleged legacy from a rumored sorceress who may or may not have truly existed?

  “What are you saying?” I demand. “Are you suggesting that Mordred still lives?”

  My counselors exchange a look. Several moments pass. Finally, with obvious reluctance, Cecil says, “We believe he does, Majesty, and that he intends to challenge you for rulership of this realm.”

  How to express my shock and incredulity? Of everything that has happened in this strange night, this news surpasses all.

  “A thousand-year-old—what did you call him?—vampire, the son of Arthur, challenges my right to rule?”

  “You see,” Dee attempts to explain, “therein lies the problem. He is the son of Arthur, the first and arguably—forgive me, Majesty—the greatest ruler of this land. It is our understanding that he feels entitled to what he regards as his rightful inheritance.”

  “Then he is mad … or you are. Or the world is. It is all madness.”

  Real dangers I understand only too well—the Pope, the Spaniards, and the like. Ghosts may be real, or at least enough people think they are to deserve serious consideration. But this—blood-sucking vampires, a thousand years, Morgaine Le Fey, for pity’s sake!

  Madness. And far too much for my poor addled brain to comprehend.

  “Leave me,” I order with a wave of my hand that I have to hope is suitably regal even in my shaken state.

  They stand frozen, two statues staring at me in dismay.

  “Leave me!”

  I cannot endure their presence a moment longer. Fear and, worse, a sick feeling of despair claw at me. I survived my father’s rage, my mother’s death, my sister’s vengeance—for this? To plunge into a macabre conspiracy of evil and dark magic in which I cannot trust even my own reason, subject as it is to strange visions and perceptions?

  Would that I were a simple girl in Robin’s arms with no thought but for life and love!

  Instead, I fumble my way to my lonely bed, finding there only fitful dreams and the chill dampness of my tears.

  A king cannot afford to show weakness. I learned that from my father, who learned it too late to save himself. I was his weakness, as it happens. Arthur loved me despite my failings, so he claimed, when all I wanted was to be loved for them.

  Tant pis, as the French say. Too bad.

  The night was still young as I alit on the far side of the high wall surrounding my manor. I smelled frost and woodsmoke, a felicitous combination even to the “scourge of evil.” Anne again, always so dramatic, except, oddly enough, at the very end when a preternatural calm possessed her. A doe raised her head from the lichen she nibbled and stared at me. I passed on by her and turned toward the path leading to the house.

  Lights shone in the high windows of the hall. Those of my subjects not out and about were gathered there, amusing themselves. I encouraged them to do so. Away from my presence, without the subtle but constant reminder of my power, some few among the kindred might have been tempted to challenge me. I do so hate to slay my own kind, if only because it is a reminder that nothing, not even immortality, is forever.

  The thrall on watch opened the double doors and skittered back a few steps, standing with head bowed beneath the hood of its robe that concealed all. They resemble monks a little, the thralls, as they creep about in reverent silence, appearing when needed, disappearing as readily. Some have served me for centuries; others are more recent additions to the household. Male or female, they all look the same, when one bothers to look at them at all. I could wish they didn’t shuffle quite so much but their devotion is not to be faulted.

  My private quarters commanded the high tower above the sprawling mansion built decades past by Henry and given by his daughter Mary to the Archbishop of York, from whom I bought it. He had no idea whom he was selling to, of course, although I am not entirely sure that would have made a difference. I did, after all, pay handsomely.

  My library boasted a sweeping view over the river toward the city proper. I did not expect the chamber to be unoccupied and I was not disappointed. The most faithful and ambitious of my courtiers, the Lady Blanche, stood at the windows, looking out. Her hair, dark as midnight silvered by the moon, tumbled down her back. She was garbed in white—her
constant affectation—and did not turn until I entered and closed the door behind me.

  In the flickering light of the lamps, her lips looked very red. Clearly, she had been feeding. Her smile was, I assumed, deliberately provocative.

  “Did you try her?” she asked. “How does she taste?”

  My cloak, damp with melting snow, landed on the high-backed, carved chair where I tossed it. I loosened the ruff at my throat while walking toward her. “Don’t be tiresome. You know nothing of her.”

  “She is the Queen. What else is there to know?”

  I had been reading Dante, always a favorite of mine. A copy of La Divina Commedia, the edition with Botticelli’s marvelous illustrations of Hell, lay open on a chair in front of the fire. I set it aside, poked the flames a bit, and sat down.

  Always so good about anticipating my needs, Blanche brought me cognac in a crystal snifter. She perched lightly on the arm of my chair and trailed her hand down my arm.

  “Is she as pretty as people say or are they merely flattering her?”

  “Her father was handsome in his youth. She resembles him.”

  “Not her mother?”

  In fact, Elizabeth did favor Anne in the sharpness of her chin and the catlike slant of her eyes. I wondered if she knew that.

  “It doesn’t matter.” The cognac burned pleasantly as I swallowed it in a single draft, then wrapped a hand around the nape of her neck and drew Blanche to me. “She could be a crone so long as she serves her purpose.”

  I smelled the blood through her skin. My hunger stirred. Blanche knew nothing of my plans for Elizabeth and I saw no reason to change that. Particularly not while I still had uses for her taut, urgent body pressed against me.