by Lucy Weston
Yet the mere thought of food brings another wave of sickness worse even than the first. I stagger against the wall. Cecil tries to take my arm but I shake him off.
“Away!”
The craving that has seized me is overwhelming. I struggle to breathe but there is no space in my lungs, no room in my body. Even my heart is being crushed. Suddenly, Robin is there, his anger stripped away and replaced by concern.
I bare my teeth at him, snarling, “Do not touch me!”
The pressure of my own skin is intolerable. Frantically, I look around in search of escape only to reel back the moment the light streaming through the windows touches my eyes. I am burning! Without thought, heedless of who sees me, I run, my heavy skirts clutched in both hands.
Startled servants and courtiers alike flatten themselves along the walls of the corridor as I fly past. My hair slips from its carefully tended coif and streams behind me, a banner of fire. Faster, faster! The hunger is devouring me. I must get free!
The floor tilts suddenly. I land hard, scratching and clawing in a desperate effort to escape the iron-hard arms that have brought me down. Robin looms in my vision, his eyes dark pools of horror, his cheeks torn and bleeding. Yet he does not release me. I am lifted, carried swiftly into a place made blissfully dark by the quick action of my ladies, who dash past to yank shut the curtains.
Even then, there is no ease. The hunger remains a monster inside me. I am trapped and crying out. “Help me!”
“She is burning up!”
Robin’s voice, a silver thread in the dark, pierces my terror. If I can catch hold of it—
My clothes are stripped away. I am lowered into a bath so chill that at once my teeth begin to chatter. Every muscle in my body clenches in agony.
“Bring more snow!”
The voices fade. I hear only the pounding of my heart, which must soon burst and then it will be over. Thank God for that! I will be dead and will gladly face whatever fate is mine rather than endure such suffering a moment longer.
Perhaps I am dead already for surely I am floating, my body seemingly weightless, the terrible constriction of my skin eased. Weak with the ebbing of the voracious hunger, I try to lift my head but can only just manage to turn it slightly.
My chamber is gone; I float in a world I have never before seen. The landscape around me stretches to distant horizons. I can make out shapes—rocks, perhaps, and stunted trees. The wind blows as though from eternity. Light glints off what appear to be mountains of darkly gleaming ice. Somewhere far off a wolf howls.
“Did you know,” Mordred asks, “that the Norsemen believe Hell is a frozen wasteland rather than a fiery inferno?”
I try again to raise my head and this time only just manage it. He is standing a little distance away, leaning up against a large rock. Despite the wind, his cloak hangs unmoving. He appears at his ease.
“Are we in Hell?” I ask.
He frowns. “You have to be dead to go there, don’t you?”
“Then I am still alive?” The prospect does not fill me with quite the pleasure that it should.
“For the moment. I did warn you.”
I try to remember but nothing comes to me. “About what?”
He straightens away from the rock and comes nearer, staring down. I squirm a little under his regard.
“The wages of gorging yourself as you did. The same thing would happen to Morgaine. I met her here more than once.”
Questions crowd my mind: Where is here? How have I come to such a place? But one rises above all the rest. More than anything else, I want to know about Mordred and Morgaine.
“Why would you do that? The two of you were enemies.”
He sighs and looks away. “We were lovers first.”
I cannot conceal my shock. It drives me to seize on what he must surely mean. “When you were still mortal?”
“And afterward.” Perhaps I gasp for he adds quickly, “I’m sorry if that dismays you. Our relationship was … complicated.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“As you wish. I will leave you now.” He moves to go but glances back. “You will feel better soon, but know that every time you feed upon my kind, you will experience to some degree what you have just suffered. The more you feed, the worse it will be.”
“You only say that to weaken my resolve.”
“Believe what you will, it makes no difference.”
“Wait! Don’t leave.” As the truth of his going sinks in, I experience a moment of panic. I cannot bear to be alone, fearing as I do that he really is telling me the truth and, worse, what he has not said but what I feel, that in taking such power into myself, I am becoming something other than human.
To my relief, he turns back. His hand brushes my brow as he smiles gently.
“Shall I tell you of Morgaine?”
Helplessly, unable to take my eyes from him, I nod.
She could fire an arrow from the back of a horse at full gallop and strike her target. Then wheel, race back across the training field, and do it again.
The men of Arthur’s army grumbled that a woman should not be allowed such liberties. The High King laughed at their umbrage and urged her on, understanding as he did that her skill challenged every man to prove himself her better.
Few could, at least not consistently. I got off a lucky shot every once and again, but I was never Morgaine’s equal with a bow. That might have bothered me more had I not been so infatuated with her.
Her hair was as dark as the sky on a moonless night. Gaze up along the arch of the heavens on a warm day and you will see the same shade of blue as were her eyes. Her skin, where the sun did not touch it, was very white, but winter or summer, she always had a bloom of color in her cheeks. As for her mouth, the swains who bumbled about her likened it to a lush, ripe rose, which I suppose was fair enough.
Days on horseback, hard training, and her love of the hunt made her lithe and strong. Had she been a man, she would have been a warrior. Instead, she settled for being a priestess.
Arthur was a Christian, but many of those sworn to him were not. The Druids remained a force at his court. Morgaine was chief among them for he loved her. Lies have been told about what bound them to one another; the truth is simpler by far. Her father had been one of the closest and dearest friends of his youth. That Arthur had caused that lord’s death by sending him into a battle that could not be won explains the care he showed to Morgaine. Guilt is a powerful motivator.
I loved her, too, in an entirely different way. For me, she was the light in the darkness of my life. I could remember a time when my father and I had not always been in conflict, but only just. Rarely have two men seen the world so differently.
The vampires came into England when I was a child. Their leader was Damien, not a bad sort, kingly in his own way. The Christian priests spewed spittle at sight of them, so frightened were those men of God by what they called devil spawn. You would think they would have had sufficient faith in their own deity to be unworried, but no. The Druids took the vampires much more in stride, understanding as they did that the real danger came from the Saxons.
With the fading of Roman order, the way lay open for rapacious tribes to fall upon our fair isle. The old Anglo-Roman families—my father’s being first among them—banded together and held off the invaders for a while, but the flood tide that washed up against Britain could not long be repulsed. We were overrun and in danger of extinction when Arthur raised his banner. My father swore that he would do all that was needed to protect our families, our fields, and our hearths. He vowed to leave no measure untaken, no effort unfulfilled.
He lied.
When Damien proposed an alliance with his kind, Arthur—under the influence of the Christian priests—refused it. In his arrogance, he said that he preferred to die and have all his kingdom die with him rather than make common cause with demons.
I was with Morgaine in the great hall of Camlan when the High King announced his decision. In a f
ury, I challenged him, demanding to know by what right he could choose death for all of us. We quarreled bitterly. Arthur called me a faithless son and sent me from him. I went gladly, vowing that if he would not save us, it fell to me to do so.
Morgaine went after me. We stood just beyond the timber hall, the night filled with the scents of winter pine and smoke, the swollen moon so bright that I could see her as well as if by day. Better perhaps, for moonlight always became her well.
“I will go to Damien myself,” I declared.
“No!” she cried, and made to grasp my arm. “You must not! We will find another way.”
Later, I came to believe that her effort to stop me stemmed, at least in part, from her sense of what she was becoming. If the arrival of the vampires in England had not fully awakened her as a Slayer, the process had certainly begun. But by the time I discovered that, it was too late.
She followed me and we argued further, then made up on a bed of sweet moss beneath a sacred oak. I stole away before dawn and sought out Damien. My plan was to reach an accord with him, then gather a combined army of vampires and mortals to stand against the Saxons.
It almost worked. Morgaine, having followed me by some Druid means known only to her, burst in upon us. While she yet lacked the power to kill Damien, she wounded him grievously. Well aware of what the coming of a Slayer meant to his kind and desperate to protect them, he passed his power to me before giving up his light.
What shall I say of the years that followed? Morgaine loved me still even as the hunger to kill me grew within her. I do not underestimate the battle she waged inwardly. Arthur continued to insist on fighting the Saxons alone, with little success. More and more, he turned to the Christian priests, who grew in power.
So, too, did the Saxons, who benefited from the conflict between the vampires and the Britons. Ultimately, Morgaine succumbed to the force within her. She attacked my kind with wanton abandon, finally becoming strong enough, she thought, to challenge me.
Against all evidence, driven by my love for her, I let myself believe that if I could only put a stop to Arthur’s bloody folly, I could keep both my kingdom and my beloved safe for all time. I truly did not want to kill my father, but urged on by his priests, he had no such reluctance regarding me. In the end, I had no choice.
Arthur fell and Morgaine came against me. The rest is too dark and tragic to dwell upon. I will say only that she and I both left the field of battle sorely wounded. I survived; my beloved did not.
I thought her gone and wept for her, but now I wonder if she did not have another plan. Has the essence of her lain in wait all these years, abiding until another Slayer could be born and the terrible destruction she unleashed be at last completed?
And if she has, what chance have I this time to persuade her otherwise?
Love proved to be my greatest weakness so long ago. Now I must turn it on the lathe of fate and contrive from it a weapon to save all.
Evening, 18 January 1559
My heart beats steady and strong, a herald proclaiming my return to the world of men. Yet still I resist, clinging to Mordred’s voice and the tale he told: Morgaine, devoured by the terrible power within her. Arthur, valuing his immortal soul above the life of his people. And Mordred himself, the valiant champion of Britain, still intent on saving her.
How much is truth? How much a fantasy contrived for my seduction? For he does mean to seduce me. Of that, I no longer have any doubt.
Worse yet, the notion has a certain appeal.
I am so cold!
I burrow deep, seeking warmth, but find only icy water and come up sputtering.
“She lives!”
Hauled from the tub, I am wrapped in blankets. My ladies chaff my legs and rub dry my hair as Kat spoons broth down my throat. I stare into the fire fed to roaring and try to understand what has come upon me.
Madness or something even worse? I cannot ignore the sense that I have seen past the thin veneer we call this world into a corner of the vast reality beyond. Not Heaven, not Hell, not anything we are capable of imagining. By comparison, mere madness seems the better bargain.
“We should put a stop to this right now.” Robin is speaking. I rouse just enough to see that Cecil is near as well, as are Dee and Walsingham. I should be dismayed at any of them witnessing me in such a state, but I cannot manage it.
“Her Majesty cannot be put at such risk,” Robin continues. “I will not allow it.”
He will not allow it? My gratitude for his concern vanishes in an instant. Never—never—will I give any man governance over me.
“Perhaps we should not have”—Cecil is sputtering, something he does only when he is nervous—”we should not have ventured down this road to begin with.”
What a fine time for him to think of that! When he and Dee all but dragged me into that accursed chapel and set me on this course!
I am gathering my breath to say so when the magus does it for me. “Now is not the time for doubts,” Dee insists. “To the contrary, Her Majesty is becoming exactly what she is destined to be. We should rejoice in the evidence of her growing strength.”
“You may do so,” Robin says in a tone that makes it clear that he does not. “But dozens of courtiers saw her run down a corridor screaming that she was burning. Hundreds will be speaking of it already. How long before the common rabble believe she is possessed? And what do you think will happen then?”
What indeed? The raw instinct for survival imbued in tenderest childhood stirs. It is a cunning beast, sharp of fang and claw, and it tramples over every other concern.
“Help me up.”
At the sound of my voice, all turn—my ladies, my counselors, my ambitious beloved. I am, as I should always be, the focus of their attention.
“You cannot,” Robin begins.
Truly, the man is caught in a hole of his own making and his solution is to dig it deeper?
I ignore him. To Kat, I say, “I must dress at once and return to my people before such foolish rumors gain common currency.”
“That may not be wise,” Cecil begins. Clearly he doubts my capacity to appear as the strong and trustworthy monarch I must be seen to be.
Standing, only just managing to hold myself steady, I glare at him. “It is not seemly for any man to be here. All of you, go.”
They go, but reluctantly, with backward glances and deep frowns. Barely has the door closed behind them than their anxious chatter starts. Truly, they are worse than a gaggle of old women.
My ladies have the sense to keep silent as they cluster around me. In their presence, Kat, too, holds her tongue, even though I can see that she is bursting to know what Dee and the others were speaking of.
Rather than put on what I wore before, I don an even grander ensemble of black and white silk brocade embroidered over every inch with thread of gold. With it I wear a high ruff of intricately pleated pure white lace sewn with tiny pearls. I choose the colors deliberately, symbolizing as they do eternal virginity. It is time that my counselors begin to accept my aversion to matrimony. So, too, I make a point to wear my mother’s diadem. Let anyone dare to think me other than their anointed sovereign, set by Almighty God to rule over them.
I will return to the court where I will appear delighted by every festivity, give solemn ear to every courtier and ambassador, and, I have just decided, dance with every gentleman who can turn an ankle, each and every one of them save Robin. He can stand on the sidelines all night and glare at me if he likes, but he cannot now—or ever—order me about. For the sake of the love I bear him, let him recognize that without delay.
I brush past the quartet of anxious men on my way from my chambers, pausing only long enough to whisper to Kat, “When I return, we must talk.”
She will assume that I mean to confide in her as I always have in the past, for truly there is no one I trust more. Who else knew my mother so well and has kept Anne’s secrets locked in her heart all these years?
But first there is the cour
t to reassure. I must be seen to be well and whole in mind as well as body. I must smile and laugh, offer a sally here and a riposte there. I must move among my lords and ladies in all my glory—a gilded idol in velvet and silk, adorned with gems and pearls—and convince them to both love and fear me.
I was born for nothing less, and with no desire to give myself undue credit, I carry it off with aplomb. Only once during the evening do I falter. When Robin approaches me to dance our special dance—lavolta, the only dance that allows us to embrace publicly—I keep to my resolve and turn away from him. At once the courtiers begin to whisper. What has cast him into such disfavor? Or was he ever truly so favored as they thought?
The moment pains me but at the same time I savor it. Let him never again take anything to do with me for granted.
Cecil is not so easy to ignore. He hovers nearby, not approaching me but also never releasing me from his scrutiny. He saw what happened at St. Savior’s—he, Dee, and Walsingham. Not a one has said what he makes of it, but I can imagine. As unattractive as the thought is, they witnessed their Queen transformed into a creature of death, driven to feed voraciously. Cecil, at the least, is frightened by that.
My Spirit wavers in his resolve because he is no longer certain that I am up to the task and perhaps because he fears that he is not. But what of Dee? The magus is at court this night. I give him my particular regard, trying to divine what hides behind his smooth countenance and cordial manner. He claims to rejoice in my growing power, but does he really? Dee harbors sentiments I do not pretend to understand except to know that I do not agree with him. What did he make of Mordred’s claim that I and my nobility feed upon our people? Is he still trustworthy?
And what of Walsingham, the new man in my service? He stands apart from all the rest, a black-garbed, solemn presence observing the proceedings with a faint smile. The schoolmaster is amused by us, but when my eyes meet his across the room, he bows most graciously.
